The South Pasadena Frog Pond

In the old fashioned beach town of South Pasadena, a hidden oasis in Florida, where the moss-draped oaks tell secrets to the inter-coastal waters of St. Petersburg. The Frog Pond breakfast café sits like a dark jewel, nestled next to the shimmering Gulf of Mexico, a haven for the lost. The eggs are served extra greasy, and the waitresses breathe stale smoke from their dried lips. They know everyone, and call them “Honey” and “Baby doll”. It is here that Dean Holloway, a respected high school English teacher with a evil secret, finds himself with Chloe Bell. The quick witted chain smoking freshmen. Her eyes almost black like shards of obsidian, her voice is smooth and laced with poison, the two sit in the corner of the quantity café.

Dean Holloway lives a life of contradictions, his outward demeanor of a dedicated educator masking a turbulent inner world of taboo desires and twisted fantasies. Their stealthy meetings at the Frog Pond became a ritual. As the neon lights glow in the confines of the café, Dean exudes the aire of insufferable arrogance, his presence of his perceived intellectual superiority. Reclining in his chair, as he was just casually flipping through the pages of a well-worn copy of “The Road” by Cormac McCarthy, a smug grin is etched across his face as if he alone is key to literary enlightenment.

Across from him sits Chloe, the gothic teenage tempestuous of mystery. Her eyes are set deep into her face, they are dark and intense, digging into Dean with a ferocity that suggests she is not to be trifled with. She is sipping black coffee with a deliberate slowness with her black velvet lips, each movement calculated and precise. A theatrical display as if she were performing a ritualistic dance of contempt. Chloe also wearing the same smug grin.

"Mr Holloway, you insufferable narcissist ," Chloe's voice dripping with venom. "Do you ever tire of your own reflection? Or are you just utterly shocked at the disappearance of your hairline?”

Dean looked up, his grin widening as he meets her eyes. "Ah, Chloe, my dark muse. Your insulting words wound me, yet I cannot help but be captivated by your unrelenting cruelty. Shouldn’t you be cutting yourself or drinking blood?."

“Hmm I’ve had my fill of blood, and I don’t cut myself asshole.” She pulls a cigarette from her soft pack Pall Malls. “ before we plan this little sacrifice, I need to know what kind of experience you have, how close have you come to crossing that line?” Exhaling a poof of smoke, her black lipstick stained cigarette pressed tightly between her lips, drawing an imaginary line with her two hands.

“One evening, I found myself walking the streets, the need for murder gnawing at my insides. The city’s seedy part of town where people went to disappear, beckoned me. That's where I saw him—a homeless man, reeking of booze and desperation. He was the perfect target, someone no one would miss.” I leaned forward in my chair sliding my copy of “The Road” to the side grabbing the cigarette from the ashtray and taking a long draw.

“I approached him, feeling an overwhelming surge of power and control. Promising him money, I led him to a dark alley. As he turned his back to me, the adrenaline surged through my veins. My hands shook as I reached for the knife hidden in my coat. The internal struggle was tearing me apart. The man who stood in front of the classroom, teaching Poe and Shakespeare, was a mere shadow of the real me. The real me was a predator, hiding in the dark, always hungry, always waiting. I just wasn’t ready. I ran away like a scared child, the unsuspecting hobo didn’t even realize I was gone.”

She chuckled mockingly, lacking a sense of warmth. "That was captivating. Well you almost stabbed a homeless person. ‘The need for murder gnawing at my indsides.’ You don’t sound scary. More like terrified. I see the spoiled little boy. You hide behind your books and your false bravado, but I see through you." Her face straightens as she presses down on the table.

His expression faltered for a brief moment, but he quickly regained his composure. "And what do you see, my dear Chloe?" Straining the words adding inflection to my agitation.

"I see a bitch!” She snaps back, slapping the table. The two other patrons turn towards the rattling dishes, “A fucking bitch, Mr Holloway. Not a female canine, but a bitch equating it to weakness. You’re so fucking desperate for validation, clinging to the words of authors because you lack the courage to write your own story. You’ve let people decide what you do your whole life. You get off on control? You struggle to control who you are.” Her scowl slowing shifting to that smug grin she was carrying a few moments ago.

The café fell silent, the weight of her words crushed Dean. His cocky demeanor swayed, and for the first time, a hint of vulnerability is crossing his face. Chloe's lips shift into a full smile; she has drawn blood.

"You think you know me," his voice a gritty whisper. "I’ve never seen such a scared little girl. You seek attention from an older man because you don’t have a daddy. You wear black and staple spikes into your face to, what? Be strong? You’re just a little victim hiding behind that thick eyeliner. Listen Chloe, you know nothing of my struggles or who I am. Don’t cross the fucking line you little bitch.”

Chloe leaned forward with her endless and hallow eyes. Still smiling like a small child at Christmas. “I know my father. He is a rapist pedophile who stole the innocence from children. My grandfather wasn’t sure which way was where because he just watched his wife blow her fucking brains out on his house slippers. I bare no issues with my father, perhaps he is the reason I’m a vicious criminal. Maybe because of my daddy issues, I see that beneath the veneer of confidence lies a quivering child, terrified of stabbing a hobo, you’re a pussy. You talk like you’re going to be Albert Fish, or Ted Bundy, but you can’t do more than watch or molest old couples while they sleep” she giggles, “I’m a victim? You are literally a faggot in the closet.”

His hands clenched into fists, but he said nothing. The silence stunk of unspoken truths and unacknowledged fears. Finally, Chloe stood, still smiling. Her movements fluid and graceful.

"Mr Holloway," she said, her voice low and dangerous. "You are nothing more than a pale imitation of the greatness you so desperately seek."

With that, she turned and walked away, leaving me to drown in the echoes of her words. I watched her go, the weight of her judgment pressing down on me. Chloe, her evil consumes all in its path, leaving me to grapple with the reality of my own hollow existence. How was she able to verbalize such abuse. After that moment of shock I started thinking I wasn’t really as confident as I thought I was.

“I’m just fucking with you Mr Holloway.” A whisper that startles me out of my thoughts, breaking through the mumble of the café. Chloe was standing looking down perched up off her heels on to the balls of her feet, the Chuck Taylor’s squeaking on the epoxy floor. I can tell she’s trying to be cute, but is she really fucking with me? Or does she really see what’s eating at my insides? Chloe was a clever dangerous little menace, she wasn’t the “good friend” I thought I had finally met.

“Do you have to be so mean?” Dean mumbles out of the corner of my mouth with a slight forced laugh. Trying to hide how shook he really was. Chloe seats herself back at the table where she had just left him in a state of dismay.

“ So, here’s how we’re gonna kill this cunt..”

Tonight, in the heart of South Pasadena, the darkness rises like a storm on the horizon. The waves crashing against the world outside the diner. I recognized the power that Chloe wielded over me, drawing me further into a world of decadence.

Chloe's cold eyes fixed on Dean, “Embrace it, Dean," she whispers. "Let it consume you, it will set you free."

They have their plan, it’s time for Dean to finally do what he’s always fantasized about. Chloe has proven to be a valuable asset but her sense of humor has cut him in the feelings he didn’t realize he had. This little ivory-skinned fox is sly.