Killing for love, by Frances FitzGerald

Poor, deflated Scream. Once a vital and oxygenated mascot for the Madonna University Writing Center, Scream was now a hollow shell of its former self.  Someone had poked multiple, lethal holes into Scream’s seams.

Even though Scream had never said an unkind word to anyone in its brief life, some students found it disturbing. With its inflatable arms at either side of its inflatable and misshapen head, it mirrored the angst student writers felt about looming assignments. Some students felt resentment, too. Why did Scream get to wear those snazzy Writing Center T-shirts, like it was a real tutor? Scream never tutored anybody. It just stood there, in the corner behind the plant, freaking everybody out.

Sheila McMuttonhead was especially upset with Scream. Sheila
was a student in the Hospitality and Management program. A
tall, lanky brunette who avoided eye contact, Sheila had felt an
instant connection with Scream when she first laid eyes on it,
hiding behind the plant in the corner. Sheila often felt like hiding behind plants in corners, too. She had tried to strike up a
conversation with Scream when she first started coming to the
Writing Center.  In fact, she had poured out her troubled heart.
Scream was a great listener, not interrupting once.

At the time, the tutors weren’t sure who Sheila was talking to,
but they figured it was safer to leave her alone.

Although Sheila was well aware of her intense longing for
Scream, she still wasn’t sure how Scream felt about her. She
said, “Good morning,” and Scream ignored her. She asked, “How
are you today?” Scream ignored her. She asked, “Will you be my
date for the Open Mic from 8-10 p.m. Wednesday, April 1, in the Franciscan Center? There’ll be free cookies.” Scream ignored her. Finally, just to see if it was paying attention, she asked, “Will you marry me?” And when Scream ignored her yet again, Sheila snapped.

One spring evening, after tucking a safety pin into her pocket, Sheila hid in the Writing Center storage room.

After that chatty, grey-haired lady locked the door, Sheila silently crept into the larger room. She approached Scream and hissed, “You’ll pay attention this time, Sucker,” and picked it up with both hands.

Scream’s nearness made Sheila tremble. She had never been this close to an inflatable facsimile of a gender-questionable figure. Her breath caught.

“Scream,” she said in a strangled whisper, “Tell me you love me.”

Scream was silent and motionless, almost as though she didn’t exist. Sheila broke into a plaintive sob and poked several fatal, duct-tape-proof holes into its plastic seam. As the life blood (air) whistled out, Sheila was sure she heard Scream cry out, “I prefer blo-o-o-o-ondes…”

Epilogue: Sheila is now heavily medicated, and exposure to inflatable items is strictly forbidden.