Protecting Methaf Parish

He still was not dead.

And that angered Miss Jackson.

“Quiet,” She roared from the stage, unleashing a silence over the murmuring audience.

The only sounds were of squeaking metal chairs.

 “Why is he not dead?” She asked. The messenger, weak beyond means compared to Miss Jackson, was petrified. “Why?” This time she yelled.

This time the messenger answered. “I don’t know,” He whispered. He glanced at the dark, wooden stage bellow him.

Miss Jackson pursed her lips, frowning. Then, glancing at the messenger, asked, “What is your name?”

“Sedrick,” He whispered. Then more loudly, he repeated, “Sedrick Miles.”

“Very well then.” Miss Jackson faced the audience. “People of Methaf Parish, hear me out: this messenger, Sedrick Miles, has been sentenced to execution.”

Gasping, Sedrick fell to the floor, a look of pain on his face. The crowd began to rumble. Some, excited to see an act of death. Others, crying out in dismay.

“And,” Miss Jackson raised her voice to be heard over the crowd, “His death will be personally handled by me.”

The chaos was evident: Miss Jackson never did her own dirty work. People, throwing their chairs on the ground. People, cussing and screaming. People, ears streaming down their face at the thought of more spilt blood. No one noticed as a girl slipped out of the crowded auditorium and into the all-white hallway.

It was too late for the messenger, and Miss Jackson knew it as she turned and stormed off the stage, leaving the mess behind her.

Miss Jackson wanted him dead.

The messenger was an obstacle to the major goal; to repair Methaf Parish. And she was ready to do whatever it takes to get there.  

***

if anyone knows why I chose the name Miss Jackson, you get 1000 Emily Points.