My Teacher the Psychopath

I used to enjoy learning, reading, and all of that. Then, one day it seemed like I woke up and just didn't want to read any more. While at the time I'm sure it was because some other interest like video games, or fireworks became my interest, in hindsight I've always wondered if there was something that had happened somewhere along the way.

Back when I was young, I would stay inside reading all day. My parents would literally need to tell me to stop reading and go play outside. When I would turn in my first reading charts each year, the teacher would often contact my parents to verify that I was actually reading that much. By the time I was reading ahead of most of the class, the teachers tended to catch on. They never did anything to keep me from reading though. Time keeps progressing though, and eventually I was off to middle school. I didn't realize it, but I was about to fall out of love with the printed word.

I arrived at Indian Hills Middle School like any other student: With utter dread. This wasn't just school, now there was a schedule. I would have to be *on-time to classes*, something that was unthinkable to my feeble 12 year old brain. Even worse was the fact that I had been dealing with a complex fracture in my leg since the middle of summer, and it had been barely healed enough to get a cast on it for me to be able to safely get around school.

So, skipping around the school on my crutches, I endured, waiting for an english class so I could finally start reading again. First period passed like molasses. Then Second Period ticked like an impossibly high gear-ratio. Then finally, Third period arrived. Would we be reading historically significant fiction? Something that could teach us about the world? Perhaps, but nothing that my young mind could understand. Whatever we would be reading, the true problem quickly became clear when I saw my instructor.

I hobbled into class, barely making it on time with my thigh-length cast chafing my entire leg, my entire body sweating, and I saw my teacher, Meke Rotland, a sneering middle aged man who kept his toupee in a trophy case on top of a file cabinet. Not tall, not fat. Average, and filled with the kind of rage that only concentrated mediocrity can synthesize.

"That was close, you better not be late next time."

On the first fucking day, man.

What followed over the next months had turned my entire life upside down. I stopped liking the books issued to us, but I didn't know why. I would try to read ahead, only to be reprimanded by my teacher for letting me know the effects of future events "ruin" my essays. Any personal books I would bring to read during free time would be openly mocked in front of the entire class by this sadist of a teacher. It didn't matter what I did, or how I did it. But that wasn't even the worst part.

When Rotland wasn't bullying his student's, he was either trying to disprove 12 year olds about why Seinfeld is actually the greatest sitcom of all time, or waxing about the book he is writing, but its taking time because he can't get a publisher to take it (*Woe is me!*). Needless to say, there was nothing but suffering he had to offer my class. There would be some reprieve though.

During the winter break, I caught myself watching the evening news with my mother, one of my favorite activities as a child who loved to learn all I could. Right there, on the news broadcast I could get to learn something that was happening *right now* in the world. In books, everything takes at least a year to get published, so getting access to new information like this was always fascinating to my young mind, and oh boy, was I about to learn something big.

Lights flashed on screen, with "BREAKING NEWS" filling the lower-third. The anchors began to tell the story of a woman found murdered at her local park. The station had a scoop though, they were able to figure out the last person that she had contacted, and she had contacted him repeatedly. Fortunate for the sleuthing reporters and my young mind, they were able to track down the man, and suddenly none other than my 7th-grade English teacher was on the news with the title "Prime Suspect" speaking into the camera. I couldn't believe it. Not that he would do such a thing, that was the most believable part to me. No, what I couldn't believe is that such prime material to respond with had fallen right into my lap. Not only that, but I could finally explain to my parents why I was doing so bad in his class.

"Because he's a fucking psychopath, Mom."

The new year began, and I would begin my whisper campaign. Showing other students the news stories, telling other stories I had hear about his deranged behavior towards other students. Some girls even told me how he would make them uncomfortable.

The time would come for Zeke to begin bullying his students. On my day, he began chastizing me for having *Speaker of the Dead* in my backpack. The retort came out of my mouth like spring,

"Why don't you stop murdering women and leaving their bodies in public bathrooms?"

He didn't expect that.

The next day, he spent explaining to the class all of the ifs, ands, and what-have-yous about why it couldn't possibly be him that had done such a thing. But the cat was out of the bag. None of this would stop Rotland from picking on his students, but once you give a bunch of middle schoolers ammunition as potent as "my teacher is an actual murderer", they find a way to fight back.

Despite my efforts, by May I was growing tired of the negativity, giving and taking. I could tell I was a little more hollow than I was at the start of the year. All I could think about was the performing poetry unit at the end of the year that we had to do, and the horror of performing it in front of Rotland and the rest of my peers. Then, tragedy struck.

In late may, my Great-Grandmother passed away. I won't pretend that it I was the closest person to her, how could I? What I did know, is this was my first personal experience with death. I had attended funerals in the past, but seeing somebody die that you actually knew, that you could see them breathe, laugh, love, that spark? That hits different the first time. Even if I knew it was going to happen soon, you never really get it until it hits you like a dictionary thrown off of a skyscraper. Blunt force. Paper cuts. Deep pain, and stinging on the surface. I had never experienced anything like this before.

Before class, I approached Rotland in an attempt to appeal to any shred of humanity within his wretched little soul. I have never experienced pain like this before, and I couldn't stop crying. I pleaded to not make me present that day, as my grandmother had just died the night before. I had it memorized, but I was not in an emotional state to be presenting in front of people, much less the utter devils that are middle-schoolers.

"No"

I would have to get my shit together mentally, and fast.

"Gauge"

I had prepared, but for nothing like this. I didn't know my brain could even feel the way it was.

"Rachel"

I wiped sweat off my brow. I was so invested in my notes, I had no idea who was going in what order.

"Zach"

I furiously read and reread my notes, muttering to myself like a deranged lunatic to make sure I could have the memory of the words leaving my mouth.

"Spencer"

I froze. That was all the time I got.

I rose from my desk, trembling. I don't even remember walking, it was like my head had floated up onto the stage, and suddenly everyone I had been in class with over the entire year was looking at me. Again.

I opened my mouth, but the words wouldn't come out. They were there, I could feel them bouncing around in my head splitting my brain like an atom. I tried again, but all I could muster was a faint croak. I couldn't even sob, tears began streaming down my face as I was paralyzed in silence in front of my entire class.

The next thing I knew, one of my classmates was nudging me off the stage so they could have their go of it. On the way off, I felt like I left something behind on stage, something that I had lost. I didn't recognize it then.

That summer, I would try my normal summer activities of going to the library for 6 hours a day. I would barely last though. Suddenly, I took an interest in going to the park, and finding hidden places to mope around.

That was the summer that I stopped reading. Any time I would pick up a book and read the back, all I could think about were the echoes of all the shitty things said about my books. Gone were the hours I would spend at the library after schools, gone were the nights of quietly turning a light on so my parent's wouldn't catch me reading.

You never really know you have a safe place until its gone.