Henrietta.
she was just a girl.
The speakers blared loud, repetitive music as we entered the house. Just another Friday night - high-school party, kids drinking beverages three years too old for them, the living room becoming more and more like a war zone with every passing minute. I didn’t envy the person who would have to clear this up in the morning, which would most likely be little Johnny’s mother, rather than the host himself.
He was a spoilt brat. She didn’t possess a backbone. He was a menace, too much of his father’s blood swimming in his veins for him to be a rational, sensible human being and he simply enjoyed making his mother’s life miserable. And she just let him because it was easier that way. I didn’t blame her.
Fate took care of little Johnny just two years after this night. A car accident left him paralyzed from the waist down, forcing him to remain in a wheelchair for the rest of his life, dependant on the woman he had abused for fourteen years. Surprisingly, she took care of him as if he hadn’t been a total shit to her, was an insanely good-hearted person and so, when the time came, thirty years and one battle with cancer later, she finally found peace in the afterlife.
But, on this night, we weren’t collecting little Johnny or his poor nervous wreck of a mother.
We were after a girl named Henrietta Wilson, one of the eldest in her year and one of the few that hadn’t had her first kiss, fondle or fuck yet. Never would, in fact, but she didn’t know that when she was tugging on her best dress earlier that evening, picking out the single pair of sheer tights without a ladder or a hole, sorting herself out and evaluating the result in the mirror. She’d never thought of herself as a pretty girl, never in a million years, but tonight, she decided that she looked kind of okay. Maybe tonight, she thought, I’ll get that kiss off of Johnny Cunningham.
Two hours and thirty-seven minutes later, around about the time we got to the house, she had shut herself in Johnny’s bathroom, the mascara she’d applied so very carefully earlier was now streaming in inky black ribbons down her chubby, freckled cheeks, her mouth open in an angry, humiliated, sad little O. When we got to the bathroom, she was sitting between the cistern and the bathtub, legs open in front of her, splayed in an inelegant manner, a razor in her left hand.
“How dare he!” she kept repeating over and over and over again, her voice growing more and more agitated with every syllable, the blade cutting deep into the pads of her fingers every time she squeezed it. She didn’t even flinch, too drunk to give a shit about the pain, the blood igniting nothing but a look of sick fascination in her watery green eyes, as if she couldn’t quite comprehend where the hell this sticky, hot red stuff was coming from and why suddenly she wanted to see more of it. Much much more.
We watched, silent as always, carefully expressionless and indifferent. But still, this struck a chord with me and an overwhelming sense of pity flooded my being, the urge to simply reach down and pull the sharp metal out of her grasp almost unbearable. After all, I’d met a similar end about ten years earlier and I wished someone had been there to stop me back then. But, there was nothing that could be done, destiny had been written - just like mine had been - and this young girl would meet her undignified fate in a small, badly decorated bathroom, next to two bottles of bleach and an old sports magazine. At least, the thought came from somewhere in the vaguely sober part of her mind, it isn’t porn.
She didn’t want to die, not really. Just wanted some attention, just wanted that little fucker in the living room to feel some kind of remorse for humiliating her in front of all his friends. And he did, when he went to the bathroom a few hours later, desperate for a piss, but she wasn’t alive to see it.
Of course, it wasn’t completely his fault, though he would never know this. She’d had issues with herself since she was a little girl, practically loathing herself since the day she realized she didn’t look ‘right’. She was short and round, not particularly feminine in terms of features, with long dark hair and small green eyes, a nose two sizes too big and a thin lipped mouth.
When everyone else looked at her, they just saw a girl. She was not the prettiest girl in the school, decidedly average in terms of looks, but there was nothing ‘wrong’ with her. She was just Henrietta Wilson, grade seven violinist and school council representative of the year and it wasn’t her fault that Johnny Cunningham already had a girlfriend.
There was still no pain, just a feeling of release, each slash of the razor blade bringing some kind of hazy euphoria, the colour of the blood trickling down her arm and onto the white floor tiles somehow seeming strangely alluring. It didn’t feel like damage was being done, it just felt like heaven and it didn’t take much longer before her arm was practically in ribbons and her life was slipping away.
I looked at my companion, who nodded once, his face stony and expressionless and stepped forward, placing my finger to Henrietta’s temple. Her eyes rolled back in her head, her entire body shook once before falling completely still, her chest no longer rising nor falling, her heart lying dead and frozen in her ribcage.
A ribbon of white vapour escaped from her parted lips. I caught it and placed it in the medium sized glass jar I had on a chain around my neck. I took another look at the girl at my feet, blood still streaming slowly down the wounds on her arms, the puddles of crimson liquid showing the lights in the ceiling, instead of reflecting my face. I felt a light touch on my shoulder that told me it was time to get moving and I didn’t dare argue with the creature beside me.
We went out the way we came, through the crowd of oblivious drunken teenagers, out into the cold night air. I paused, checking the jar was firmly closed, before spreading my black leathery wings and starting my journey to the next unfortunate soul that I’d be claiming.
It was going to be a long, long night. One of many and nowhere near the last.
He was a spoilt brat. She didn’t possess a backbone. He was a menace, too much of his father’s blood swimming in his veins for him to be a rational, sensible human being and he simply enjoyed making his mother’s life miserable. And she just let him because it was easier that way. I didn’t blame her.
Fate took care of little Johnny just two years after this night. A car accident left him paralyzed from the waist down, forcing him to remain in a wheelchair for the rest of his life, dependant on the woman he had abused for fourteen years. Surprisingly, she took care of him as if he hadn’t been a total shit to her, was an insanely good-hearted person and so, when the time came, thirty years and one battle with cancer later, she finally found peace in the afterlife.
But, on this night, we weren’t collecting little Johnny or his poor nervous wreck of a mother.
We were after a girl named Henrietta Wilson, one of the eldest in her year and one of the few that hadn’t had her first kiss, fondle or fuck yet. Never would, in fact, but she didn’t know that when she was tugging on her best dress earlier that evening, picking out the single pair of sheer tights without a ladder or a hole, sorting herself out and evaluating the result in the mirror. She’d never thought of herself as a pretty girl, never in a million years, but tonight, she decided that she looked kind of okay. Maybe tonight, she thought, I’ll get that kiss off of Johnny Cunningham.
Two hours and thirty-seven minutes later, around about the time we got to the house, she had shut herself in Johnny’s bathroom, the mascara she’d applied so very carefully earlier was now streaming in inky black ribbons down her chubby, freckled cheeks, her mouth open in an angry, humiliated, sad little O. When we got to the bathroom, she was sitting between the cistern and the bathtub, legs open in front of her, splayed in an inelegant manner, a razor in her left hand.
“How dare he!” she kept repeating over and over and over again, her voice growing more and more agitated with every syllable, the blade cutting deep into the pads of her fingers every time she squeezed it. She didn’t even flinch, too drunk to give a shit about the pain, the blood igniting nothing but a look of sick fascination in her watery green eyes, as if she couldn’t quite comprehend where the hell this sticky, hot red stuff was coming from and why suddenly she wanted to see more of it. Much much more.
We watched, silent as always, carefully expressionless and indifferent. But still, this struck a chord with me and an overwhelming sense of pity flooded my being, the urge to simply reach down and pull the sharp metal out of her grasp almost unbearable. After all, I’d met a similar end about ten years earlier and I wished someone had been there to stop me back then. But, there was nothing that could be done, destiny had been written - just like mine had been - and this young girl would meet her undignified fate in a small, badly decorated bathroom, next to two bottles of bleach and an old sports magazine. At least, the thought came from somewhere in the vaguely sober part of her mind, it isn’t porn.
She didn’t want to die, not really. Just wanted some attention, just wanted that little fucker in the living room to feel some kind of remorse for humiliating her in front of all his friends. And he did, when he went to the bathroom a few hours later, desperate for a piss, but she wasn’t alive to see it.
Of course, it wasn’t completely his fault, though he would never know this. She’d had issues with herself since she was a little girl, practically loathing herself since the day she realized she didn’t look ‘right’. She was short and round, not particularly feminine in terms of features, with long dark hair and small green eyes, a nose two sizes too big and a thin lipped mouth.
When everyone else looked at her, they just saw a girl. She was not the prettiest girl in the school, decidedly average in terms of looks, but there was nothing ‘wrong’ with her. She was just Henrietta Wilson, grade seven violinist and school council representative of the year and it wasn’t her fault that Johnny Cunningham already had a girlfriend.
There was still no pain, just a feeling of release, each slash of the razor blade bringing some kind of hazy euphoria, the colour of the blood trickling down her arm and onto the white floor tiles somehow seeming strangely alluring. It didn’t feel like damage was being done, it just felt like heaven and it didn’t take much longer before her arm was practically in ribbons and her life was slipping away.
I looked at my companion, who nodded once, his face stony and expressionless and stepped forward, placing my finger to Henrietta’s temple. Her eyes rolled back in her head, her entire body shook once before falling completely still, her chest no longer rising nor falling, her heart lying dead and frozen in her ribcage.
A ribbon of white vapour escaped from her parted lips. I caught it and placed it in the medium sized glass jar I had on a chain around my neck. I took another look at the girl at my feet, blood still streaming slowly down the wounds on her arms, the puddles of crimson liquid showing the lights in the ceiling, instead of reflecting my face. I felt a light touch on my shoulder that told me it was time to get moving and I didn’t dare argue with the creature beside me.
We went out the way we came, through the crowd of oblivious drunken teenagers, out into the cold night air. I paused, checking the jar was firmly closed, before spreading my black leathery wings and starting my journey to the next unfortunate soul that I’d be claiming.
It was going to be a long, long night. One of many and nowhere near the last.