hold the door open, drumming slightly as if pondering what to do next. Pink tipped nails shine with a natural gleam on those perfect porcelain extensions and we both stare transfixed. The chime comes again and all the hesitation has been resolved by the scream behind me.
Conroy is still screaming when the door is shoved open with great force by a small five-year-old boy. Following close behind him is a parade of macabre visions. For the first time I am glancing around the smaller room. Steel ovens gleam from one wall in their pristine stations. Many steel shelves cradle various shapes and sizes of cooking pans throughout, creating a metallic peek-a-boo maze. Magnetic strips hold sharp and blunt cooking instruments securely against the walls. All encompassed within the same pastel shades as the rest of the building. It is what my eyes land on against the back wall that causes my heart to rejoice in our backwards retreat from the horde before us.
From ceiling to floor stand the doors to the staff’s closet, shining at us like armor from knights of old. The handles were designed to be too tall for small hands to reach them. Magnetic pictures of smiling happy days gone by are scattered on the doors. They encourage my resolve. Conroy will be safe in there while I distract the horrific animations before us, allowing him to reach the exit. It makes perfect sense in my mind. I can even see the plan put into play before me with each glorious step to take. Too bad things never are as brilliant when released from the secure planning of our minds as they seem to be when in storage.
Chapter 11
T he monstrous army is being led by the same boy that entered the room first. He is keeping the same advancing speed as we are retreating. It is making the rest of the youths fall in step behind him. The perfect dance of predator and prey choreographed when the world was still more beast than beauty. They match our every step with their own. I can feel Conroy’s trembling body as he fights against his adrenaline’s urge to run. I can see through the shelves the long train of death-clad children wrapping around the path. Their eyes follow my every move with the same interest as a predator’s holds their prey. They are waiting on us to spark that needed animation for their frenzy and I do not know what is more chilling, the overpouring possibility of monstrosity they are capable of or their calculated stares.
I tug on Conroy’s hand to pull his attention away from the boy ahead of us. The boy’s eyes follow up to me also. His hand twitching in an unspoken dare between us as his face still keeps its blank passage. He is watching. He is waiting. I know one motion from him and the nightmare will begin for us. Our dance will become a crescendo finale.
Never removing my eyes from the new pair upon me, I motion with my head to the metal safety behind us. I am not so hopeful as to think that if we just stop they will, too. Inserting him into the closet will have to be a well-planed dance and without interruption to signal any change in the children. Conroy shakes his head with a frantic motion and the eyes swing back to him in unison. Their steps falter as a few press against the ranks with quickening steps and my breath catches at the moment’s confusion.
They are growing restless with the sight of us before them. I have thought until now that they were toying with us, but to them we are the ones refusing to play the game. Do they need our fear, our response of fight or flight to engage their motives? The amount of crimson coloring layered over their clothes shows hints at being well versed in their methods of attack. If it is not the lack of knowledge holding their actions at bay then what is the missing ingredient? Are they so well fed already from their morning’s mayhem that their crippling evil is discouraged from surfacing? Has it really been, all this time, a perverse game of “Follow the Leader”? Is this Leader just not
Conroy is still screaming when the door is shoved open with great force by a small five-year-old boy. Following close behind him is a parade of macabre visions. For the first time I am glancing around the smaller room. Steel ovens gleam from one wall in their pristine stations. Many steel shelves cradle various shapes and sizes of cooking pans throughout, creating a metallic peek-a-boo maze. Magnetic strips hold sharp and blunt cooking instruments securely against the walls. All encompassed within the same pastel shades as the rest of the building. It is what my eyes land on against the back wall that causes my heart to rejoice in our backwards retreat from the horde before us.
From ceiling to floor stand the doors to the staff’s closet, shining at us like armor from knights of old. The handles were designed to be too tall for small hands to reach them. Magnetic pictures of smiling happy days gone by are scattered on the doors. They encourage my resolve. Conroy will be safe in there while I distract the horrific animations before us, allowing him to reach the exit. It makes perfect sense in my mind. I can even see the plan put into play before me with each glorious step to take. Too bad things never are as brilliant when released from the secure planning of our minds as they seem to be when in storage.
Chapter 11
T he monstrous army is being led by the same boy that entered the room first. He is keeping the same advancing speed as we are retreating. It is making the rest of the youths fall in step behind him. The perfect dance of predator and prey choreographed when the world was still more beast than beauty. They match our every step with their own. I can feel Conroy’s trembling body as he fights against his adrenaline’s urge to run. I can see through the shelves the long train of death-clad children wrapping around the path. Their eyes follow my every move with the same interest as a predator’s holds their prey. They are waiting on us to spark that needed animation for their frenzy and I do not know what is more chilling, the overpouring possibility of monstrosity they are capable of or their calculated stares.
I tug on Conroy’s hand to pull his attention away from the boy ahead of us. The boy’s eyes follow up to me also. His hand twitching in an unspoken dare between us as his face still keeps its blank passage. He is watching. He is waiting. I know one motion from him and the nightmare will begin for us. Our dance will become a crescendo finale.
Never removing my eyes from the new pair upon me, I motion with my head to the metal safety behind us. I am not so hopeful as to think that if we just stop they will, too. Inserting him into the closet will have to be a well-planed dance and without interruption to signal any change in the children. Conroy shakes his head with a frantic motion and the eyes swing back to him in unison. Their steps falter as a few press against the ranks with quickening steps and my breath catches at the moment’s confusion.
They are growing restless with the sight of us before them. I have thought until now that they were toying with us, but to them we are the ones refusing to play the game. Do they need our fear, our response of fight or flight to engage their motives? The amount of crimson coloring layered over their clothes shows hints at being well versed in their methods of attack. If it is not the lack of knowledge holding their actions at bay then what is the missing ingredient? Are they so well fed already from their morning’s mayhem that their crippling evil is discouraged from surfacing? Has it really been, all this time, a perverse game of “Follow the Leader”? Is this Leader just not
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