Primary Cause
by Trever Palmer

   Bob Medley, the principal of Van Voorhees Elementary School, was on the roof, a Marlin .444 sniper rifle poised against his shoulder. He peered through the telescopic lens, drawing the rifle’s crosshairs across the faces of smiling, laughing children. His finger ached on the trigger. His eye burned with sweat as it stared through the scope. Yet still he waited.

   He hadn’t yet seen the one.

   Where was the little monster? Why couldn’t he find her? Miss Childs had taken her class out to recess five minutes ago. Where was she?

   He raked the scope over the bobbing heads on the playground.

   Medley allowed the rifle to waver over the face of Jacob Winters. The little bastard had been in his office more than five times during the school year. He giggled as he contemplated pulling the trigger and ending the torment for future principals. Jacob Winters was the poster boy for the ‘Slow Children At Play’ road signs that motorists always joked about. He was destined to either quit school or be expelled, Medley mused, so why not save them all the trouble?

   He continued on with the rifle’s arc, damning the parents for their corporal punishment rule, as the crosshairs fixed against playing children.

   When he had scanned the playground for the tenth time, and had still not seen her, Medley pulled the rifle from his shoulder. He slumped against the ledge and slid down its rough side, stopping when his butt came to rest in the pebbles littering the roof. They were uncomfortable, but he didn’t mind. The price was worth paying.

   Was she in the bathroom again? he wondered. Maybe he should have waited for her there? No! At least here, on the roof, he would have a marginal chance of escape. Not that that was what he wanted. He wanted to be caught, longed to reveal the true identity of the monster posing as cherubic kindergarten student Natasha Harris.

   Besides, what was the worst they could do to him? Usher him off to a mental hospital? That wouldn’t be so bad. At least there they would give him enough drugs to forget the little monster. Because no matter how many times he shot her, or stabbed her, or stomped her under his heels, he would never forget Natasha. He could only hope to stop her.

   He imagined Natasha’s corpse as it spasmed on the playground, riddled with smoking bullet wounds. The way her skin would slowly melt away, leaving a hissing pile of gelatinous ooze that would unmask the beast living inside her.

   But what if there wasn’t a monster living inside her? What if she was just an evil little girl? Medley shook his head. It wasn’t possible. There had to be something else living inside her. The things she had done, wanted to do, were beyond a normal human being.

   Natasha Harris was a monster.

   Medley patted the Marlin’s stock and smiled. The rifle was his cross against Natasha’s vampire.

   Dracula, he thought, meet your Van Helsing.

   The longer he waited, however, listening to the children on the playground, the worse he felt about the situation. It wasn’t the dread of killing the child which bothered him, but the possible responsiblity for having unleashed her unto the world. He couldn’t be sure of what nightmarish acts she had committed at home, only what she was guilty for at Van Voorhees Elementary. And it all appeared to be his fault.

   She had looked so cute that day he had allowed her into his office. First, there had been the small, barely audible tap, tap, tapping of her little knuckles on his office door. Then her round smiling face, framed by shocks of ponytailed blonde hair. Natasha was missing her front teeth, he had noticed, as she smiled and handed him the drawing.

   ‘For me?’ Medley asked.

   ‘Uh huh,’ Natasha replied. She held her hands behind her back, rocking on the heels of her feet in the miniature saddle-shoes.

   Medley tore his eyes away from her naked left knee, glanced at the band-aid which covered the right, and looked at the drawing. It was a crude children’s sketch emblazoned with a young girl and older man holding hands. In Natasha’s scrawled handwriting were written the words ‘Me’ (pointed next to the little girl) and ‘Mr Medley’ (pointed at the older man).

   He looked down at her and smiled.

   ‘Thank you,’ he said. Medley closed the office door and stepped around Natasha. He put the picture on his bookshelf, standing up it against the small frame showing him and his wife. He rested against his desk and crossed his arms, looking down at the little girl.

   ‘I’m flattered,’ he told her. ‘Why did you draw a picture of me?’

   ‘Not just you,’ Natasha corrected him. She beamed with her toothless smile. ‘A picture of us.’

   Medley smiled and nodded. ‘Okay. Why did you draw a picture of us?’

   ‘Because you’re so nice,’ Natasha said. ‘I like you.’

   Medley could feel the heat rising in his groin as he watched the little girl teeter on her feet. Her blue-and-green checkered skirt bristled with her movements. His mind raced, thinking of what he could do as he gripped her ponytails in each of his sweaty fists.

   Ride her like a damn pony, he mused.

   What’s coming over me? Medley thought. He couldn’t resist the urge to stretch an arm out, gently cup her chin in his hand. He stared into her eyes and smiled.

   ‘You like me?’ he asked.

   ‘Uh huh.’

   ‘I like you, too, Natasha. You’re a very special...’ He leaned back and began to unzip his pants. ‘...little girl.’

   Natasha’s eyes widened as she watched the zipper yawn open. Medley laughed as he imagined them popping out of her head. That’s okay, he thought, I’ll just skullfuck her.

   ‘Good food, good meat,’ Medley said as he gripped her shoulder in one hand, his other pulling himself free of his trousers. ‘Good God, let’s eat.’

   The sound of Natasha screaming and his office door slamming as she ran away frightened broke Medley from his reverie. He jerked back against the roof’s ledge, slamming his head into the concrete. He watched the vents as they twirled their motors in the warm afternoon breeze. They reminded him of a child’s pinwheel.

   As if his life hadn’t been bad enough with his wife, now he had this mess with Natasha. Big women, little women. They were all the same. All spelled T-R-O-U-B-L-E.

   It was strange that he should suddenly think of his wife. For weeks he and Janice hadn’t been getting along. Matters weren’t made any easier with her being the school’s art teacher, nor the fact that she was Natasha’s favorite teacher. Though he was sure the girl would never tell about what he had done (or, at least, tried to do), not since he believed the little girl could sense or smell his fear, but he often sweated the forty-five minutes Natasha spent each week in Janice’s class.

   Medley could feel a headache growing at the base of his spine as he thought things over.

   The first time he noticed the drawing had ‘changed’ was the afternoon Natasha had given it to him. He had come into his office after making sure that Mr Shook, the school’s janitor, was going to paint the school’s foyer that weekend. He had briefly looked up and noticed the picture which draped the photo of him and Janice.

   Medley stopped and looked at it.

   The girl was no longer holding his hand in the picture. Actually, she no longer had a hand to offer. Her arms had completely vanished from the drawing. And there was a strange, menacing look scrawled across her childish face. Medley noticed the inverted eyebrows and the upturned grin. The forked tongue which spat from between the glistening fangs.

   He picked it up from his bookshelf and carried it with him to his desk. Sitting down, he opened the top drawer and slid it inside atop an assortment of folders. He closed the drawer and leaned back against his chair. He turned around and opened the blinds into his office, peering into the storm which raged outside. Across the parking lot, beneath a tree swaying with thunderous winds, stood Natasha staring back at him.

   Medley quickly closed the blinds.

   Things had grown steadily worse since that day.

   A reconciliation with Janice seem to grow more distant as she started to date a third-grade teacher from another school. And the drawing continued to change. At first, Medley had thought Natasha was making a new one and replacing it in his office. But he had quickly dismissed the thought, since he always kept the office locked.

   No, he thought, gripping the rifle tightly. The picture. . . changed.

   The next time he had looked at it, Natasha’s head had transformed into a crudely drawn serpent. It seemed to represent a cobra, since its hood fluttered madly open, and scabby arms - tattooed with reptillian scales and complete with claws dripping blood - had replaced her tiny human limbs. Natasha’s legs had melted together to form a solid tail which coiled behind her. The rendition of Mr Medley no longer smiled. It now seemed to scream.

   That was when he had had enough. Medley had planned to speak with Natasha the next day. He would catch her in the halls, or call her down from Miss Childs class, whatever it took. But he would put an end to the nonsense for good.

   The next morning, he spotted her in the hall. Her little head bobbed among a sea of childish faces.

   ‘Natasha,’ Medley had called after her. ‘Come here a minute, please.’ She continued to walk. ‘Natasha, I’d like to talk with you.’

   He had almost caught up with her when he ran into Janice. Staring past his wife, he watched as the little girl disappeared into the restroom.

   ‘Good morning,’ Janice said. ‘Have a minute?’

   Bob stole away from his vigil on the girl’s restroom and looked at his estranged wife. He couldn’t help but notice how her slacks outlined her curvaceous hips, or how her tight shirt seemed to stetch with her large breasts. Her lips were painted with a wet, deep burgundy. Bob Medley suddenly realized how horny he had become.

   ‘Good morning, Janice,’ he replied. He stole another glance at the restroom. ‘I’m kind of busy right now.’

   Janice looked over her shoulder. ‘Who’re you chasing?’ she asked. ‘Troublemaker?’

   ‘You could say that.’

   ‘Hope it isn’t one of mine?’

   Bob looked at her and gave a weak smile. He couldn’t help but remember that Janice was Natasha’s favorite teacher. ‘No,’ he grinned. ‘It isn’t one of yours.’

   ‘Can we talk after school? It’s important.’

   He had nodded and lightly touched her arm. He didn’t know what Janice wanted, but whatever it was it couldn’t be good. Not where it concerned his wife. ‘That’ll be fine,’ he told her. ‘Meet me in my office and we’ll talk.’

   Janice stepped aside and allowed him to pass. She shook her head and disappeared around the corner. ‘The chase is better than the catch,’ she smiled, feeling sorry for the kid that her husband was trailing.

   At the restroom, Medley stopped and waited for Natasha. He knew that the little girl hadn’t managed to get past him and decided that he would wait outside in the hallway for her.

   Maybe I should have had Janice go in and get her, he thought. Then realized the utter madness that could create. Oh sure, have my wife go in and bring her out. Have the kid start crying and say things like I tried to stick my pee-pee in her. That’s just what I need. Then maybe I could tell about the snakeman drawing and they’d cart me off to the rubber room. Crazy and a child molester.

   He suddenly thought about the ‘Chester the Molester’ cartoons he had enjoyed as a teenager in Hustler magazine. Teenager, hell. He would still be buying the damn magazine if they sold it at the local gas station.

   Medley smiled at the memory and stepped over to the water fountain. Leaning down, he tasted the tepid water. Then he heard the scream from inside the restroom and saw Natasha come strolling out.

   The restroom door was heavy in his hands as he pushed through it. He rounded the corner which hid the toilets from the hallway and stopped. He stared, a trickle of wetness from the water fountain racing from the corner of his mouth.

   In the floor, lying in a puddle created from the overflowing toilet, was the body of first-grader Lindy Charlston. Her limbs were scattered in awkward positions. Her eyes looked toward the ceiling. Medley could see the large crack in her skull where her head had smacked against the cold tile floor. A wave of gore and brains washed from the head wound and puddled beneath the sinks across the room. He tore his eyes from her face and looked down her body, noticing the flowered panties she wore beneath her skirt. They were stained pink from her blood.

   Medley had thought about calling Natasha’s mother in for a conference. He could discuss with her the situation, find out if she had been doing anything strange at home. But he knew that was a mute point.

   He had quickly discarded any theories about Natasha having been born from a jackal after meeting her mother at a PTO meeting. Mrs Harris, whom Medley had thought would look like Morticia from The Addams Family (Tiiiisssshhhh, as John Astin once crooned) had appeared quite normal. Though he was disturbed by the fact that Mrs Harris had told him that she couldn’t find a steady male role model for Natasha, the little girl not standing for another man in the house since the death of her natural father, Medley had found her to be pleasant and not unlike any of the other parents who thought their child could do no wrong.

   Instead, he had questioned Natasha herself about the incident. Asked her if she had been involved with the death of Lindy.

   ‘How did she die?’ the little girl asked.

   ‘She slipped in a puddle,’ Medley told her. ‘The toilet was overflowing and she must have lost her balance.’

   Natasha had giggled. ‘I didn’t like her,’ she said. ‘Nice that she died so near the toilet.’

   Medley had looked at her. ‘What do you mean?’

   ‘She was a little shit.’

   That had been this morning. Mr Medley had discovered the last of the drawings before lunchtime. The snakeman had now attacked and seemed to swallow him whole. One of his legs dangled from its hissing mouth. The other leg was a slab of dismembered meat lying near the bottom of the page.

   He sat at his desk and fiddled with his thumbs. He would check on one last piece of the puzzle, then act. He would get her before she got him.

   Medley walked down to Janice’s room. It was her planning period and she was alone. Knocking, he waited for her to motion him inside. Closing the door behind him, he told her about Natasha’s reactions to the accident that morning and was wondering if there was any evidence of mental illness in her drawings. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, he said, but would recognize it if he saw it.

   ‘Nothing for you to see,’ Janice had told him. She had spread out a gallery of the child’s drawings on a tabletop. They were the basic scribblings of a kindergarten child. ‘Though there is something strange.’

   Medley looked up from a drawing entitled ‘Dancing Daisies’. ‘What? What’s strange?’

   ‘I would have sworn that this picture had shown Natasha with one of her friends,’ Janice told him. ‘But I must be imagining things.’

   Medley took the drawing from her and stared at it. It showed a smiling girl holding out her hand. ‘Which friend?’ he asked, knowing the answer.

   ‘I seem to remember her telling me it was Lindy,’ Janice laughed. ‘They were holding hands. But, with the accident this morning, I must have the poor little girl on my mind.’

   Medley returned the drawing to her and smiled weakly. ‘I’ll see you this afternoon,’ he said, and left.

   After lunch had ended and the halls had again become quiet, Mr Medley had excused himself and drove home. He had grabbed the hunting rifle from his closet and loaded it, placing it in the trunk of his car. At school, he had parked behind the cafeteria and entered the building through a side door. The lunchroom ladies had all left by that time and nobody noticed him stealing into the school. Mr Shook, who Medley often joked with the faculty ‘couldn’t remember where he shit last,’ was nowhere to be seen as he stole into the closed stairway leading to the roof.

   Now where was she? Miss Childs class would be returning to their room in a few minutes and still he had not seen hide nor hair of Natasha. Medley stared harder through the telescopic lens, as if it might help him find her.

   ‘I’ve got to take care of her,’ he told himself. ‘Before she takes care of me.’

   Overhead, he could feel the sun beating down on his exposed neck. He could feel the trickles of sweat course from his wet hair and race down his spine. His mouth was dry. He wished he hadn’t given up smoking.

   Then a shadow fell across Bob Medley and he turned.

   ‘Good food, good meat,’ the thing hissed.

   The rifle dropped from Medley’s shaking hands. He could feel the front of his trousers stain as he pissed himself. He wanted to scream as the cobra’s hood inflated, drowning him in shadow as it killed the warm sunshine.

   ‘Good God, let’s eat.’

_____

   Janice sat at Bob’s desk and cried.

   She couldn’t believe what an awful day this had been. First, there had been the awful death of Lindy Charlston. Then, Bob had fallen from the roof of the school. It hadn’t made matters any better that he had fallen directly outside her classroom windows. She could plainly see, as could all the children in her class, the gruesome display Bob had become as his body collapsed on the hard pavement.

   It had been too ironic, she thought. I was going to meet him in this very office today and tell him that I wanted to work things out. Let him know that I still loved him and wanted to be together.

   She was blinded as tears welled in her eyes.

   Maybe it was a sign that it wasn’t meant to be?

   She gave a little laugh and choked as the tears raced down her face.

   Looking around Bob’s desk, she couldn’t find any tissues.

   ‘He had to have some around here someplace,’ she said.

   ‘Oh, he does,’ a voice called from the office door. ‘They’re in the top drawer.’

   Janice looked up and saw Natasha standing in the doorway. She wrinkled her eyebrows at the little girl and opened the drawer. Just as she had said, there was a small package of Kleenex resting in the pencil tray. Janice pulled one out and then noticed the drawing laying atop the neat stack of folders. She pulled it out and studied it. It showed Natasha smiling out at the world.

   ‘Did you make this for Mr Medley?’ she asked.

   ‘Yes, I did.’

   ‘It’s very nice,’ Janice told her. ‘Mr Medley was a nice man.’

   ‘Yes, my drawing is nice,’ Natasha answered. ‘But no, Mr Medley was not a nice man. You’re better off without him.’

   Janice dropped the drawing. It fluttered to the desktop.

   ‘What did you say?’ she asked.

   ‘You heard me.’ Natasha stepped across the office. She pulled her hands out from behind her back and placed a new drawing atop the desk. It showed a little girl holding hands with an older woman. The words ‘Me’ (with an arrow pointing to the little girl) and ‘Ms Medley’ (with an arrow pointing to the older woman) were scribbled on the page.

   No more pencils, no more books

   ‘I made this for you because you’re nice,’ Natasha said, flashing a smile. She winked as a forked tongue slithered out through the toothless gap.

   Janice screamed.

©2003 Trever Palmer