Our teacher gave us topics to write essays and I didn't like any of the topics so I chose this one and twisted it completely.
“Now what I want is facts. Teach these boys and girls nothing but facts. Facts alone are wanted in life. Plant nothing else and root out everything else. Stick to facts sir!” The ongoing drone of my father’s voice would vibrate through our small house as he reminded himself over and over again why he was a teacher. The other teachers at my school would fawn and boast about him everywhere they went, after all, he was the ‘best’ teacher at Woodkick High.
School never ended for me. From the moment I woke up to the moment I went to bed, my day would consist of rules, regulations, speeches and small mind-game-tests, for my father never stopped teaching. Teaching. Facts. Yes, that’s right, life has to be filled with facts. Facts, that word alone makes me shiver, yet comforts me at the same time.
Tied to the big tree in out garden, I would have to recite facts and truths based on my father’s knowledge. A whip lash for every mistake, snivel and every sob kept me in place. The rugged bark would chaff my skin raw and the burning sun would make my head spin. This was only one of my father’s personal ‘study methods.’
Facts. You have to strive to become, you have to be the best, be perfect, be a hero. Don’t fall behind, don’t fall out, never stand out of the crowd- individuality is the definition of rebellion, and freedom, well that doesn’t exist.
Long nights lay in my tree house, gazing at the stars. Maybe my dad was right, he was such a terrific teacher, he was a great man. My soul felt torn in two and I could feel my sanity being threatened. Repeating facts and truths over and over to myself helped me to hope that one day, one day my father would smile at me. His proud face would beam and a gentle pat on my back would encourage the words- “Well done son!”
That day never came. As my father’s face turned even more bitter, so did life become one long boot camp of hell. I remember he would often scoff and shake his head in disapproval at people walking past who were, well, different. Individuality is the definition of rebellion against society.
“Don’t laugh” he would say, “There’s nothing to laugh at.” Years and years went by until my father had finally gotten it right to make me ‘almost perfect.’ My stony visage emphasised this empty shell that I have become. Life swirls by in monochrome patterns like a Van Gogh painting.
Pondering the definition of life made my insides tighten and I could feel my stomach producing acid that ate away at my very core. Laughter and glee only fed the flames of my hatred, I have to do something. Be perfect, be a hero. I see her now, walking through that alley, what a wrong move. For weeks I have studied her, the ‘investigation’ had fuelled my suppressed excitement. Bohemian clothes and strange bangles fit her dainty body while her big- rimmed glasses frame quite an interesting face.
Individuality. She makes my cringe in disgust. Standing in the shadows, I feel my heart beating so fast I think it’s going to explode. My breathing quickens as I tighten my grip on the dagger. Weapon of power, weapon of salvation. I feel more alive than I have in years. The adrenaline rushes through my veins and I tremble in excitement. Do something, be a hero. Besides, she’s only the first in my list. . .
A seductive whisper echoes in my mind, “If you have power over someone’s life, who are you?” I pause and it continues, “You must be a god.” I can’t keep it in any longer and as the knife flashes in the pale moonlight and I see her shocked face, an age-old voice comforts my being “Stick to facts, plant nothing else and root out everything else.”
