The gloves still weren't back from the wash yet. It would be dangerous, having to go out like this, but my mind was racing. After the incident a couple night back, everything about me was spiking, and the stress was driving me insane. The police around the school made this harder than usual, but I like a challenge. It takes my mind of stress and nerves for a bit.

My uniform was spotless, but I didn't expect it to stay that way for long. My socks were pulls up over my knees, and I had found an old pair of ratty gloves in the replaceable bottom of one of my trunks. They wee covered in holes and fingerless, old gloves I used to play dress up with when I was younger. I wondered for a minute how thy had stayed in the trunk while I packed, but the itching in the back of my brain didn't let me dwell. I had important things to do.

She wouldn't give me her last name even, she went by one name like Madonna or Tarazan. I was almost certain she was here on a complete scholarship, although I marveled at how she would even get that. She wasn't anything extraordinary, not brilliant, or artistic, or athletic. I heard that she was a good singer, if that's anything impressive. At this point, what girl isn't 'a good singer'?

However, the fact that she wouldn't give me her last name wasn't why she would be my stress ball for the afternoon. No, I usually had at least some reason as to why I would use a student to calm myself. But she saw me doing something I wasn't supposed to be doing. A ziplock bag under my mattress was all the evidence she would need of that. I didn't like people giving out my secrets, and this girl- Joules- was no exception.

She was hanging out by library, leaning up against the worn marble statues of roaring lions. She was writing in a journal of some sort, scribbling out words and rewriting them often. I rubbed my thumb against the side of my forefinger, an anxious habit of mine, and glanced down at my hand- still uncovered, for putting one old gloves like the ones I had found would be suspicious in broad noon daylight. The skin on my thumb and forefinger was worn and raw, which made me question how often I did that little harmless habit. But I didn't have time to reconsider my harmless habit at the moment- I was about to perform one of my more deadly habits.

Joules shut her book suddenly, drawing my attention back up to her. She was tucking the journal into her bag, and had started walking off, towards a larger cluster of buildings. Students and police walking about took her out of view for moments, but I was quick to keep pace with her. She ducked into the shadow of a building, and I followed. A small, empty courtyard hidden behind one of the theaters on campus, with a couple measly trees and a sad excuse for a bench. Joules sat down, and I stepped onto the cobblestone path a couple paces from her, feeling my waistband for the gloves and the switchblade.

"Hello Joules." My voice echoed surprisingly eerily back here. It was a pleasant addition to the whole ordeal. "I've always wondered, how did you get into such a prestigious school." I began to pace toward her, and she was already on her feet, climbing backwards over the bench. "Was it your 'oh-so-amazing voice'?" She didn't answer, backing up quicker as I stalked toward her.

"What-" She took a shuddering breath, trying to talk back to me. "What are you doing-" I didn't let her finish.

"A good singing voice isn't a talent, Joules. You really shouldn't be here at all, you know. You're very lucky you got to enjoy your time here." She stopped suddenly, having run into the old brick of the theatre department building. "Unfortunately, I'll have to cut your time short." The gloves were out of my waistband, and I slipped them over my long, slender fingers. Then I reached back for the switchblade. "I guess your voice couldn't buy you enough time here. Maybe you would have been better off without your voice in the first place."

Joules tried to scream, and force back through, but I rammed my arm into her stomach, pinning her up against the wall. The switchblade came up to her neck, and her green-blue eyes followed the shiny blade with fear. It nicked her neck, sending a short flow of blood over the blade, and down her collar bone. I pressed the blade farther in, cutting at the bottom of her neck, letting more blood flow over the two of us, staining my clothes and my hands. I had done my research on the vocal cords, and, with some digging, I had found an interesting site on her to rip them out of someone.

She really wpuldve been better off without her vocal cords.

There was blood, lost of it, and two little cuts allowed me to tear out what I assumed wa the vocal cord, according to my research. Joules had slumped against the wall, letting blood spill everywhere, and her legs went limp, as she collapsed into a head on the ground. I tore off one of the gloves- I would burn them later, and wrapped the blade in one of them. The other gloves hand I dipped one finger into the blood around her collar bones, and drew one word above her motionless body, against the brick wall in red, warm blood.

'Macbeth'

It would be hard for the school to play this one off as an accident.