![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
franceslievens"I didn't do anything at all, miss," the boy says. There's triumph in his eyes when he speaks the fatal words that deprive you of any kind of counterattack: "Just keep denying everything she says and you'll walk home free." So the words come again: "I didn't do anything. You say you saw me shooting bits of eraser through the classroom, well that wasn't me. I never carry any kind of rubber band in my pockets."
"If you don't have any respect for me, I'll put aside any bit of respect there was left in me towards you," you answer, stabbing your red ballpoint furiously in the boy's direction. "I'll make you tell the truth," you add. You fumble in the drawers of your desk, while talking about what respect means and why teachers deserve it. The boy yawns noisily, scratches his head and he's halfway turned toward the door already. He doesn't blink when you rise, the gun at your hip pointing to a boy's most precious assets: his crotch.
The boy doesn't notice anything through your monologue. He's thinking about the girl he kissed last week and which girl he'll kiss this week. He doesn't find it odd you're circling him like a vulture, waiting for him to get down on his knees and give in to what's coming.
"...and therefore I'll make you say the truth." You're behind the boy now, one hand firmly placed on his shoulder, pushing him down. The other digging the gun in his back.
He freezes. "You cannot... This isn't..." he says.
"Oh yes I can," you whisper, releasing the safety on the gun with a dry click.
The boy's knees give way. He nearly falls down, but you demand him to sit up straight. Beads of sweat are covering his forehead when he tries to cope with the terror of the classroom.
"Now tell me," your voice sounds calm and soothing even, "what did you do?"
The trembling voice of the boy answers: "I shot bits of eraser through the classroom. I confess, it was me, I confess."
"Now there's a good boy." You click the safety back on the gun and motion the boy to get up. "That'll get you detention next Wednesday afternoon." The boy nods, fear still visible in his eyes. You smile to him when you put the gun away in the second drawer and lock it. "You can leave now," you say. The boy sways a little when he turns around, as if he doesn't know anymore where the door is. When he finaly notices the escape route, he runs for it.
"If you don't have any respect for me, I'll put aside any bit of respect there was left in me towards you," you answer, stabbing your red ballpoint furiously in the boy's direction. "I'll make you tell the truth," you add. You fumble in the drawers of your desk, while talking about what respect means and why teachers deserve it. The boy yawns noisily, scratches his head and he's halfway turned toward the door already. He doesn't blink when you rise, the gun at your hip pointing to a boy's most precious assets: his crotch.
The boy doesn't notice anything through your monologue. He's thinking about the girl he kissed last week and which girl he'll kiss this week. He doesn't find it odd you're circling him like a vulture, waiting for him to get down on his knees and give in to what's coming.
"...and therefore I'll make you say the truth." You're behind the boy now, one hand firmly placed on his shoulder, pushing him down. The other digging the gun in his back.
He freezes. "You cannot... This isn't..." he says.
"Oh yes I can," you whisper, releasing the safety on the gun with a dry click.
The boy's knees give way. He nearly falls down, but you demand him to sit up straight. Beads of sweat are covering his forehead when he tries to cope with the terror of the classroom.
"Now tell me," your voice sounds calm and soothing even, "what did you do?"
The trembling voice of the boy answers: "I shot bits of eraser through the classroom. I confess, it was me, I confess."
"Now there's a good boy." You click the safety back on the gun and motion the boy to get up. "That'll get you detention next Wednesday afternoon." The boy nods, fear still visible in his eyes. You smile to him when you put the gun away in the second drawer and lock it. "You can leave now," you say. The boy sways a little when he turns around, as if he doesn't know anymore where the door is. When he finaly notices the escape route, he runs for it.
