Page 91 of Wicche Hunt

He admits, at least to himself, he prefers using his bare hands. He strangled Pearl, the nosey bitch. It might have taken over a decade to pay her back for ruining his summer, but it was worth it. He wasn’t even cheating. He barely glanced at her test. Of course, that didn’t stop the dean from calling his parents nor his father from refusing to allow him to stay home alone over the summer while they traveled. “Apparently, we can’t trust you.” He’d been looking forward to the freedom all year and then it disappeared because of a stupid girl’s groundless claim. If he could, he’d choke her again.

What his father will never understand is that his current endeavors are far more entertaining than a career. What drudgery an office would be. Of course, seen in a certain light, one could call what he and Brandon did a career. A calling, perhaps. A vocation.

He pulls up the blinds, opens his window, and scans the empty grounds. It’s still early, the sky going gray. He throws the block of glass, and it sails out the window, landing in the pool with a small splish. There. That’s taken care of at least. Time to wake Brandon with the news.

The image goes dark and then…

The same room but different. Textbooks piled in the desk. His blazer tossed over the chair. Whispers, ideas becoming profound and revelatory by virtue of being uttered in the dark. Brandon isn’t sure. Dorian explains. Right and wrong are constructs, a way to keep the populace in line. Children are taught from an early age to do what benefits the majority. But what about those special few who see through the construct, who recognize the hypocrisy? What about the ones who can think for themselves, who make decisions based on whattheyknow to be right, rather than what society dictates?

Brandon is trying to follow but is floundering. “But there are rights and wrongs. Killing is wrong.”

“Unless you’re killing a killer,” Dorian counters, excited to finally have someone to discuss these things with. “The government puts criminals to death. So, it is wrong or right?”

“But that’s punishment for doing wrong,” Brandon says, scratching at the pimple on his chin, still trying to understand.

“True, but who decides what’s right and wrong? Soldiers kill and we give them parades. Police kill unarmed citizens with impunity.”

“With…yeah. Impunity,” Brandon echoes.

“Without punishment,” Dorian clarifies. “In some parts of the country you can shoot someone for ringing your doorbell. You can shoot someone for making you fear for your life, even if they’ve done nothing threatening. My point is, laws are made by men, and men are biased and fallible. It’s like that moron we have as headmaster, or worse yet, the dean. Men who weren’t smart enough, important enough, to get good jobs but they’re in charge of us? They get to determine what’s right and wrong?

Dorian, lying on his bed, staring up into the dark, slams his fist on the bed. Brandon is sitting on the floor, leaning against Dorian’s bed, looking over his shoulder at his friend.

“You and I are far more intelligent than those two and yet we have to follow their rules. The same goes for these teachers. Why are we bound by what small-minded, mediocre people say? Why is our future determined by jumping through their hoops? Who are they?”

“Especially Collins,” Brandon says.

“Good. Yes.” Dorian is pleased that his friend is finally catching up. “Collins is a prime example. Collins made you all do that ridiculous group assignment. All your grades were pulled down because Ainsley decided to go off on a tangent about museums stealing artifacts from other cultures.” He scoffs. “It’s an Art History final assessment. She already brought the topic up in class and Collins shut it down. So what does she do? She does it again on a project where you all share a grade. Now that’s a wrong.”

“Yeah. Collins thought we were all in on it. I needed that A,” Brandon complained, not for the first time.

“The whole idea of group work is asinine. They always say that we need to learn how to work together. No, we don’t. My father is a surgeon. Yes, there are other people in the operating theater, but he calls the shots. He doesn’t stop to ask the surgical residents or the nurses if they agree with what he’s doing. He doesn’t take a vote. He’s in charge and he tells them what to do.”

Brandon nods in the dark.

“My mother chairs the Carmel Mental Health Awareness charity. She has to coordinate a dinner dance every year and says it’s like herding cats. She has to deal with everyone on the committee wanting a say in the event, even if they’re idiots and their ideas are ridiculous. One woman suggested food trucks and a night of roller disco at a local rink.”

Brandon grins. “That sounds kind of…stupid. Totally.”

“She always says it would go far smoother,” Dorian continues, “if she could just make the decisions herself and be done with it.”

“Yeah,” Brandon agrees. “I hate groupwork.”

Dorian pauses, trying to get the discussion back on track. He made an unfortunate detour into group work to help Brandon along and now his friend seems stuck there. “What I was saying before, though, about us not being tied to what society says. You understand that, right?”

Brandon looks confused but says, “Yes.”

“Good. Good. I’ve been thinking we should try an experiment.” Dorian’s mind is spinning with possibilities.

“What kind?”

“Well, if it’s correct that we are better than the average idiots around us, it follows that the rules created to keep those idiots in line don’t apply to us. Right?”

“Uh.” Brandon doesn’t finish the thought.

“So, who has wronged us? Much like society or the headmaster creating rules and laws to punish wrongdoing, we, as superior individuals, should set our own rules and punishments. Right?”

“Oh. Yeah.” Brandon perks up, his eyes glowing. “Yeah, okay.”

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