The Lancaster Murderer

COM2000, 11:00 AM

VICTIM I.

Effective communication: AKA the class that will finally claim its first victim. Cause of death: boredom. While most people fret this class because speaking in front of hundreds of people in an auditorium is nerve-wracking, I fret it because I don’t need to be here. I’m not saying I have a way with words – I’m far too blunt to gloss anyone over unless I tried really hard – but that means if there’s something I really want to say, then I can say it. I don’t stutter, mutter, or fidget. Words have a purpose, so they aren’t to be used feebly.

“What’s your topic about?” an anxious girl to my right inquires. Her thick hair halos around her tan face like a lion’s mane. It’s almost enough to distract me from the wild look in her crystal-blue irises. “I keep forgetting because I think about myself too much.”

She’s also my best friend, who prefers to go by Kat instead of Kathleen. “The pressure of traditional households raising a progressive generation,” I rattle off, straightening out my notecards. The subject was supposed to be an informative speech on a social issue we face today. “And you did yours on how women feel forced to wear bras out of fear of being ridiculed.”

Snapping and shooting me with a finger-gun, Kat enthusiastically nods while some poor soul whispers through their speech upfront. “Right. I forget you have psycho-memory sometimes.”

I’ve always been really good at remembering things – whether it’s sights, sounds, smells, my brain seems to have endless storage. “I don’t think ‘psycho’ makes things sound exceptional,” I grunt. “I have good recollection, not the DNA of Ted Bundy.”

“True, but if anyone does have it…” Trying to be discreet, but not being discreet at all, Kat nods her head towards the front of the room. I already knew who she was going to reference when she spoke, so it’s easy to pick out the figure she speaks of. “It’s that guy.”

She says “that guy” as if everybody on this campus doesn’t know his name. Slouched in his chair, every dark-and-brooding character in any drama you’ve ever seen watches the speaker with interest. He’s known to be composed and respectful when the setting calls for it, but the second someone pisses him off, you can tell he’s working out a plan of revenge. On millions of occasions, he’s been in fights, though he’s managed to escape consequences. More often than not, he’s vandalized vehicles, housing, and valuable property of those who wronged him. And it’s even been rumored that he’s the reason our star wrestling captain suddenly dropped off the face of the earth – the one who I started to develop a crush on before he just up-and-left.

As if he knows he’s being talked about, his swivels his head like an owl, brown eyes shooting lasers through us. Quickly, I shift my gaze. “My God!” Kat hisses, shielding her face from his stare. “The ghost of Ted Bundy has spoken to him.”

Giggling, I elbow her in the arm. “I don’t know if I hate how extra you are or if I hate that I love it.”

“All of the above, actually.” Abruptly, the students erupt into a fit of applause, signaling the end of another eternity-long speech. The professor reads off the name “Kathleen Rosa,” which makes her cringe as she rockets out of her seat. Forming a fist, she chants, “Let’s do this.” Marching down the aisle with a bright confidence only she can radiate, you wouldn’t know how uneasy about public speaking she is unless she told you. Kat’s always been very lively and attracts a lot of attention for her bubbly personality and curvy appearance, and she can definitely work up a crowd. But force her to talk about something important for a grade and she freezes. The only way for her to get through these is to be extra boisterous, so I can’t wait to see what she has planned for today.

Once she’s at the podium, she very carefully places her notecards so she doesn’t have to hold them. “Women!” she shouts, focusing everyone’s eyes on her as if they weren’t on her already. “Why must we be restrained?” Grandly and aggressively, she rips the zipper of her jacket down, and for a frightening moment I think she’s going naked, which disturbingly wouldn’t surprise me.

Instead, she sports a thin white T-shirt, and with her voluminous chest, it’s quite apparent that she isn’t wearing a bra. Well, our professor did tell us to dress according to our speech… A lot of men in the room howl like wolves, whistling at her and clapping for her bold introduction. This is definitely what you call an attention-grabber.

Chuckling to myself, I shake my head. Typically, I’m not one who rolls with the extraverted crowd, but by no means am I a recluse. I’m just very goal-oriented, so when I’m determined to get an A on an upcoming test, I hole myself in my room for days. Kat’s the one who reminds me that there’s a life outside of studies during those times, and it’s instances like these that make me remember all over again.

By accident, my eyes skirt over the man towards the front of the class. Already, his sight is set on me, though when he notices I noticed, he doesn’t look away. Is there something he’s trying to convey? Though I’m uncomfortable with this saga of awkwardness, I’m not someone who shies away easily. What’s he going to do: mentally choke me out?

Seemingly becoming disinterested, he flatly turns back towards the front, showing me the back of his black-haired head. What was that all about?

Contemplating the brief moment in my head, I come to the conclusion that he might’ve just been looking around the room, focusing on me just because I accidentally looked at him. Based on his rage-motivated encounters with other people, I don’t think the way his mind works is predictable or normal. I guess he doesn’t like when someone stares at him for too long and he had to make a point of it.

By the time I snap back to reality, Kat’s speech ends in another wave of claps and cheers. Like she just won the presidential election, Kat smiles like she has suns for teeth, illuminating the room with her charisma. Waving to the crowd with one hand and holding her jacket in her other, she assures, “Thank you, I’ll be here all semester!” Ushering through seats in our row, she finally makes it to me. “How’d I do?”

“Didn’t you see that?” I exclaim, gesturing to the crowds. “They loved you and the teacher bases grades on audience interaction. You did great!”

“Awesome,” she sighs in relief. “Alright, Camry. It’s time for me to dip.”

“You’re leaving? You know how the professor feels about people who leave after their speech. You’ll get points docked off,” I warn, holding her elbow as if I have some magical touch that will convince her to stay.

“I’d rather get points docked off than miss this hot date I’ve got.” Shoving her supplies into her backpack, she winks with a blue eye.

Kat’s very flirtatious no matter who she’s talking to – regardless of age, gender, or race, she manages to make everyone blush. Because of all the affection she receives, she’s never felt the need to go out of her way to start a real relationship. Skipping class is also a trend of Kat’s, but that’s because she gets hungry when she’s bored. So, for her to endanger her grade for a guy when a million others pay attention to her, it must be a big deal.

“And why am I only hearing about this mystery man now?” I demand.

“I didn’t know if he’d agree to go on a date, so it would be embarrassing if I told you about him before anything happened. But don’t get too excited – this date is just a feeler; nothing big…yet.” Putting her jacket back on, Kat slinks below the tables so the professor can’t see her. On all fours, she begins to crawl towards the nearest exit. “The things I do for love…” she utters.

I watch as she slithers down the aisle and crack the door enough to escape. “Who was that?” the professor barks up front, adjusting her glasses to see better. “Someone check!” The class nark at the top row sprints to the door Kat took and vigorously swings the door open. His head turns as he scans the area. “Well?”

Gravely, he turns to the front. “Nothing, Your Highness.”

Scowling, the professor sits back down. “Well, next up is Sara Marshall.”

Sara Marshall is another popular woman on campus amongst the men. Both her and Kat are exceptionally pretty, but they’re definitely in different categories. Sara’s the well-mannered cheerleading captain who prides herself on self-care and etiquette, though when she’s at parties you would never be able to guess. Her pale skin is so white it glows, and her thick red hair was just cut to her shoulders. At the front of the room, her dark green eyes survey the crowd.

A fancy dress, perfect posture, articulation…this is what I expected of Sara Marshall today for her speech. But it isn’t what I got. Instead, the short walk to the podium seems to have her winded. Her eyes are bloodshot, her pale skin takes on a clammy and yellowed pallor, and she sways in place. Her focus is hazy, as if she’s seeing something that isn’t really here. Parting her red lipstick mouth to speak, I swear I see spittle creeping out of the corner of her mouth, shining in the lights. “Classes and castes are…” Sara’s words slur, sending the watchers into a flurry of whispers.

Already, a bajillion rumors start to pass into my ears from nearby peers. “She’s drunk…,” “…tried weed for the first time,” “…horse sedatives to relieve stress.” Blocking them out, I try to really hone in on what’s wrong with her. As her knees buckle, her head lolls to and fro, as if she’s losing control of her movements.

Nevertheless, Sara attempts to plow through her speech. “Classes and castes are one in…” This time, lines of thick saliva stream down her chin and soak into the carpet.

“Sara, what is going on with you?” the professor abrasively nags, seeming more inconvenienced rather than concerned. “School is not a place for you to behave like this. If you want to go out and ruin yourself, then fine, but don’t spend class-time trying to recuperate.”

This doesn’t seem like a hangover of any kind, which lets me know how little alcohol this teacher has ever actually consumed. “S…” Sara’s words stop there. All at once, she collapses to the ground, body seizing as foam starts to accumulate at her lips.

Immediately, everyone stands up in shock, looming in place, waiting for someone to do something. A few of the pre-med students snap into action, dashing to her aid. “Turn her on her side!” one of them insists, helping to adjust Sara’s position.

Unable to quench my curiosity from a distance, I ram my way though the others aimlessly standing in my row. Breaking into the aisle, I run to the scene. The professor calls someone for help, and before Sara’s whisked away, I try to absorb every detail that I can.

Bloodshot eyes with yellowed veins, skin with yellow undertones covered in a sheen of sweat, paper-white coming from her mouth… Something starts to smell, and looking down even further, it appears that she’s defecated. Shortly after that, a stream of wetness stains her pants. Losing control of internal and external functions. I adjust my posture a bit, my shadow not shielding her eyes. When the light stabs at her pupils, they don’t react. Lack of response.

And as if it never happened, the chaos surrounding the seismology of Sara Marshall halts, her body going eerily still. “Get back, get back!” a boorish voice from above orders. Turning on my heels, I see on-campus doctors charge into the room, wheeling a gurney in. “I said move.” The stocky woman in charge shoves a student in shock out of her way, making him collapse into a seat.

It’s too late, I think to myself, watching as a sort of glaze covers Sara’s irises. I think she’s…dead? I’ve never seen a corpse before, let alone watch someone die, so I can’t be sure. But my gut is telling me it’s true. Tentatively, I reach out and place two fingers to Sara’s neck, where her pulse should be.

“Hey!” one of the med-students snaps, pushing my hand away. “She said to get back!”

“That applies to all of us,” a deep, honey-like voice booms in response. Knowing who it belongs to – I decide to listen and step away. So does the med-student. I got what I wanted, anyways…I felt for her pulse… My fingers were pressed against her sweaty skin for long enough to tell me what my instincts already knew. She’s dead.

Still, the doctors and nurses and whoever else came threw her onto the gurney and bolted towards an awaiting ambulance. Hopefully, they can resuscitate her. Wordlessly, I watch as she’s carted away, maybe forever. Daringly, I glance behind me at the man – the one I bet everyone will somehow manage to blame for this - who made the other student cower away. Quickly, those dark brown eyes of his are bored of watching the door, and they drop down to me. “Well?” he mutters, the first word he’s ever spoken to me.

“What?” I timidly respond, eyes longing to look at the spot where Sara stilled.

“You checked for a pulse. So?”

For a moment, I size him up – from the hair combed out of the way of his forehead, to the backpack slung over one shoulder, to the dark shoes in impeccable condition. But why does he have his backpack on? Was he going to take Sara’s incident as a way to evacuate the room without the professor knowing?

“I don’t think she’ll make it,” I mumble, taking steps towards my own seat.

“That isn’t what I asked,” the man insists, sleepy eyes suddenly sharp. “Did she have a pulse?”

Grunting, I roll my eyes. I get that he’s curious but I really just want some fresh air right now. “No, she didn’t. Happy?” I quip, storming up the aisle. But I pause when I pass by Sara Marshall’s row. Her stuff is still where she left it – backpack on the ground, empty store-bought coffee bottle on her tabletop. Part of me wants to snoop through it to see if I can muster any clues as to what happened to her, but the sane part of me realizes how disrespectful that is to someone alive or dead. Still…my eyes linger on that empty bottle. People said she was drunk, but drinking doesn’t give you seizures that lead to your eventual death. Maybe it wasn’t alcohol, but something else in that bottle…

My mind – overactive with wild imagination since birth – races through dozens of situations correlating that bottle and Sara’s death. But no matter what I conjure, I dismiss it. My own thoughts give me the chills sometimes, and they’re always worlds apart from being anything that would happen to me or around me.

From the corner of my eye, I see the man watching me watch Sara’s things. Tempting the devil, I stare at him square in the face. As someone who speaks their mind when I have something to say, his behavior is really ticking me off. If there’s something he’s trying to convey, then he needs to say it to me instead of trying to telepathically communicate.

For the first time today, he finally seems interested in something. Lopsidedly, he smirks, cockiness emanating from his existence. Is this really the time or place to leer like that? His shoulders shrug, as if he’s laughing to himself.

“We will end class for today and wait for…” the professor grabs her breath, fear and shock sapping her of her energy. “…for the dean to determine the class schedule for the rest of the week…”

Taking that as my cue, I collect my things and duck out of the room. I go to text Kat about everything that happened, but decide to spare her until her date is over. Though without someone to talk to, or something to do, it’s all I can do to think about Sara’s spasms and the stares of Lancaster University’s edge-lord.

My mind works so much that it nearly combusts, and I come up with a single, factual sentence. Sara Marshall is dead and something is up with Izayah Parker.