Tired Of Teaching
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“We’ve been over this before,” Dray said, standing. “The last time you were here, you told me the only reason we’d have to kill someone is if they attacked us or tried to run away with any of our things. You’ve done neither so far.”
I shrugged off his hand and walked into the bathroom. I looked at myself in the mirror as I washed my face and brushed my teeth. I was pale and gaunt and not quite awake yet despite having slept a good portion of the night. My eyes had sunken under dark circles but the rest wasn’t bad for a day’s work.
The only real problem was how much I needed some coffee to get going properly again. It didn’t help that the coffee machine downstairs had been broken since I got there. I’d asked Dray about it a few times but he always claimed that no one else knew where it was either.
He just said he’d find one somewhere eventually and I hadn’t pressed him further because I could feel what it meant to be pushed around by someone like Dray. But after two weeks without coffee, I decided enough was enough. If I couldn’t get something out of this deal on my own, then I’d go through with it even if Dray was involved. There would be no more excuses. No more reluctance.
But first, I needed to make sure my appearance was up to standard. With my hair back and tucked neatly behind my ears, I took my razor out and began working on the rest of my morning routine. When it came down to it, I preferred shaving over waxing.
For one thing, I was better with a blade than I was with wax. And I hated the idea of putting hot stuff anywhere near my crotch when I wasn’t in bed with someone I trusted. I also liked how easy and quick it was to shave.
Waxing required too much maintenance and left me feeling sticky until my next session. Shaving took care of itself. So now, I was all clean and shaved up. Now comes the question, what kind of clothing do I wear?
After a little consideration, I pulled on my new favorite pair of jeans from Dray, an old t-shirt with a band name that I recognized but couldn’t remember who the hell it was, and a black leather jacket which I wore a bit loosely over it all.
Once I had them on, I felt a lot more comfortable. I looked down at myself once again and realized what was missing.
No belt.
So I took my knife out and cut a strip right off the bottom of my shirt. Then I used the small metal clip on my belt to hold the end of the new piece of cloth together until I figured out exactly how to put it on properly.
As soon as I stepped out onto the street, I noticed that I was dressed well enough. But still, something felt wrong. So, rather than walk around trying to figure out what that was, I headed toward the nearest coffee shop. A place where I’d never had to pay for anything.
A young woman was sitting alone outside, drinking coffee and reading a paperback. Her head tilted toward the sidewalk as she watched a man walk by, hands in his pockets, looking straight ahead. I sat across from her and waited for her to look back at me, which happened within minutes.
“You look tired,” she said.
I smiled at her. “And you?”
She shrugged and turned away from me, looking out past the buildings that surrounded us. She took a deep breath of air and let it out slowly. “Well, I don’t think I could be much worse.”
She was pretty cute. Blonde hair and blue eyes. Probably about the same age as I was. But she was dressed like a college student who worked part-time while getting their degree in psychology. Which made sense because she was probably studying to become a counselor or something equally noble and worthy of my admiration.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
Her gaze turned back toward me. I saw her pupils dilate slightly. “Yeah,” she said. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“It looks like you’re thinking about something sad.”
She nodded. “Oh. Yeah, that. My ex called. Wants to see me.”
“Ah. That sounds like fun. You can have him for free.”
The smile faded from her face so fast I almost thought she was faking it. She stared at me for a long moment and finally sighed. “What the fuck is your problem, asshole?”
My heart sank as the tension between us became palpable. She reached out and grabbed my wrist, holding it tight and making me look right into her eyes. “You know exactly what my problem is, and it has nothing to do with any guy.”
She jerked my arm hard enough to yank the fabric of my jacket. “And it certainly doesn’t have anything to do with you! Don’t ever talk about my family like that!”
I tried not to show it, but even though I was prepared for this sort of reaction from people, she was pushing me harder than I’d been pushed before. I felt the blood rushing toward my cheeks and knew I was going to turn red.
The only thing that kept me from doing so was the fact that I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of seeing that happen. After all, when dealing with someone who has an emotional response to things you say, sometimes the best tactic is just to keep quiet and avoid saying anything. I decided then that I would follow this advice for the time being.
For the first few minutes, we just glared at each other. I tried desperately to read some expression of pain or shame in those beautiful blue eyes, but no such emotion showed itself there. Only anger, frustration, and determination.
It was hard for me to tell if she wanted to cry, scream, hit something, or leave town for good. I had no idea what to say. All I could hear ringing in my head were words. Words that might make things go badly for me. And yet, they seemed important now.
“…your dad was really nice. He always treated me well. We weren’t wealthy by any means, but he gave us everything we needed.”
“He did,” she agreed. “But you’re just a stupid, spoiled rich girl whose only purpose in life is to get laid!”
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t play dumb with me! Do you think I’m blind? Don’t act like you never saw us coming here! You knew all along that you’d find yourself walking out of here with a big dick stuffed down your throat! What else could possibly explain your being here, wearing nothing but a pair of panties?”
“Um…?”
She looked at me like I’d fallen from outer space. Like I was a monster that couldn’t possibly exist in reality, and she was having trouble believing what her own eyes were telling her.
“How dare you call me a whore?”
“Uh…”
“How fucking dare you? How many guys have you been with tonight? Five? Six? More? Have you forgotten how to count?”
“No…”
“Then shut up!” She stood up and started to walk off, leaving me on the bench, stunned.
She stopped and faced me again, still angry and breathing heavily. “Listen, freak,” she said. “I hope you know what you’re doing because if you mess this up, you’ll wish you were dead!”
And then she stormed off across the street. I watched her for several seconds after she disappeared, then stood up and walked home as quickly as I could.
***
The next week went by slowly, but thankfully without any further confrontations. It was difficult not to stare at the girl’s place whenever I drove by. I wondered why she lived so far away from the university.
She never talked to me when she passed, which made sense considering we’d already met once and fought bitterly over our relationship. Still, it was strange not to have her glare at me from the driver’s seat, or try to engage me in conversation.
The day before Thanksgiving break came around, and I packed most of my things to prepare for a long stay at my grandmother’s house near Atlanta. When I pulled onto the freeway heading toward Atlanta, I was surprised to see that I was driving my father’s truck. I glanced back and noticed that it was parked in the driveway.
The last thing I remember was my mother crying over the phone, begging Dad not to do this. Then the police showed up. They told me there wasn’t much anyone could do now except to wait until the dust settled and my father had his chance to talk to them.
And I’d be there to help him if it came down to that. I asked them to take me in and they did. Now all I could do was sit and watch the days roll on. And think about my father. And the fact that he probably hated me more than ever because of what happened to him. I don’t know why he would have done that. I couldn’t imagine him doing that to himself. Not even for me.
That was four months ago. Since then, my family hasn’t spoken to me, except for the occasional text message from Mom. She usually sends one to check in on me and ask me if I need anything.
Once in a while, she asks me if I’ve seen my sister lately, or if I have any news regarding the trial. She rarely mentions my father anymore; it was too painful for her to think about his fate. My grandmother has become almost cold toward me since we lost touch with the rest of the family. She’s a sweet lady who doesn’t understand people very well, but she does care and she worries.
My only contact with other people is the local paper and television station, where I sometimes get called upon to share my side of things or to make some statement about how bad the situation is in the city these days.
Sometimes I’m invited to the courthouse when a new arrest is made, and I sit behind the cameras watching my face appear on the monitors and hearing someone shout questions at me over the microphone.
I’ve tried to keep busy since moving into my grandmother’s house. It seemed easier for me to forget when I was working hard to get ahead, but it was also a way for me to prove to myself that I was worthy of being here. That I deserved to live.
It worked. At least, until last month.
Last month was tough. There were two major incidents in the last few days and both took place close to my grandmother’s house. The first took place in an alleyway not far from my grandma’s house and involved the murder of three college students.
Two of whom were from Georgia Tech. Their killer turned out to be one of the homeless guys I saw in town every morning. He’d been released from jail just before the murders occurred. After a long investigation and several witnesses coming forward, I managed to nail him for the crime.
I knew he was going down the moment he told me that he’d killed those kids, but it didn’t change what had to be done.
He was found guilty, and I felt relieved that I was able to put away the bastard responsible. But my relief was short-lived. The case made national headlines when it was reported that I’d used torture to get information from him. People accused me of being a vigilante who took justice into his own hands. Some even called me a monster. A murderer.
The media got hold of the footage of the interrogation and aired it repeatedly. It was humiliating, but nothing compared to how uncomfortable I became when I heard whispers about it among people on the street.
In the beginning, there were a lot of folks who supported me, saying that I’d had no choice because the guy was a killer. And maybe I had no choice, but I should have thought twice about using a little something else to motivate him.
Now that everything has died down and the news cycle moved on to another topic, the whispers are getting louder again. And this time there’s an undercurrent of anger in their tone. No longer do they tell me that I did right; instead, some say I should have just let the man go after the murders and leave it at that.
Others believe my methods weren’t justified in this case, and I’ve only given a free pass to the likes of others. I’ve never really cared what anyone thinks about me anyway. I know my intentions were pure in every case. But now I find myself feeling like a fool. For not having realized sooner that I was becoming exactly the kind of person that I’d sworn against when I decided to turn my life around.
There’s nothing to do but continue to try and stay calm and carry on and hope that this isn’t what it seems to be. That I’m just paranoid and letting it all get to me too quickly. I know that sounds strange for me to say, considering that paranoia has always been one of my best qualities, and I don’t feel that much has changed.
Except now it feels like I’ve got enemies everywhere: inside the law, the police, and even in the community itself.
The next day begins as soon as my alarm clock buzzes at the early hour of six a.m., waking me up from a dream where I was standing alone on a dark road with nowhere to run or hide. The only light came from the faint glimmer of a single headlight shining down from above, illuminating the ground just below. The sound of my name ringing through the air comes back to me.
“Darius!”
A car pulls up near my feet and a woman steps out. My mind starts playing tricks on me, seeing things that aren’t there. A man climbs out and approaches me, asking if I can help him get some money for food and gas so he can get home to Alabama. Or somewhere else; anywhere will do. As long as it’s out of Atlanta.
He reaches into his pocket and takes out a gun, placing it by my head and pulling the trigger. I wake up screaming in my bed.
The End