02/11/2022 - V
Reading time: 5 min
Photo by Milada Vigerova on Unsplash
They call me V at school, but even if it hurts, I can’t remember what V stands for.
I forgot loads about last year, and both mum and Dr Phillis seem to pretend they haven’t noticed, but I know they know because of all the hints they throw at me, all the strange questions dying without an answer.
I’ve got some theories, though.
I think the computer nerds call me V because of the graphic novel—you know, V for Vendetta.
The other day, for example, I found a Guy Fawkes mask on my chair. Someone had written on the inside “put it on, please. Save us from your face.”
I guess I’m ugly, if that’s what they’re implying, though I can’t really be sure because of my condition. Obviously.
I think my art classmates call me V for Vincent van Gogh.
I wish it was a compliment, but I’m not that delusional. I know I’m not talented, I can see it in Mrs Campbell's eyes every time I hand in an assignment. “Well done you,” she says, never looking me in the eyes, then places my painting in a drawer and leaves it there, out of the pile, just so that they can magically appear on Dr Phillis’ desk.
There’s a guy in art class who gets in trouble almost every day because of me. He thinks he’s funny, whispering things behind my back, on my left side, where I can’t hear him, and sometimes he dares me to wear glasses. The whole class laughs when he does that, or when he says I must have a jar full of piss hidden in my bag because I never go to the bathroom.
But I can’t go to the bathroom. The bathroom’s full of mirrors.
The worst ones, by far, are the Rugby players.
They’re too stupid to think of a clever nickname like V for Vendetta or Vincent van Gogh, but they see me slithering to school in my jumper, covering my face from sunshine, avoiding the reflective surfaces of the headmaster’s new BMW, and their simple brain can only make one connection: vampire.
They throw cloves of garlic at me when I walk the corridors and raise crosses whenever I’m near. Teachers reprehend them, sometimes, but they don’t care. They’re untouchable.
Today, I’ve got a bad feeling.
The fire alarm goes off during English class, and Mr Banks, puzzled, guides us into the parking lot. I go last, as always, to avoid attention, when someone grabs me by the shoulder while a hand covers my mouth, choking a scream before it can escape my throat.
“Don’t let her bite you,” John, the team’s captain says. “You don’t want to turn into Dracula or something.”
They lift me away from the crowd, and I don’t resist. I’ve learned with time that it’s better to let them do whatever they want. They usually get bored easily, and love resistance, so I let them carry me as if I was dead, until I see where we’re going.
The bathroom.
They open the door with a kick and the stench of urine floods my nostrils. They laugh, give each other high fives. “We’ll see if you’re really a vampire, V. Let’s see if you’ve got a reflection at all.”
And that’s when I stop playing dead.
I bite the hand that’s holding me until I taste blood, and Michael drops me immediately.
“She bit me, she bit me!” he cries; in his eyes the same panic I’m feeling.
The others stop for a second. Their vampire joke has gone too far and now they’re really scared Mike is going to grow a thirst for human blood.
“Take her!” John says. I struggle, but they easily lock my wrists and ankles.
The mirror is only a few feet away, above the sinks, and I don’t know why I can’t look at it; I only know that a simple glance could kill me.
Maybe I am a vampire after all.
They drag me forward ignoring my cries and my jerks as a voice within me commands to close my eyes before it’s too late. I do as told, and an image flashes painfully in my memory.
My reflection on a blade. Red. My father behind me.
“Open her eyes,” John says, knowing there’s nothing I can do to stop them.
They force my eyelids open, and I realise I’ve given my bullies too much credit. They’ve not thought of V for Vendetta or van Gogh. The link is much, much simpler. There’s a big scar on my face, plump and purple, going from my nose to my chin and then up again to my missing ear. A V. A monstrous, horrifying V on my face.
For a moment, I say nothing. I study the image that terrified me for so long, almost not recognising myself, until I remember, and I suddenly know why my paintings end up on Dr Phillis’ desk; I know what my mother is hinting at.
Dad. His Swiss knife. His madness. The blood. The police.
I scream, and the scream is two voices, the one in my head and the one outside, and it sounds so demonic, so unnatural that the Rugby team drops me and flees.
I lay on the floor, weeping for a little longer, then I look up, beyond the sinks. There’s a mirror above my head, and yet, I’m not scared.
I know what’s there.
I finally know what I have to face.
About this story
Prompt: Phobias & Fears: The concept of a phobia, or illogical/irrational fear, should be a central theme within the plot.
All Genres Welcome!: The genre can be anything you’d like– speculative fiction, humor, bodice-ripping romance, the sky's the limit. Write with reckless abandon–irrational fear fits anywhere and everywhere.
Thirteens: (OPTIONAL) Without naming any names, we happen to know that there are a few gluttons for punishments among us (ahem, yes, you. You know who you are.). As an added OPTIONAL piece of the challenge, make sure that the first line and the last line of your piece are thirteen words long–no more, no less.
From the official page of FFM 2022.
The fear of mirrors is called Eisoptrophobia, and it can be caused by traumatic events.
Notes on the challenge
Each and every story published here has been written, reviewed, polished and published in less than 90 minutes. Which means you’re going to find spelling mistakes, ugly sentences and weird structures. I still hope you’ll enjoy them!
