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Here I stand with the child's blood on my hands, with him underground, I wonder where my next pupil will take me.

(Please make me aware of any grammatical mistakes)

Submitted: May 28, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: May 28, 2017





The feeling of great, intense warmth sizzled on my skin. A slight pleasuring pain I felt from last year’s bonfire. The blaze blew up in a brilliant illumination. Orange and red stormed from my front yard and I watched the smoke dance of into the night sky. The outside shell of the caravan had started to slowly melt, drip, drip, drip onto the slowly warming floor. My father struggled to open the flaming door on the caravan, burning his hands, screams arousing from him as tears gushed down his face.

I stood there. Useless. Nothing I did could change anything. Mum was trapped inside that caravan, and the fire brigade were too late, and my mum burned inside that caravan. Her flesh scorched away with the smoke. Her lungs stopped, her skin had burnt away, she was dead.


So here I sit. Deranged, unhinged by my mother’s death. The kids laughed as they watched that caravan burn, I could feel it. They were never caught. This is down to lies and deception, one of the world’s worst crime, lying, but a massive part of society, and people wonder why we are so corrupt. So, I became a teacher, informing and hopefully changing children not letting them fall into that deep hole of crime and wrongdoing. But some kids as you would imagine are stubborn. And unfortunately, I lead myself into this hole when it comes to them, but it’s for the greater good. But despite your initial reaction, this subtle backstory isn’t all of why I do the things I do, my mother’s death has disturbed me yes, but there is a greater picture than that.

I have appeared in court a few times, but I always get away. I’m the warmth that embodies the school, why would an innocent man like me be guilty of such crimes. My lawyer protests, “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, who are you to protest this innocent man. At the times stated it is proven that he often descends into a delusional state, frequently adopting another person’s persona!” lies, hypocritical of me to lie I know, but as they say, desperate times call for desperate measures. Little scenarios like this of course never happen in real life, just in my head. I’m too careful to be caught.


See me after school for a detention (so I can cut up your body and take you home). No that would be a bloody mess all too noticeable. A man like me takes caution as an absolute. Forensic sheets and suits are all required, and these are not things that can be set up in a classroom for Tom, Dick and Harry just to walk into and submit themselves to. Children are not intelligent, but are intelligent enough to recognise danger when it occurs. Given half a chance they would scream for help, I would have to react fast, slit their throats and watch their blood gauge all over the floor as another member of staff walks in, no. All too messy.

The child must be knocked out. Not in my classroom however, no that would lead back to me. Once the child is knocked out, they are hidden in my closet. Every few weeks or so a teacher must stay late at school for marking. This is where my opportunity takes flow. I work at one end of the school, in the English department, this is extremely convenient as it means I can get out without being noticed. The duffle bag used to take books to school serves a second purpose.

When at my apartment, I take the body into the bathroom and wake them. Still hazy, the child is not completely aware of the situation. But I press my index finger over their lips and fit into dent just below the nose, a say “shhh”.  I then whisper in their ears “These are your last words, so don’t screw up, I would be praying if I were you,”. Then the easiest way to cut up the body is to break their bones, these makes the cutting process easier. Then clean up and place the parts into the freezer. Simple.


A vengeance on a child is no reasonable act though, is it? Of course not, a child has barely led their lives, they can change their ways, only a fraction of their personality has developed! No, children a just as vicious as adults. They don’t change, I’ve seen it at a personal level. The children that act bad now, just evolve into something worse. This case is made through every criminal, every scumbag, they start on a rough behavioural childhood, drinking, vandalism, bullying; just to adapt to a criminal, murderer, rapists.

You may be asking this about me however. I am a criminal, I have murdered children. This makes me worse than any man. No, I am preventing the development of further scum on the streets, I am stopping further crime, and if someone like me was around when I was a child, maybe my mother would not be dead.


Every weekday, at work, the future surrounds me. The future politicians, labourers, businessmen. The people who will be wiping my backside in the retirement homes sit in front of me. Sometimes it’s scary. Chats amongst teachers in the staff room about students carry on through the school walls. Important decisions must be made about who will be given English student of the year for year ten. It’s a place crawling with life and love, school.

However, it all gets a bit tense when conversations of isolations and suspensions arise. This is no matter to be dealt with lightly, and teachers should proceed with caution. Important decisions must be made whether this is too harsh or too light a punishment.

 Poor Timmy had his watch stolen from Tom, Dick and Harry, the same boys who let of the fire alarm, the same boys who were caught smoking behind the humanities block. Irony strikes again. Imagine a broadcast, or a central announcement, in the assembly about the terrible things that these kids do. No, you can’t. But you can imagine lovely Timmy’s achievement for winning that maths competition for the school being announced cant you, yes.


That’s where I come in, those boys deserve their recognition too. This something that doesn’t get discussed enough, because people are afraid, political correctness has sucked at our brains for too long. However, even when victimised, these boys still won’t receive the recognition they deserve. News reporters will stand at the crime scene “The three young boys found last night have been identified,” which will go onto neighbours and parents “They were such lovely boys. Never did nothing to anyone,” but the schools rarely get asked, it’s always reporters speaking for us. Never a direct opinion. If being PC was a not thing, and no offence would come from it, teachers, I can assure you, would speak the truth of all kids, and for some it would be an ugly truth.

It also hurts that when criminals do surface the press and reporters try to express an angle from every side, but nobody’s listening, people don’t want hate and crime, they want sympathy and love, but this is a world that lacks sympathy in love, it’s just an image, portrayed by a generation of lies.

I had heard about a school from London, one child during his leavers assembly pulled up another child who had bullied him his whole school life, and eventually, as his unhinged personality took over, shot the boy in front of his entire year group. This is the sort of child I appreciate, his subtly lacks but his head is what makes up for it. I’m sure we share similar ideas.

So back to Tom, Dick and Harry. Time to bury. I had found this brilliant spot in a local wood. Isolated for a few miles in every direction, this was deep inside the forest. The difficult part was bringing three bodies deep into the wood, to bury three seven feet graves (like I said I am extremely cautious). But I did anyway. Their cold bodies had turned a light blue, lifeless eyes stared up at the night sky, just like the fire danced up there. Their purple lips begged for another breathe. Their frosted bodies pleaded for movement, but they must understand their actions, and understand what they will become, and understand that it is too late, and understand to accept their fate. And in the graves, they fell. But someone will find them, and someone will dig them out which is the unfair part of this cycle, they deserve to rot in those cells of theirs, and stay there. Because when people don’t stay in their cells they come out and cause more trouble.


But I still stand at the front of the classroom, educating and informing. The class flushes onto the activity set, and I can hear whispers about me, I can see in the corner of my eye, uncouth gestures behind my back made towards me. But I pretend I can’t hear or see them, that would make this all too obvious. No signs of disliking must be made towards the student otherwise that puts me on the suspect list.

But we will sit this one through, we will see where this student takes us.

Goodbye… for now.


© Copyright 2018 Tom Smith. All rights reserved.

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