Young Writers Society

Second Always Comes Last

Hoboskultual

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(21)

Today we decapitated Sir.

We dragged him into the middle of the floor and relieved him of his more valuable items. We lit him up with a pair of big standing floodlights we had found the back cupboard. He didn’t really need to be decapitated; the head was technically detachable. But we felt like we needed to remove it in a more dramatic way anyway and sever his Styrofoam neck.

Five of us lined up without saying a word, at intervals of about a metre apart along the side wall. We stood strong and staunch, our posture in a frozen salute. Hutcheon paced up and down along the front of us, swinging around in his hand the small tanto. He met each of our darting eyes, sharing with us a different emotion. To Nathaniel he smiled half heartedly, to Shane a proud nod. He kept his chin still as he walked past me, not a smile nor a frown, but simply followed with his eyes; nervous. When he got to the end of the line he drew the blade from it’s sheath. It dazzled, sharp and ready.

‘To Sir.’ He stated, then hurled his body around and swung.

-

School had been back in business for a couple of weeks now. We had yet to begin any serious assignments; as the first week had mainly been welcomes and prep talks from our teachers about finally entering our first year of being three years of seniors.* We were now the bottom of the top and couldn’t slack around like the little juniors we had been up until now. Most of it was a drag, going over the course outlines, belonging small lessons, so we had had plenty of time still lingering on our hands to devote ourself to history club endeavours. At school we continued to meet every day at lunch time and discuss serious historical matters Sir’s old classroom was now off limits to our free use, no things didn’t feel quite at home. Not to mention the fact that Chen was no longer in B and Swanson was far from himself.

Though school had not been absolutely mundane. There had been a memorial assembly for Oskar on the second day back, but that wasn’t the last we heard of that. Two police officers scoured every one of year 11’s classes, A and B in particular. They were looking for something; anything of a lead on what happened to Oskar. Our two classes were called out twice to be spoken to. The second time Taylor was among the authorities. He had been standing to the side, drumming his fingers rapidly against his hands as they spoke to us. I let their words pass right through my head, gurgled and distant, as I watched Taylor. He was scanning everyone, looking fr the slighted inflictions in any one of our young faces. He mouthed the name over and over on his silent lips. Oskar, Oskar. I felt my own fingers drum in sync with his against my leg. He would find nothing. Nothing. An to think how much Taylor had been a role-model to us, a respected and inspirational senior. Now he was tossing through our lives. Mind your own business.

His gaze pricked mine for a moment, his bottom lash twitched. Accuse all you like Taylor, you delusional fellow.

That afternoon we had wandered back toward the sanctuary in our group of six. Darany was studying a small flyer the officers had given us that the rest of us had thrown away.

‘What you looking at, boy?’ Hutcheon said, grabbing it off him and folding it out infront of his eyes.

‘Missing persons’ He read aloud.

‘I know that hobo.’ Shane pointed to one of the black and white images of a huddled man in a bright hat. ‘He was always hanging around the historical graveyard under the bridge on S Road, you know?’

Hutcheon slowed his step and paused, thinking, before looking up at all of us. ‘How about we go find him then? Do the cops a favour. I mean, have you seen the news headlines recently “Baby is talking” I mean come on, how low can this country get?’

‘No one would care.’ Darany interrupted. ‘No-one cares if a hobo returns safely, alive or dead.’

‘But Sir made the paper! And Oskar!’ Beau chirped in. ‘And the TV news as well. Both of them were huge headlines. And then even were written about the proceeding days.’ He sighed wistfully. “It felt so good. I felt so proud of Sir the first time. And then so proud of us the second.’

We ended up deciding to head to the cemetery. It wasn’t far off from the Sanctuary, and was on one of the main roads of the city, nearing the centre, so we could head off elsewhere if we desired so.

The cemetry was not an uncommon place for hobo’s to loiter. I had seen my fair selection of them, including one dressed like a pirate, trotting around the pathways; but to find anything more interesting, we had to delve off course, perhaps into some of the dense tree are surrounding the motorway at the bottom of the hill.

I am certain of what we all had expected. A secret hobo hideout, that us, being the teenage boys we were, would probably trash.

‘I found a dead guy.’

It was surprising that none of us were surprised at Darany’s statement, but rather excited. We had hurried over to where he was crouched, Hutcheon and Beauregard pushing to the font.

‘Naaaasty’ Hutcheon laughed as he inspected the slugged remains.

‘Do you think it... is that hobo?’ Swanson stuttered.

“Who knows. He’s far too deteriorated to tell.” I replied, attempting to peer over Cameron’s shoulder. Shane stepped over the body, rubbing his hands on his trousers, scanning the specimen with his uncovered eye.

‘We found a dead guy. I mean, great and all, but what now? Tell the police? Get unspoken credit. We might get lucky to be called out in a local courier. School boys discover dilapidated corpse.’

‘That sounds good enough to me.’ Hutcheon rebutted. Nathaniel clicked his tongue to himself.

‘But such a waste. Such a waste of good bones.’

‘Bones?’ Darany questioned. Beau pouted and shoved himself forward onto his toes, delving his hands toward the rotten head of the man. Everyone had cringed as he touched the melting flesh without hesitation, digging his fingers below the surface, sending a collection of silverfish scurrying.

‘Ew bugs!’ He squeaked, half laughing. He did not falter and wrenched upward. There was a cracking sound as the spine was torn away from the skull. He lifted it, holding it high for us all to see. The eye-sockets were empty save for mush and dirt, the the grey remains of human tissue was almost completely peeling away.

‘A perfect bone. Look, the jaw is even still attached.’

‘That’s disgusting!’ Daniel looked like he was going to be sick. He scrambled away a little up the leafy hill until he was able to obscure us from his sight. We dismissed him.

‘A little cleaning up and it couldn’t be better.’ The blond boy concluded. We were all silent. He set his eyes on Darany.

‘Open up your bag, Dreary-ny. Let’s put it in there.’

‘Why me?’

‘It’s the lamest looking. Yo could do with a new one.’

I was about to open my own mouth in Darany’s defence, but he obediently started unloading the books from the compartment and handing them to Hutcheon who fit them in his. 

Nathaniel grinned. ‘This is going to be fantastic for our collection.’ Shane nodded and so did I, but then I had a second thought.

“I have a better idea.”

-

The mannequins head went flying across the room, bouncing upon the floor before rolling into a corner, making way for Sir’s new head; the skull, cleaned and polished.

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*Dear international people: In my country there are 5 years of highschool. Years 9-13. The boys had previously been year 10, but now they are year 11. Here years 9 and 10 are often referred to as ‘juniors’ and year 11,12 and 13 are ‘seniors’.