The Guidance Counselor

A Story by Stinky Cat

Ricky meets with his guidance counselor only to discover they don't share the same vision of his future.

I suppose you’re wondering why I became a horror writer. Maybe you’re wondering why I’m still writing horror stories�"self-publishing them because I can’t find anyone else to publish them. Sometimes I don’t know why I put up with all the anonymous bloggers ridiculing my best work. Let’s face it, I know I suck.

So why on earth would I keep writing after all these years? Why would anybody in his right mind spend every day in his grandma’s basement, writing stories nobody will ever read instead of getting a job and moving out on my own even though I’m pushing forty? I’ll tell you, but I don’t expect you to believe a word of it. In fact, I’d almost forgotten about it until the other day when I got an invitation to my high school reunion.

It happened one day my senior year. The other kids used to call me “retard “, “pxxxx” and “short bus rider” just because I was a retarded pxxxx who rode the short bus. I must have spent half my high school career stuck in a locker. I can’t tell you how many times I had the waistband of my underwear pulled up over my head. This day was no different. I was walking down the hallway on my way to see the guidance counselor. It was between classes, the halls were full of kids standing around between classes, waiting for the next bell to ring.

I was a scrawny little runt. By some lapse of judgment I thought dressing up like a page boy and attending Renaissance fairs over the weekend would make me a hit with the ladies. Naturally, it didn’t occur to me wearing my Renaissance fair logo on my jacket would make me fodder for more torment. By the day in question, I wasn’t surprised to hear a taunt referencing unicorns or “Princess Ricky,” so I barely noticed the kids mocking me as hustled down the hall, looking at the ground in an effort not to look at anybody, not to dignify their jeers with a response. I just had to make it through the next few months without killing myself. One day I’d be a great writer like Stephen King or Edgar Allan Poe. I carried their books in my backpack like talismans to make me impervious to their mockery. I would be the next Stephen King, the next H.P. Lovecraft.

I had all the ideas and inspiration to be the next big thing, except one�"I couldn’t write and, for that matter, could barely even read. You couldn’t blame my teachers for having given up on me. If I’d had half a brain I’d have given up on myself, too. That’s why the guidance counselor wanted to see me.

His door was open. Looking up from his newspaper, Mr. Morris (that was his name) motioned for me to sit. He was a chubby, balding old fellow with a short sleeved button-up shirt and a clip-on tie�"the kind of guy who was obviously so unsatisfied with his life that he seemed to get some kind of perverse pleasure out of crushing young people’s dreams. I pulled up a chair to his desk, and he asked me my name.

“Rick Macione,” I said.

“Oh, right. We have an appointment,” he answered, shuffling through the pile of folders on his desk. “Let me see… Here it is.” He pulled a folder from the stack, inspected the contents, glanced at me, and cleared his throat before addressing me with unexpected formality, “Mr. Macione.”

“Yeah.”

“Some of your teachers are a little concerned about your writing.”

“Yeah. I know it’s dark and gothic and…”

“Not that. It’s…just not good.”

“What?”

“How can I put this delicately? I know you want to be a writer, but…um, have you considered something more suited to your…uh…abilities?”

“What? What do you mean?” I tried to keep my eyes from watering. Was this some kind of joke?

“Maybe some vocational training. Auto repair, air-conditioning repair, custodial engineer something along those lines.”

I couldn’t speak.

“I don’t want to crush your dreams” he continued,” but you need to consider how you intend to make a living. The writing market’s a tough one.”

I’d never wanted so much to kill somebody. If I weren’t such a retarded pxxxx, I would have stabbed him with a pencil or pushed that fat b*****d out the window.

“It’s just that students interested in a writing career tend to enroll in a university writing program…and your grades are less than…stellar.”

“So I should apply�"“

“Let me stop you right there. I think it’s great that someone like you has goals, but you need to be realistic. You are enrolled in…special education classes. College curriculum is going to be a little too advanced for you.”

I looked down, holding my backpack with my Stephen King novel and Edgar Allan Poe books inside. I just had to get through this. One day I’d look back and laugh. I finally managed an “okay,” and he handed me some brochures on auto repair and plumbing as I was on my way out the door.

As soon as I stepped out his door into the hallway I ran into a strange guy I’d never seen before. The stench of him almost knocked me off my feet, and I had to step back to recover from it. That pause gave me a chance to look up to see the man. He seemed vaguely familiar, but I could quite place him. He was a fat guy with long, greasy black hair. He was far too old to be in school.

He looked me in the eye and said, “Don’t give up, Rick. You’ll be a great writer.” Then he walked past me and into Mr. Morris’s office. That was the last I saw of either of them. I dropped out of school that day.

For the next twenty years I didn’t give much thought to Mr. Morris and the smelly guy. Then, a few days ago I was looking at that invitation to my class reunion. That got me thinking about school and what ever happened to those d**ks who used to beat up on me every day. It wasn’t too much to hope that at least a few of them had died horribly gruesome deaths.

I didn’t have any trouble finding most of them on Facebook, but I had more trouble locating Mr. Morris. Looking through some old newspapers, I managed to find an old article dating to the day after I I’d last seen him. He’d been slaughtered right there in his office in the middle of the day. A couple students had seen a pool of blood coming out from under his closed office door. He’d been cut him to pieces, with bits of his intestines scattered all over the room. His eyes had been plucked out of their sockets and were neatly impaled on a couple of pencils which were sticking out of his mouth.

The suspect was a smelly man with long black hair. A little more research revealed that the killer had never been found. God, I couldn’t believe I was there just a few minutes before he was killed. I tried to convince myself it couldn’t have been the same man I’d seen in the hallway. But it must have been. Scrolling down the page, I came in for another shock. A security camera had captured a photo of him.

It was me. It was the thirty-six-year-old version of me, but it was definitely me. I still don’t know how it could be possible. Honestly, I wouldn’t have believed it possible. You must think I’m out of my mind, but, if you look closely at the picture, you’ll see he’s wearing the same jacket I’m wearing right now, and he’s carrying a copy of one of my books�"a novel I published last year!