|Join or Die
Author: SeverinadeStrango PM
This is her band now. If you don't join you die. If you join and then desert, you die. Nothing less than perfect is accepted. Anything else will be eradicated. Perfect attendance, perfect technique, perfect form. All marchers shall remain undeniably loyal to Drum Major Gretchen. Because it's her band now.Rated: Fiction T - English - Horror - Chapters: 3 - Words: 2,681 - Reviews: 8 - Favs: 3 - Follows: 3 - Updated: 12-27-12 - Published: 10-04-12 - id: 8581503
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Hey! Sorry I've been gone...I'm trying really hard to keep up with everything! Hope you enjoy this!
"…..and solo auditions will be held next Monday for Flute, Trombone and Bassoon. Dismissed!"
Regan exhaled in relief and bent down to retrieve her flute case, carefully taking apart the three solid silver pieces of her ten-thousand-dollar Yamaha flute.
It was the best flute one could possibly get.
It had helped her to become first chair in concert band and topple Irene, the arrogant brunette who had previously occupied it.
Now the only problem was the second-chair.
Although there had been no ties, Regan still couldn't shake the feeling that something was up.
Usually, the short burst of extreme rivalry between flutists died off a week after chair placement.
But not this time.
Casting a nervous glance towards the second chair flautist, she began to gather her belongings more hurriedly. Regan wanted to get away.
Gretchen had always scared her.
Regan knew nothing about the girl except that her name was Gretchen and she played the flute.
And that creepy grin she always had…..
And the way she was always staring Regan down with eyes hidden through hair…..even when they were learning a new piece, relying on reading the notes only….she would still be staring at her.
She shivered. That girl was up to something.
"Calm down…" She said, flexing her fingers to try and relax. "You're overreacting again…."
Assuming that she was talking about the solo tryouts, her friends immediately sent reassuring glances in her way.
Regan shook her head. How could they stay sane playing next to that girl?!
Waving "bye" to the remainder of the flute section, she walked out, reaching for her phone in her back pocket. Thank goodness this was the last class of the day.
That's when it grabbed her.
Two white-gloved hands, seeming to come out of nowhere, seized Regan's face, wrapping long, bony fingers around her mouth and throat, cutting off all oxygen supply.
Her eyes bulged.
She struggled for air, for voice, for anything…..
Couldn't pry them off…..
She stumbled, leaning against a wall as her vision slowly came back into focus, gasping for air.
In the storage room.
That's where she was.
The door was shut tightly. No one would be able to hear her.
Neither would they be able to hear Gretchen.
"Hi!" Gretchen said, lightly waggling her fingers at Regan. "You seem to be a bit….dizzy….hehe…let me take this for you. Wouldn't want to drop it…." Reaching down, she pulled Regan's flute case from her hands, setting the instrument down on one of the shelves.
"My….flute! Hey..!" The first-chair flautist started for her instrument, but before she could cross the room, she was knocked over by a huge blow.
She hit the floor like a ton of bricks, sliding backwards several feet and coming to a stop against one of the walls.
"You're so tiny. Never would have made it marching. So either way….."
Gretchen climbed on top of the smaller girl, straddling her and pinning her down. She giggled lightly, pulling the white marching band gloves down harder over her long hands.
Let me go! Someone has to notice….! This can't….be! It's all…..a bad dream!
Regan had no voice. She couldn't scream. She couldn't speak. Gretchen had taken that all away.
Fists landed. Blood splattered. Spit flew.
Left, right, left, right, left.
Just like marching.
Regan's mouth was open in an endless, bloody scream of terror and pain. With each blow the Drum Major landed, she could feel more of her skeletal structure shattering.
"Regan's had a terrible accident."
"You see, I'm sorry."
"She was such a fragile girl."
THWACK. Gretchen's white marching gloves were stained red. Yet not a single drop of blood made it to the pristine, tiled floor of the storage room. Gretchen had made sure of that.
"And so nice too….."
"A very good sport when it came to chair placement."
"But she never would have made it in marching band…."
THWACK. The final blow.
Regan could not close her mouth; her jaw had been cleanly broken in half. Blood dripped down her throat. She didn't even have enough energy to gag.
Gretchen carefully pulled out an old, battered tuba case from one of the compartments. The coating on the outside had been torn horribly and the handles had popped off. It was scheduled to be trashed tomorrow. The tuba had been taken out and given another case.
She popped it open and lifted Regan's petite body in her arms, being careful not to get any blood on her white t-shirt. The limp form of the first-chair flautist slid easily into the case, her body folding to fit into the small space. Gretchen grinned as Regan looked up at her with desperate, horrified eyes before closing the case and snapping the latches shut.
The marching gloves went into the cleaning bag hanging off of her flute case. She would have to wash them. It wouldn't do to have so much blood on one's uniform.
"Well, goodbye, Regan!"
Regan's last vision would be the velvety interior of the tuba case, a broken bottle of valve oil drip-drip-dripping, mingling with her blood. Into her blood and her dead, dead eyes.
Gretchen picked up her flute and skipped out the door, before walking out the back of the school. Thank goodness this was the last block of the day.
She had a solo to practice for.
Ehehe! And there is more death to come at the solo auditions!