A Kiln for a Kill

Now did I post this correctly?

This is my OC or whatever you'd call it. This story isn't entirely fabricated, but I'm not about to admit how much of it is true.

It was a Friday afternoon and the building was deserted, much like most of the campus. It was the middle of winter and those that didn't compute had no intentions of leaving their dorms, aside from the daily trips to the dinning hall. Very few students ventured out into the art building or the D&M as students so fondly called it. It was winter break so those that where on campus were few and wide spread. There were hardly any classes this late and by two in the afternoon the building was like a ghost town.

I came to check on a drying canvas entering through the back door, which didn't require a keycard. This was convenient because I always seemed to forget my card. The only camera the D&M had was located in front of it's main entrance, which I wasn't even sure if it actually worked or not. As I was about to leave, being satisfied that my canvases were drying nicely, I noticed a light from down the hall. It was in the clay department. Curious, I thought to follow the light and took notice of a girl fiddling with a clay bowl that had yet to be fired.

I watched her from a far, concealed behind a hanging sheet used to distinguish someone’s personal art space. She was a horrible pompous ass, who just had to be right about everything and needed to put everyone down to make her self feel superior. But no, maybe it wasn't everybody, maybe it was just me. Something about her just screamed out for attention and she got it even though she wasn't very pretty and a little plump in size. She played the virgin card like it was a state of mind, regardless of her flirting habits. Warning men not to bother only fueled their temptation like it was some sort of game.

She would always snare at me with those big green eyes and shimmering white teeth as if something was wrong with me. Again, maybe it was just me, but having it being me was enough. What she needed was a good scare, a metaphorical slap in the face for all the times she put me down. She wasn't the kind of person to keep her thoughts to herself; telling me that my choice of music was wrong, or that my style of clothing was inappropriate, or even my choice of food, being meat made me a terrible person. She was a born again whatever, obsessing over a religion that I took no care into researching. She was also a vegan bent on making everyone convert and I suppose that also included the religion aspect too. I was going to hell for not going to church on sundays, or not believing in her religion for that matter. I was going to hell for eating meat. I was going to hell for listening to rock music. I was going to hell for having interest in men. After a while it was hard keeping track on everything I was going to hell for. I was an imperfect abomination that was a menace to society. At least, that was what she tried to lead me to believe and at times I almost fell for it. She had a horrible knack for making me feel insecure and in those moments of vulnerability she would viciously attack, targeting those feelings.

I watched her carefully stack her clay pots on a tray, preparing to have them brisk fired. On top of being a controlling monster, she was also an overachiever, bent on being better then everyone else. This meant long extended hours outside of the classroom. Of course she would be here, working on making her clay pot picture perfect. It didn't matter how long I  spent on my work, she would always put me down, accusing me of blowing it off or not paying close enough detail to my work. Not everyone was anal about craftsmanship. I sure didn't care and not caring about something was like a sin to her. Even though it wasn't her business she acted as if I was some kind of horrible disgrace, not fit enough to be in a BFA program. She wasn't in that degree of course, things weren't that ridiculously cliché. She was an Art History major who took fine art in clay as a minor. Some times I really felt she was resentful for me making into the BFA program, not that she wanted to be apart of it, but more because she seemed determined to see me as a failure.

She was making her way into the kiln now, probably placing her pots neatly in little rows ready to be fired into her perfect little bowls. She needed a good scare, a push out of her fantasy, a reminder that picking on people leads to consequences. I pulled aside the old faded sheet that hung above me and pressed on, creeping along as I did so. The kiln was huge in size, a walk in meant for dozens of clay projects to be fired all at once. It was already pretty packed with undergrad work. You could tell based on the sloppy craftsmanship and rather boring designs, not that my clay work was any better. She was probably going to fire once she was finished it there. She was one of the few allowed to mess around with the machinery. The professors always fell for her fake friendly persona. It made me sick.

I crept around the kiln and slowly shut the door, feeling excited as I did so. There was a creaking sound, but she was so engulfed in her obsessive vision of making her work in picture perfect order, that she didn't notice. In fact I stood there for a few long minutes waiting for her to yell out or complain to open the door. You see, there was no way out once the door was shut. This was a horrible error in a product design. Not only that, but it also locked from the outside.

I waited a few minutes longer growing bored that she wasn't calling out for help. I thought maybe I could scare her a bit, by perhaps turning on the kiln. There would be no harm in such a thing. It isn't instant that the kiln would heat up. I stared at the big green button that was just waiting to be pushed. Everything had already been set. She was so punctual having everything being ready in advance, so convenient.

My knuckle was steady and I pushed it quickly, feeling a wave of excitement and satisfaction. I heard it set. It made a very distinguish sound, like metal being dropped onto a cement floor. Yet even with this rather obnoxious noise, I still heard nothing from her. Then it dawned upon me that she must have her headphones on. She always had them on while she worked in the studio. It explained her not hearing me walk to the kiln, or shut the door and especially not hearing me turn it on. I stepped back both fearful and exhilarated. What I was doing was wrong, but I felt detached from the situation. I didn't push her in. This wasn't something that was planned, though in the back on my mind it was something I wished over. I tried to reason with myself, arguing what was right and what was wrong. Obviously murder was wrong, but I steered clear of that word, because it wasn't murder. It was her own undoing. And if murder had to be used, then it was premeditated on her end. She damn well should have known it could have come to this. Maybe not from me, but one of the many other victims she had put down her lifetime.

I stepped back tormented with the idea that I might be making a mistake, but even if it was a mistake no one needed to know. Deep down I don't think it would really bother me if I went through with it, with no guilt and shame. No, I really think I would feel better, free even.

It was an accident to shut the kiln, even if I was found out, which was highly unlikely. I always came through the back door which used no key card for entry. Also the only camera was just outside the front entrance. Campus was dead and the few people that were up at school had no idea that I was in the D&M. Friends would assume I would be back at my apartment playing a video game. I would be waiting for everyone else to be done with classes, for those that stuck around during the weekends. All I needed to do was take a saved game that I was far enough into and re-save it as if I just started playing that day. No one could question that.

There was also the obvious reality that there really wouldn't be that much left of her once the kiln was finished. If that was the case then all that needed to be done was a quick sweep and to dump the contents into the clay mixer, so that she would become useable clay, though undoubtedly mocking me still by maintaining a level of importance.

I took another step back. If she called out; if she screamed; then I could help her. She could still save herself. All she needed to do was ask for it, but I heard nothing. Clearly she was still using her headphones.

As I reluctantly made my way for the door, I heard a soft cry. It was her, calling out for help. She didn't sound panicked and if even, only a bit concerned. I turned for her and knew I had a choice. No one was in that building, only me. I stood there conflicted. I could still leave. I could ignore her. Or, I could stop right there and free her from her own arrogance. It was my choice, not hers. And that feeling alone made what I was doing all worth wild.