A Story by Curtis Graham III
The clock on the wall in the front of the hut reads…hold on a second, let me squint my eyes…it reads…9:35 a.m. We are going to be in here for at least fifty more minutes, at the least. There is some sort of field test the geometry students are being forced to take right now in the cafeteria, and the rest of us are stuck in and extended first period.
What are the qualifications required to take the test, you ask? Simple: you have to be enrolled in Mount Rose High School of Oakwood, North Carolina (that's here) and you have to be taking a geometry course this semester, whether you are a Freshmen, Sophomore (that's me), Junior, or Senior (in my view, if you are taking Geometry your senior year, there's something wrong).
But, as you can clearly see, I am not taking the test. Instead, like the four or five other students in here who aren't, I'm stuck in first period until the testing is over and done with. I look around and see the others conversing amongst themselves. I like being by myself. I don't have to worry about disagreeing opinions and friendships and "all of that good stuff". I believe that friendships and teenage love are too cliché. I hate it. Everyone has to look after him or herself; in the end, you're on your own. The only thing others are good for is stabbing you in the back, sometimes the chest, even the neck. I'd rather fend for myself than become the victim of betrayal. The hearts of others, I find, have become putrid and full of penurious emotions. I, unlike everyone else, do not lack sang-froid.
The teacher sits back in his desk, grading papers, no doubt. His baldhead reflects the overhead bulbs, causing it to gleam. It's quite humorous, actually. He is perhaps in his late forties, early fifties…hell, I don't know. I'm judging based upon his looks, you know? He tends to criticize everyone when the class is full, so I doubt that he regrets having less than ten students in his hut right now. I doubt like hell.
I'm going to pull out my Gameboy Advanced and play Wario World on it, 'cause I'm bored. Heck, what else can I do to pass the time by?
We've been in here for over two hours now. Good Lord, it is hot in here. Our teacher began to pace around the room about forty minutes ago. He's been eyeing his large, heavy-duty stapler, the one you use to staple stacks and stacks over papers together. The staples in it our HUGE, man. I'm getting a little worried, because the looks he gives it then us are kind of freaky, if you know what I mean. I mean it looks like he wants to use that thing upside our heads, man. I used to trust him, but I'm not so sure I do anymore. The man is seriously freaking me out.
Could this room get any hotter? Jesus Christ, it's hot! I'm about to die of heatstroke. And what's worse, the teacher has pulled out his extremely large scissors and has been twirling them on his hands. Now I'm honestly worried. What is he planning to do? I don't want to find out. I'll just close my eyes and go to sleep, and when I wake up, everything will be fine, you'll see. I'm shutting my eyes now, goodnight.
Someone began to shriek, and my eyes bolted open. Wouldn't yours? About three of the other students are pounding on the door, trying to get out, screaming and yelling at the top of their lungs. One lay dead, heavy and deep lacerations and punctures wounds on her body; my teacher was assaulting another one. He had that heavy-duty stapler in his left hand, held high in the air, and the collar of the young man's shirt in his right. The dude was screaming underneath his grip, and I threw myself out of my desk, falling to the floor as my back made contact with the wall. From my new perspective I could see that the kid had one of those large staples in his right eye, which had burst on impact, the fluids and pus flowing across his cheek, the eye pinned into his head by a large staple. The teacher clouted the kid across the face with the stapler, and the kid blacked out; he died a few seconds after, I learned later. I held my breath and tried to hide behind the large cabinet. The space between it and the wall was too small, so I waited until the teacher turned his attention towards the other kids at the door, and I quickly crawled inside, moving aside -- as quietly as possible -- a few of the things that were lying about in there. I pulled the cabinet door shut, and held my breath. I could hear the others screaming, and running around the room, desks falling over, bodies hitting the floor…and then silence. Dead silence.
I could not tell you how long I stayed in there. All I new was that it was very cramped, hot, and dark. Plus, now the teacher was quiet. For a while I could hear the snipping of the scissors. What could he possibly be cutting? One thought came to me, and I quickly rid myself of it. I shivered and fell asleep, awaiting his finding me. I hoped my death would be quick.
As I pen this, I can't help wondering the miracle that I am still alive. The bell had rung eventually, and people went to their second periods after the principal announced that the testing was over. Well, needless to say, there was a crowd of students outside of his classroom, waiting to get inside their second period. I was able to hear them even knock a few times. Mr. Martyr? Hello, are you in there? We're kinda waitin' out here!
Why didn't they just open the damn door? God, could they be so ignorant? Well, by luck (or was it fate?) one of them had some sense, and went to check in with the main office. That person apparently reported that they couldn't get into their second period, and one of the administrators followed that student down there. I could hear the key turning in the lock, and the door opened.
Now, I couldn't see this from where I was hiding, but I was able to after they took him away and I was freed. They opened the door to a room where corpses lay bruised and bloodied. Most of their skin was missing, pieces and sections of it stapled all over the walls. The place was death and decay…Mr. Martyr had taken the scissors, the blades drenched in the blood of the victims, and carved a swastika into his forehead. He held the scissors in his hand, like a damn flag. He was sitting Indian-style; the desks moved aside, the corpses forming a circle around him. Needless to say, the students ran off, a few throwing up, a few fainting. Someone called the police on their cell phone, and the masquerade of death came to an end. Out of that man's first period, of the students who weren't taking the test, I was the only survivor. I had pounded on the inside of the cabinet, and the door was opened to the friendly face of a police officer. I was saved.
Copyright 2002, "Little" Curtis Graham
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