I never saw her again. I guess that’s pretty natural though. After what happened, she wasn’t supposed to return; I had made sure of that. It had been a normal night, one which ended in some rather abnormal events. I was at home, watching TV and blowing off my homework. I was in high school, but I never felt the pressure of a deadline until the night right before; when I was frantically working to finish a paper, cup of coffee by cup of coffee. This night was the same. With a presentation due in about a week, I was relaxing. I was home alone when the phone rang. It was my English teacher. She was mad that I was slacking off and leaving everything to the last night, and my grades were mainly the ones taking the blow. She told me to come over to her house. When I asked why her house and not just wait until the morning when I would see her at school, she replied that it was extremely important and that we could waste no time. When she hung up, I was infuriated. I had B’s in all classes, with the occasional “C” for a grade if the coffee ran out.
By the time I had arrived at her house, it was 8:30 PM. Mom was working late tonight, and I didn’t have to worry about Dad; he was already long gone by the time I was 3. I rang the doorbell, and she said to come in. The first thing that hit me was the smell. It was crisp yet warm, similar to freshly printed paper. She walked out into the hallway in front of me, and beaconed me to follow her. We entered a room with a desk and two chairs. I took my seat opposite of her, facing a window. She began to speak, droning on and on about how she was worried for my health. She talked about insomnia and sleep deprivation and other diseases caused by not sleeping. She even began talking to me about Diabetes, given the amount of coffee I would drink; sweet, the kind that Dad would drink before he left for work at the office. But now that taste of coffee was in my mouth, bitter as if I was bitting tree bark. Something inside of me had snapped and clicked at the same time. Memories of my Dad came flooding back in; him reading me a book, tucking me into bed, leaving for work, and that sweet, sweet smell of coffee. And then came the bad memories: He and Mom fighting, the punches and kicks he dealt when I was bad, and the news he delivered to Mom and I on that fateful night; he was leaving, falling in love with another women. I didn’t see him for the rest of time.
My bitterness must have been apparent, as she stopped and just stared at me, a look of both confusion and fear in her eyes. Finally, the anger exploded from my gut and I leaped. I grabbed my teacher by the collar of her shirt. She could do nothing but scream and claw at my hands. The old hag could do nothing as I throttled her. Even once she had gone limp, all air in her gone, my bloodlust hadn’t subsided. I grabbed the nearest object, a lamp, and beat her with it. After four or five good blows, her skull cracked. It was at this point that I regained my senses. I stared at her and my hands, covered in blood, scalp, and hair.
By the time I was able to drag the body and a shovel outside, it was raining. Perfect, just my luck. The mud was easy to lift, and it took me only five minutes to create a hole large enough for her body and my blood-soaked clothing. Filling the hole back up was the hard part. Her body took up most of the space in her grave, so there was a large amount of excess dirt. I decided to move the leftover dirt over to her rosebushes. No one would really notice if there was a bit more dirt than normal. I walked back to my car, looking a bit more suspicious than I wanted to. I drove home as if nothing happened, but my mind had still not fully awoken from that crazed state.
Luckily for me, Mom still wasn’t home. I went upstairs, took a shower, and changed into some fresh pajamas. The soft wool of my clothing soothed me. I began to make dinner, seeing as it was 9:30 PM and I hadn’t eaten since 12:15 PM, when the school would let us have lunch. By the time the instant ramen had finished cooking in the microwave, I was already getting started on my homework. Math was easy, and social studies was a breeze, but I paused when I took out my english notebook. Our assignment was to read 40 pages of Ray Bradbury’s novel “Fahrenheit 451” and write down what types of author’s craft he used. It was a simple yet mundane assignment, yet I could not bring myself to do it. Was it guilt or remorse? No, and it wasn’t laziness either. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I wasn’t worried about getting the zero either. The office couldn’t put in a substitute teacher unless the teacher themselves said that the would be out for the day; but dead men, or in this case women, don’t talk.
Created By UnknownError17