She Dressed as Medusa

Margaret Ellwood was a very special kind of artist, but the bustling streets stopped for none. It was quite strange to her, walking around among people not knowing she was different. She reveled in differentiation. 

“Good morning, darling. Need some new stock?”

“It’s the thirty-first,” she said, adopting a cool tone of regret. 

“Best day in the market for you,” answered her new supplier. He gave her enough wax for at least ten sculptures, depending on their size.

Margaret Ellwood was a very special kind of artist. She made commemorative statues of missing people, kids, and adults alike. A few years back, the media grabbed her statues, once proclaiming the wonderful awareness that came with the wax figures. Now, the writers stick to her like evil leeches. Margaret didn’t mind, though; she liked the fame.

She walked back to her studio apartment, oblivious to the rats that scurried out of her way. A nice article to note about Margaret Ellwood was her determination. As she opened the door with its metal hinges, she smiled. 

She sat on her white bed, where her smile glistened off her cupboard. Her dirty shoes were left outside her apartment for her neighbors to stare at. Her apartment smelt clean, and there was no other way about it. The stillness of time passing felt heavy as she listened to the throb of her colorless clock. 

She finally got up, placing her buckets of wax onto her kitchen floor. She opened her closed blinds, realizing what time it was. She picked up her candy basket, closing the Velcro strap, and headed out.  

 She walked out into the open street, hearing a taunting whisper from next to her, “Hello there, Medusa. Up to some more mischief?”

“You’re late, and it’s the thirty-first.”

“Why don’t you just call it Halloween like every other sane person?” She didn’t answer, a sly smile playing on her red lips. He didn’t need an answer to chuckle.

“Where to this time?” Margaret asked.

He grinned, “I was thinking we could hit a bit further than usual, get some of that out of the way.” For legal purposes, he has asked that his name not be revealed. 

After a couple of runs, they came across the perfect costume holder. 

“She looks like a doll, doesn’t she, Medusa?” he laughed, nudging Margaret to look over at the woman.

Margaret relented. “Find, go ahead.” He leaped out from behind a bush, following the women. 

“Excuse me, miss,” he said, feigning a charming smile, “My friend here’s an artist, and she couldn’t help but notice how much you resemble a character from a story she’s working on. Would you mind if she took a quick photograph of you? It’s for inspiration, you see.”

“Now, Medusa,” he whispered, “The real artistry begins.”

Margaret insists that the process of luring the prey remains a secret. Here, an hour later the woman finds herself chained to a chair. The dark blood trickled down her arms, crimson pooled in the cracks of the white tile. Everything was maniacally silent as Margaret watched the drips fall slowly. 

He chewed on an apple, rolling his eyes at Margaret’s antics. “You’ll take forever to drain her like that.”

“Keep low on the sarcasm J-”

“Hey, okay! I got it.” He sat back in a chair, looking at his feet, trying not to eye the falling blood.

Margaret, her eyes still preciously tethered to the falling drops, spoke, “Might I remind you, you could very possibly be just like her. You were supposed to be.”

He didn’t answer; he knew better. After the deafening silence passed, he stood holding the woman’s arms up, not shrinking from the blood.  “She still looks like a doll. What a shame.”

He laid her on the floor, her blue face still imprinted with fear. Margaret came over to her, pouring hot, melted wax over the corpse, placing it back on top of a pedestal as she waited for the media to ask for her next masterpiece. 

I wouldn’t be alone on the thirty-first, Margaret enjoys the screams.