Lowewood Academy

The room felt airless; it was becoming harder and harder to breathe.  Feeling the panic rising, I span round, searching for the door, but I could no longer pick it out.  When I looked back, he was advancing towards me, relentless now.  Tall, menacing, armed with a sword-like weapon which slashed the air as he steadily narrowed the space between us, eyes flashing, boring into me. 

“No!” I tried to cry out.  “No, no, no, get away from me; no, please!” 

My pleas were increasingly desperate, yet no sound seemed to escape from me, and my legs felt so heavy, I didn’t seem to be able to move any more.  He was closing, closing, I felt the fear drenching me, overwhelming, crushing…too much.  The hands reached out to grab me and I lost control…

Suddenly awake, I sat bolt upright in bed and, for the next few minutes, concentrated on trying to calm down, letting go of the twisted visions which had haunted too many of my nights since Easter.  Gradually my ragged breathing returned to something like normal.  I blocked the nightmare out of my mind as best I could and wondered, if I dreamt it often enough, if I would somehow get used to it and it would lose its power over me?  I hoped so, although I didn’t have a lot of faith in the idea. 

(more…)

I took a deep breath and knocked on the door. 

“Enter.”  I pushed the door open and carefully closed it behind me before standing awkwardly before Dr Higgins.  I had absolutely no indication why I’d been summoned, but did have a few ideas.  He could have found out about our plot at the Soiree, or about the trick on our hike last week, or maybe he just wanted to congratulate me on leading to rowing squad to victory over Lady Eleanor Holles on Saturday morning.

“Ah, Cassandra.” he said looking up “Please sit down, I think it’s time that you and I had a little chat.”  I sat down on the old wooden chair gingerly; all too aware of the many times I’d been bent over it throughout my school career.  Thinking carefully, I don’t think he’d ever asked me to sit down before; the usual drill consisted of my standing stiffly with my hands behind my back so he couldn’t see me fidget before being bent over to be whacked.

“How are you feeling Cassandra?”  he asked, throwing me completely.

“Erm, I’m fine sir, a little tired as I was up early this morning running and then had hockey practice after prep, but fine really sir.”  I said warily.

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“My loneliness is killing mee-ee-ee! I must confess! I still believe - still belie-hee-heeve!” Charlie bellowed into a plastic microphone. The blonde wig sat askew over his flaming mane. He was wearing my skirt (unzipped and barely covering his , thigh-high wooly socks and his own school shirt coquettishly unbuttoned over his hairless, freckled chest. I was following his gyrations with the eye of my little camcorder, one hand pressed to my mouth to keep my laughter from ruining the take.

To my profound relief, Charlie didn’t corpse, taking the song to its conclusion as he danced between the desks. We were safe in the Art classroom, because Mr Compton was known to have taken his form to sketch snowdrops in the woods. Yet, I felt a lot better after the recording was finished, and the singer took a final stance on a desk, his legs arranged in a come-hither position.

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