"Alyssa Hinkle and Her Muse" by Chelsa L. Dagley

Stop it! I yelled at myself. Slumping lower in the desk chair, I hoped that the teacher had not seen me shift into the daze that meant I was thinking upon the subjects of writing. I looked frantically about the classroom, my eyes passing over the gray walls, the small, boring windows, to settle on the utilitarian desk at the front. Mrs. Linken sat in the seat, her spine stiff and her face somber, like everyone’s in the city of Uunden. It had taken me until my fourteenth birthday to finally be beaten out of the extravagant facial expressions I had always loved to make use of. I could not – and still did not – understand why such facial expressions were illegal, and so I had rebelled for the longest time. But, the multiple fractures of my last beating three years ago had finally gotten it through that no matter if did not understand; it did not exempt me from any of the laws.

Reading the book that sat upon her desk, as well as every student’s desk, I saw that Mrs. Linken had not noticed my shift into the world of imagination. It was imperative that she did not see, for yet another beating would be set upon me, and after my last one I couldn’t bear to have another. Just thinking of the silver sticks they used for punishment – Mrs. Linken’s sat beside her desk, taunting the students to do something bad as always – made me shiver uncontrollably.

“Something wrong, Alyssa Hinkle?” Mrs. Linken suddenly asked, interrupting the pure silence of the afternoon’s scheduled reading hour and drawling out the word ‘wrong’ with the slightly haughty tone she had never been able to hide.

She had noticed the shiver, I thought as I shifted my uneasy gaze to stare into the stone mask that was Mrs. Linken’s face. I struggled to not let any emotion show, especially the one of fear, as I said, “Perfectly alright, Mrs. Linken,” and with some effort tore my eyes away to stare at the pages of the book set before me on my desk.

The way to have power over one’s life is to always keep your self in control. Following the laws is one of the foremost goals of every citizen, doing their assigned duty with absolute perfection the second.

The book was perfectly boring, I thought to myself, using the word with disdain because I heard it so often, but was able to keep the expression off my face, since I still felt the cold stare of the teacher upon the top of my head. She was just waiting for me to break, to twitch, or to fall into the daze of creativity. She wanted to beat me. Sure, she may be able to hide it from others, but I could read it clear as day. There was nothing like having someone staring at you for as long as the school hours lasted, just itching the pick up the stick and watch your face twist in fear, for which they would then beat you for.

No, emotions were not allowed, neither creativity. I hated the fact that my mind would force itself into that daze, the all too familiar one perfect for writing. Nobody else seemed to have that problem. No, it had to be me born with the curse, the one that would cause my life to be an ever-burning torment of Bandomen.

I still thought about these things even as I walked home. I took the designated back streets, for children not yet assigned their jobs were not allowed to be seen in public. As I stepped slowly over the cobblestones that made up the street, I held my books over my heart, and I felt my mind slip into the daze once more.

The silent stranger crept up to the girl, his deadly message grasped tightly in his hand, thinking to himself that tonight would finally be the night he could accomplish his task. His master would be pleased, for he would feast on the girl’s soul-

Once again I pulled my mind away from the trance, concentrating on the square stones beneath my feet. I felt like crying, for if I kept doing that, the Templars were sure to come and take me away to be sacrificed to the King. Maybe I should just kill myself now, and save them the trouble. It would probably mean the end of the several years of torture I was sure to endure at the Templars hands, should they find me.

Suddenly, I stopped. The back street had been empty a moment before, all the other students quickly going their own way as I took my time to get home. But now, someone stood in the shadows to my right. I hadn’t seen him a moment before and so it had appeared as if he had just popped into existence, which of course, was entirely plausible, but still uncanny.

I turned my head, bringing up my hand to move aside my long, straight, black hair, which was usually hiding my face as I bowed my head in the somber way that was expected of all citizens’ of the city, Uunden. The man – for the form was obviously male – stood as if staring at me, yet I could make out no facial details. I shivered as the moment reminded me harshly of the story that had come to my head in the daze, the silent killer about to murder a helpless girl from the shadows. And then, with an almost physical slap, I went once more into the trance.

The silent stranger crept up to the girl, his deadly message grasped tightly in his hand, thinking to himself that tonight would finally be the night he could accomplish his task. His master would be pleased, for he would feast on the girl’s soul, and his power would thusly be maximized.

The man grabbed the girl from behind, wrapping his arm around her neck and driving the blade deep into her spine. The blow was aimed to paralyze her, so that she would not fight as he took her to his master’s lair.

But, even as he felt the girl’s blood pool warmly onto his hand, she reached around and grabbed his jugular with two sharp fingers-

Scared now that he had gone to the Templars, I gathered my books – which had been scattered all over the ground as I fell – and hurried home, going as fast as I could without breaking the law.

~~~

I spent the entire weekend feeling restless, the terror than the Templars would come to my door step at any moment written in every movement. My mother slapped me across the face at one point, saying that I had been staring at the door, a look of fear upon my face. After that, I spent most of my time in my bedroom, lying on the thin cot that was my bed.

Right now I stared at my window, the uncolored, heavy cloth that made up the curtains shifted as a wind blew in. I hadn’t thought on the story all weekend, having successfully pushed it from my mind. I made myself forget about it, for like everyone said, imagination was the failure to keep ones sanity of law. It was a chaos that was the enemy to order. I would not allow myself to fall into the insane ramblings of a writer, like Harry. Poor Harry.

I tried not to think about it, but I couldn’t help it. All Harry had ever wanted to do was create. He had started out like me, falling into the trance every now and then, getting beat when he was caught. But, unlike me, he failed to see the errors of his ways. He embraced that which was different, that which was creative.

I remembered the teacher had taken one of his school books from his desk, to read his answers in the workbook. She had found pages upon pages of scribbling. Stories. Harry had written fully fifteen pages of stories, all different, all original. I still remember the awful sounds as the Templars slammed into the building, having been called by the teacher. They marched down the halls, the metal armor upon their back clanging loudly in a horrifying chorus, and their footsteps growing louder by the second.

When they marched into the room, their eyes gleamed with an empty rage, one that filled my sleep with nightmares for weeks. No one moved to help Harry as he was grabbed by the Templars. His screaming was loud against the tangible silence that filled every corner of the city. No one ever saw him again.

Now, I waited for the same fate to befall me, but they never came. School was tomorrow, the weekend almost over, and they had not come for me. I could barely breathe as I left my room. I still had to do my chores. I looked at the fireplace, noting how low we were on firewood, and then reluctantly left the house to retrieve some more.