“The Time When....”
By Christina Taragjini
We waited outside of the locked grey door as patiently as teenagers could possibly be. The hustle and bustle of the high-school hallways was starting to fade away, but within moments, the noise was replaced by the rattling of keys. She came toward us. With her villainous smirk, she strutted down the hallway, making sure to take her precious time. “Here she comes.” These words were transferred from mouth to mouth until...
“Shush, you little maggots. What are you muttering about?” she questioned.
“Nothing, ma’am,” I responded, but the final word was inaudible when her grey eyes penetrated my brain.
“That’s what I thought. Of course you said nothing. I haven’t given you permission to speak yet,” she bitterly responded.
Under their breaths, my classmates muttered “witch,” but most changed the first consonant of the word. I had heard numerous rumors about this lady, uttered from the same mouths that insulted her. One classmate had said she used to be the sun of the school, the cool teacher you talked to about everything. She used to assign the right amount of homework every night and her pupils would score the highest on all tests. I tended to not believe them because this rude being seemed to be the exact opposite of their rumors.
She slid in the rusty old key and turned it to the left. Slowly and defiantly, she opened the door as if that simple act could prove her superiority to us. We trudged in behind her and dropped our backpacks in the front of the barren classroom. Her classroom. Rumor also had it that she had the prettiest room from the entire school. Flat, multi-colored flowers used to cover her walls and witty “words of wisdom” hung from the ceiling. There was nothing in that cold, icy classroom. The walls cried in mourning for the loss of their flowers and the ceiling rained for the loss of its soul. Yet most of my classmates ignored it all.
Anxious for the upcoming test, we took our seats quickly and rather ungracefully bit our wooden pencils in anticipation. She, on the other hand, remained relaxed. She moved laggardly from door to the huge, plush black chair that sat immobilized behind the podium. Gracefully, she lowered her bottom until it hit the padding and then visibly relaxed.
“Today is story time children,” she said.
“Missus, we have our end-of-course exam today. Remember?” I questioned.
“Didn’t I tell you to shut your pie hole already?” she yelled. The classroom stilled from all movement and noise.
She continued, “Like I was saying, before I was rudely interrupted, today I will tell you a story. Ready?”
We didn’t know how to respond. The immediate thoughts that crossed my mind were of the absent flowers and of the loss of inspiration.
Maybe she has gone mad, I thought. Maybe she just can’t handle the pressure
anymore.
But the fear instilled in me from her penetrating stare in the hallway caused an immediate affirmative nod.
“Imagine a hot summers day in which the ground was practically melting and water evaporated faster that it could be replenished. A young boy sat on the sidewalk waiting for his father to come back from war. Anticipating his return, he waited there for two days, just sitting and staring, never bothering to get up. He looked like a ghost, dehydration and starvation depleting him of any liveliness. He sat, never complaining, and waited for his dad. But the father never showed up. The father didn’t make it.”
The boy closest to the door put his head down and started to sob quietly. She continued.
“But who would ruin a poor child in that manner? At the “ripe” age of twelve, he didn’t even fully understand the concept of death. After 72 hours, he got up. He walked inside the traditional cookie-cutter house on the 3rd block of North Manhattan. He climbed up the stairs to the second floor. An open sliding door beckoned people to go outside and watch the sunset, but the boy had other plans. He walked out, lifting his feet to move forward. Reaching a physical limitation, he halted, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The descent began, until with a significant thud, he existed no more.”
Gasps of horror bounced off the depressed walls, but that didn’t stop her.
“The blood of his body spilled as if his body were a water balloon. The hollowness of his stomach was seen when he lay flat on the pavement. The contents of his body were part of the run-over pavement. He looked like road-kill. Human road-kill.”
A girl in the fourth seat of the third row tumbled out of her seat and remained slumped on the floor, unconscious.
“Stop. Please stop,” I pleaded to her, but she didn’t listen.
“His largest organ of the body was lacerated and bruised. The most important organ of the body slipped away into a state of completion. The instrument of the chest cavity was no longer performing its harmonious symphony of steady rhythm. The pockets no longer protected by his rib cage were punctured and the valuable supplies contained by them already gone,” she said.
“Missus, I beg you to stop,” I began to scream this time, but yet again her perseverance won the battle.
“Do you animals want to know how I know this story? Because I didn’t make it up. Any guesses? No? Well, that now deceased kid was my little brother. A kid I grew up with, and made fun of and taunted, took his own life in seconds,” she said. I noticed that she tilted to the left side every time she uttered a word, but before I could ponder, she began again, louder this time.
“And you know what? You filthy creatures don’t even give a flipping amount of attention to the preciousness of life. You live it always wanting more and never realize that by taking your own life, you take away much more than your physical presence. You take away every single action that defines you,” she paused once more and slowly put her right hand behind her back.
She started, her voice whispering the final message, “But I mean who am I to lecture you about this topic? Just another human who doesn’t realize the importance of life.”
And with those words, she grabbed a petite revolver from the back waistband of her pants and gripped it tightly. With a slow raise to the head, she put her index finger on the trigger and took in the final and optimum number of oxygen particles. Her shoulders relaxed and her mouth set into a thin line. She gracefully closed her solemn and corrupted grey eyes. Boom.
Now, I look back at that cursed lady with remorse and respect. She taught me with her actions a lesson that no one could have ever taught. She proved with the taking of her life that our lives as human beings are valuable. A lesson I have retained even after twenty years. Thank you Ms. Vie.
(c) 2013 | Christina Taragjini
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