Letters from Victoria Thorn. Something to Write, Part 2, One First Essay
Like every student, Emily was eager, curious, and afraid of her first day in college. What was expected of her?
Dear Reader,
Emily decided it would be great to attend in person the first week. Although she had chosen to be a remote student most of the time, this visit would be great for her to meet the people she would later contact online. She also wanted to meet her teachers. The first week was worth the effort.
Everyone was so kind. Emily was excited. Her first class was English, and she had been told the professor was an icon at the University.
Professor Perkins introduced himself and asked the twelve students to briefly introduce themselves.
“Now your first homework will be to write an essay of two to three thousand words about your life. I want it in the first person,” he said. “It’s a way to learn from each other since we will be together for the following months.”
Emily was assigned a room she would use when she visited. That evening, after classes, she bought a sandwich and went to her room to write her essay. She would write about being sold as a girl and having escaped to find a job at the market and then return to school.
Two days later, Emily had a class with Professor Perkins. She delivered her homework. He asked the students to read their essays out loud one by one.
After Emily read hers, teacher Perkins was intrigued. At the end of the class, he asked Emily to stay.
“A word, please, Emily,” Perkins said.
Emily wanted to leave; she would get ready to fly back home the following day. Nonetheless, she knew she had to stay and listen to what her professor had to tell her.
He waited until they were alone in the classroom. It was late, and people were all leaving the premises.
“I think you could be my assistant, Emily,” Perkins said.
“It’s an honor, but I’m a remote student. I’m here only for the week,” Emily said.
“Oh no! I need my students here, sitting around this table,” Perkins said.
That was an issue for Emily since she had an agreement with the bosses.
Perkins explained he needed the students to read their pieces aloud and give constructive critiques.
Emily said she could do that on screen. “It is not that I would be absent; I would be on screen; some other classmates will also be remote.”
“Who told you that? Perkins asked.
“Some of the classmates I met today,” Emily said.
Professor Perkins grunted. “I don’t like remote students. Okay, follow me, let’s go to my office.”
“But I can’t be your assistant,” Emily said.
“I want you to see the semester program so you can understand why you should be present.”
Emily followed the man in his sixties. He was quite overweight for her taste and had a large, uncared-for beard that she found disgusting.
Once in his office, Perkins closed the door.
“Okay, let’s see the program. I’m tired and have to get my stuff ready. I’m traveling home tomorrow,” Emily said.
The professor slapped her so hard that Emily fell on the couch.
“You are staying, I said.”
“No, I’m not,” Emily thought. She looked around, looking for surveillance cameras.
“No cameras, no witnesses, darling. I ensured it would be your word against mine,” Perkins said. “I always win.”
Emily took a handkerchief from her bag and made sure she wasn’t touching anything.
“Come on, you know what this is all about; how many times were you raped as a girl? You’re used to, little whore. You’ll be my assistant, you’ll help me with the work, and will be my personal whore; in exchange, you’ll pass and keep your scholarship. As a matter of fact, if you don’t want me to tell other professors, you’ll keep on being my whore until you graduate. One word from me, and you’ll be out of this university; another word, and you’ll never get a job as a writer.”
Emily remembered she had a poisoned dart in a little stainless steel capsule in her bag. She managed to take it out.
Perkins sat beside her on the couch; he took Emily’s neck with his fat hand and pulled her until she was very close to his face.
“So, I guess I convinced you to be my assistant,” he said with his cigarette breath.
Emily touched his neck with the dart right behind his ear. “No, thank you. I already have a job. I’m a hit girl, and I’ve just killed you. No witnesses.”
Perkins opened his eyes wide as he felt the pinch of the dart in his neck. He pushed her away and put his hand on his neck. “You scoundrel whore, you’ll pay for this.”
“Yeah, sure,” Emily said, looking at the heavy man falling on the floor.
Perkins put a hand on his chest and opened his mouth and eyes wide; then, he closed his eyes with a grimace of pain and contracted in a fetal position until his heart stopped.
Emily took the miniature dart out of his neck. She saw a pillbox falling out of Perkins’ trouser pocket.
“Mm, so you take nitroglycerin pills… Interesting, very appropriate for the occasion,” Emily thought.
She scattered some of the pills around and put two in Professor Perkins’s hand, then she put the pill box close to him on the floor and left.
Before going to the airport the following morning, she attended a class. When the class finished, a classmate talked to her.
“Did you hear?” The tall, redheaded classmate said. “Professor Perkins died last night; he was alone in his office and had a heart attack.”
“I didn’t know. It’s a shame; he seemed like a good professor. I was told he was the best,” Emily said.
“Yeah. I asked. We’ll have a new teacher next week. Will you be present? I can’t, I’m a remote student.”
“I’m a remote student, too,” Emily said.
“Well, then we’ll meet the new teacher online. Until next time,” the student said. “I’m Chad.”
“Until next time, I’m Emily.”
“Bye, Emily,” Chad said.
Emily waved bye to Chad.
On the flight back home, Emily wrote her first story.
“Mm, I like it; perhaps I should change the professor character’s name. Prentis is too similar to Perkins. What about Robertson? Yeah, much better. And the killer should use a knife. Yeah! The stabbed professor. Okay, I have the first chapter of my book,” Emily said, looking at her writing with pride.
With love, Victoria.
© 2025. This text is copyrighted and belongs to Monica Paul. All rights reserved.
