Say Her Name

By A.L.

My wife was beautiful. Her eyes were an emerald field of dew and flowers, her skin, porcelain and pure. Her smile had been touched by sunshine, and her hair—oh, her hair—was more than radiant. I was blessed with a wife beyond beauty, beyond any words that could describe how the gods had adorned her with such bewitching features.

But the world took it all away.

Delilah grew very ill after giving birth to our daughter, Emma. The prairie, once shining in her eyes, grew dull with clouded skies and withered greenery. Her skin was ghostly pale, and her hair crackled and tore like straw. Delilah, my dearest wife, devolved into a shadow of her former, luminous self.

Of course, I still loved her. I would do anything for her. Even after she passed, my life’s purpose continued to be to make my wife happy. So I turned my affections to Emma.

Emma was a sweet girl. She did well in school and always had someone desperate for her attention. My daughter had deep brown eyes and platinum blonde hair—not like the silk that spilled onto Delilah’s shoulders, but it reminded me of her. Every morning, I would sit Emma down in front of my wife’s vanity and brush her hair.

Close your eyes, Emma, I would say. Then I would smooth the brush through her hair, her reflection the spitting image of her mother. The strands would slip through the bristles like threads of gold and pour across the back of the chair. The sight was enchanting.

Every single morning, I would brush Emma’s wonderful hair, until she reached her first year of secondary school. One day, she asked if she could do it herself from then on. I pleaded with her to let me brush her hair, at least one more time. She obliged.

That was the last morning I saw her in the mirror.

On her way home from school, a filthy wretch named Richard Elman stole Emma away from me. The next time I saw her was at the morgue, displayed on that chilling metal table like a tattered doll. The clammy white of her skin spoke of death; her flesh was mangled, and blood had found its way under her fingernails. Emma’s hair—her beautiful, lustrous hair—had been hacked at random. Can you imagine my despair when the judge only condemned this monster of a man, Richard Elman, to a meager twenty years in prison?

I fell apart. For the longest time, I remained in pieces. I wouldn’t work, wouldn’t sleep, wouldn’t think of anything besides how the glow of that flowing golden hair burned out.

Then October 8 arrived—the day the monster walked free.

I imagined how the sunlight would hit his face differently when he became a free man, how the air would smell fresh and crisp and unconfined. How he would see the world again. 

My family never would.

To walk with freedom after burning my world to cinders, after ruining and molesting my life; Richard Elman was driven by a perverse desire to survive. This flame that roared at his soul to live unbound—I wanted to smother it.

I was prepared to find myself a hitman. There wasn’t much money I could spend—I had blown it all away on stimulating substances—but if destitution was what it took to take this creature off the streets, I would gladly take his place.

Everything was decided. I shined my shoes and started down the dark path to the underworld, ready to risk it all. But before I stepped too far onto this road of the unsavory, an alternate opportunity presented itself. Something more economical. Something more convenient.

I walked into a bar I frequented on a cold autumn evening; a variety of gang members could be found lurking near the billiards at every second of the day. A heavy one with face tattoos caught my interest. But before I could approach the brute, a clear voice rang through my ears. The name this voice spoke held a curse, a taboo. It was as if nails clawed down a chalkboard as the sound of that name entered and left the room.

“Elman! Is that really you, Elman?”

The bartender waved toward the door frame. A heavyset man wearing torn denim and sporting a short ponytail at the base of his neck waddled toward the bar.

“Yeah. You been good, Tom?” the man said. He slid himself onto a stool and chatted with the bartender.

Elman. His name was Elman. It couldn’t have been a coincidence. Abandoning the thought of face tattoos and pre-paid murder, I wandered over to the bar, sitting myself a seat over from this person of interest.

“Was prison as nice as you’d hoped?” the bartender teased.

“Checked all the boxes,” the man snarked back. He glanced quickly in my direction, then shifted his attention back to the bartender.

And I saw his face. His beard was an invasive species that consumed his entire visible neck; clusters of dandruff sparkled on the dark fabric that clothed his shoulders. But it was his face that ignited memories of that courtroom from twenty years ago, the mugshots I stared at for hours on end trying to understand why. This was Richard Elman.

I almost laughed. Here I was, betting the rest of my life on the chance that I could get someone else to put him in a body bag, yet here he was in front of me, wrapped in soiled cotton and unshowered. It was too convenient. Was the world mocking me? Humoring me? Rooting for me? I couldn’t pass up this chance.

I closed the distance between us.

“Prison, huh? What did you go in for?” I asked, pasting on my best smile.

Richard Elman eyed me, surprised and slightly uncomfortable. I was bold, brazen—but what else could I be? I had found the man that had set my life ablaze. The fire he ignited had died out a long time ago, but the smell of gasoline still lingered. I wouldn’t let him get away.

“Drug stuff. Who’re you?” Richard Elman took a sip of the drink the bartender slid his way.

I really did want to laugh. Is that what you told your fellow inmates? Is that the ambiguous, blatantly false excuse you used when people pressed you about your sentence? They may have believed it since you were still able to walk through the door. But I knew the truth. His eyes were steady when he lied and his voice didn’t falter, but I knew everything. I could feel the corners of my mouth rising.

“Drugs, huh? Still in the business?” I inquired. He wouldn’t look directly at me.

“What’s it to you?”

Every word addressed to me made me want to strangle him, to squeeze my hands around his fat neck until he turned blue. His voice was nasally and unpleasant. Is this what Emma heard before she died? 

“My dealer got busted a while ago,” I lied, “and I’m trying to find a new one.”

I watched as Richard Elman folded and unfolded his fingers. His hands looked sweaty. I persisted.

“I’ve been looking for something heftier for a while now. Even if you can’t get me anything, can you at least tell me where I can find some of the stronger stuff?”

I knew I was winning him over. Just one more push.

“If I don’t get up there soon I know I’ll go crazy. I’m willing to spend anything.”

Nail on the head.

Richard Elman smoothed out the napkin under his drink, brushing away the stray condensation. He wrote down an address and a time.

“I’ll have some by Friday,” he whispered. Hastily, I recited my contact, his pudgy, sweaty fingers tapping furiously against the phone screen. Impatience wove its way into my legs. Up and down, they shook.

He turned, and my thoughts were broken.

Richard Elman held out his hand “See you around.”

And I shook it. I shook it more vigorously than my good sense should have permitted. A shiver pulsated through my blood. 

I was excited. I was nauseous. I was smiling. 

My hand squeezed his harder.

“Thank you,” I exclaimed, “you’ve done me a huge favor.”

After our passionate handshake, we parted ways. I walked to my car, a skip in my step. 

So close, I thought. Finally, I would do what the courts of this country refused to twenty years ago. This error would be corrected in due time. All I had to do was wait.

What struck me as odd was that he revealed a location but never asked for my name. Maybe he didn’t care. Maybe he lacked the foresight. It didn’t seem as though he recognized me when we met a few days prior—I was sure he just thought of me as another deprived addict. Regardless, I had a time, a place, and a day. And that day came very soon.

We were to meet at a motel on the shadier side of the city; he even reserved a room. Things really were just falling into place. My car ride to the motel was filled with thoughts of Delilah. I would get so absorbed in my daydreams of brushing her wonderful hair before the vanity each morning that my focus would shift from the road. Everything was so peaceful then, wasn’t it?

The dilapidated motel sign appeared in my vision. I peered at the bag slouching in the passenger’s seat. It held my money, a change of clothes, and the device that would put an end to the anomaly that waited for me: a firearm. I had it all planned out: the door would open, and he—Richard Elman—would be there, unsuspecting. I would put a bullet in his head and be on my way. My plan was quick and simple. A textbook hit-and-run.

Eagerly, I left my car, hoisting the black bag over my shoulder. Room 244 was my destination. Metal steps led up to the room I sought; the clang of my sneakers resonated through the outdoor hallway. I lightened my pace for a step, but questioned my trepidation. There was no reason for me to be stealthy—I had yet to do anything wrong, and I was quite sure I was not going to do anything wrong. These feelings of vengeance and malice had bubbled for twenty years and more. I was done taking responsibility for them. 

I only wanted what was fair.

A golden plaque labeled 244 was nailed at eye level. This was it, I thought. Shaking hands prepared to make their move. The left would knock, the right would shoot. I had planned it. It would work out.

And then I saw his face again. The door opened and the second I saw him, smelled the fetid filth that followed him, I knew what I had decided was far too quick, far too merciful. Richard Elman was the consort of something sick, something wrong. Two decades of hatred wouldn’t be settled in one shot. 

So when that door opened I indulged in his welcome. My feet were propped on a table in an instant; I couldn’t tell you what was in the rolled paper he gave me but every inhale provided a delightful shiver. I had to watch my intake, though—I wanted to be wide awake when I killed him.

Yes, kill him. That was what I came here to do. That was why I was lounging languorously in some package-deal loveseat, breathing chemicals into my body, across from the man who stole my most favorite possession.

I was supposed to be angry, livid—shocked back to the world of the living that had forgotten me for two decades. But I was not. In fact, a melancholy swirl had nudged its way into my core. Memories of the beautiful woman who sat before me in the mirror every day filtered through the clouds in my head. Delilah never told me why she didn’t want me to brush her hair anymore.

As this somber downpour stirred inside me, Richard Elman slowly stood up.

“I bought some steak sandwiches on the way here” he huffed. I followed him to the kitchenette, a large paper bag resting on the countertop. I set my hand on the bag. The warmth seeped through and out of me. It was not unlike the warmth of a human, of an organism that breathed and loved and lived. To kill a person would sap this warmth, this sign of vitality, right up from the tips of his fingers.

I didn’t want to have second thoughts. I wanted to be angry. I wanted someone else to feel my suffering, to endure an irreparable kind of pain, just as I did. This was fair.

But who was I to decide what was fair?

If I made my move today, I wouldn’t be any different from him.

A belch from behind me shook me from my thoughts. Richard Elman was sitting at the dining table on a wooden chair that feigned structure. He sat there, liquor and sandwich in hand.

“You gonna eat?” he said, mid-swig.

I thought some food would help me solve the puzzle in my head. I tried ripping one of the sandwiches in half, but the steak was tough. I grabbed a knife from the block nearby and began sawing at the bread. A few hiccups sounded behind me.

“God, I’m glad I’m out of prison!” Richard Elman shouted. Spit audibly bubbled at the corner of his lips. Peeping over my shoulder, I spotted a crystal ashtray holding his half-burned cigarette. I felt my thoughts turning sour again.

“Kind of a bother to go to prison for that, huh?” I remarked, nodding my head toward the ashtray. He hiccuped again, nearly choking on the laugh that followed.

“No—hey, you know, I shouldn’t tell people this, but—” his words were slurred and sporadic amongst the hiccups and chuckles. I kept trying to cut the sandwich in front of me, though the knife would barely go through. They must have overcooked the meat. My arm moved faster with more pressure.

“Drugs didn’t get me locked up,” he squealed.

My arm stopped.

“Some girl got me there,” he spat. “Name was Anna, or something—”

Delilah.

I shoved the food to the floor.

“Delilah!” I roared. The knife stuck steadfastly to my hands; my knuckles were white.

“Her name was Delilah!”

I lunged at Richard Elman. He tumbled backward in his chair when I swung the knife at him, knocking over the fragile ashtray instead. It shattered.

“Wait, wait!” he shrieked. He rolled off the fallen chair, crawling away as quickly as his body would permit. I kicked my foot into his side.

“What was her name?” I screamed. “Tell me what her name was!”

I wanted to hear him say it.

“Okay, okay!” His breathing was laboured, stressed. He looked beastly. I hung the knife in front of his face.

“Her name—wait, no, her name was Em—”

Delilah.

I sunk the knife into his throat. A muffled screech threatened to echo but it swiftly died. My left hand pulled the knife out. My right hand shoved it back in. I pierced his flesh again and again.

Delilah.

I couldn’t hear myself scream her name. Everything was red: my hands, my clothes, the body in front of me. It was liberating.

How had I not done this sooner? What kind of twisted fantasy had I entertained today by dining with this creature? Those second thoughts didn’t suit me at all. Me, the same as him? Nonsense. Richard Elman, a human person? Ludicrous.

I couldn’t contain my laughter any longer.

Each time I sheathed my knife in his body I felt my smile grow wider. I was doing the world a favor—it didn’t matter if it was right. Justice and vengeance might as well be the same thing. I was here for retribution and boy, did I get it. He would die the way she did. It was fitting. It was beautifully ironic.

The last thing I remember hearing was the ringing of police sirens.

Writing Matters

By Anne Larsen

I have been a writer for my entire life. I bleed poetry, I think in prose; writing is a part of who I am. This element of myself has contributed immensely to my academic success, as it taught me how to be a critical thinker, how to organize my thoughts in such a way that others can clearly understand them, and how to communicate. Writing has also molded me as a person through allowing me to express myself as a singular human being.

When I took the AP World History exam last year, which was writing-based, my ability to write quickly and efficiently was one of the deciding factors that helped me earn a high score. I attribute my success on this exam to the practice and development of the writing skills I have nurtured each year; I have submitted essays and poetry to contests, worked on John Handley High School’s literary magazine, Miscellanea, and participated in a variety of writing programs--some of which were based at Handley, and others through non-profit organizations. All of this spurred the advancement of my writing abilities. While writing as an educational tool is scientifically and anecdotally supported, it should be promoted to students more often so they can also excel academically. This can be done by giving students more opportunities to write in the classroom.

Writing has combined my self-confidence, creativity, and critical-thinking skills into a compound that has made me successful as a student and as a person. I would like to stress the value of a Creative Writing class at Handley. This is my second year participating in a Creative Writing course at John Handley High School, and the effects of this learning have benefitted me and many others immeasurably. This is because there was a part of my day dedicated to writing; I would not have had time to develop my writing had this not been the case. High school students barely have time to sit still, and this time set aside for writing would truly promote growth in writing skills, which would, in turn, increase communicative abilities, promote mental health, and provide a peaceful time in which students can explore their creativity. This class is absolutely essential to nurturing students as successful people and should be included and promoted at John Handley High School.

Every writer is different: some enjoy the technicalities of language, while others revel in the flowery flow of poetry. Language in the written form is so irreplaceable to our society that it would be foolish to neglect it. In a world that is always moving, students and people do not have much time to explore their thoughts, let alone express them, but it is imperative that they do. Writing helps people grow as communicators as well as healthy, creative individuals.