#12 (Part III)

#12 The Nature of Punishment (Part III)

     I lifted one hand to rub at my eyes.  This is how tired I was: the black of the word “Teach” blazed up at me from the white of the envelope.  I tore the envelope open.  A chipboard key slid out.  In a spidery scrawl the words, 'teach', 'trust' and 'communication' were recorded.  The reverse of the heavy cardboard cut out was printed an address I recognized, an address that made my heart sink.
     I did not want to go back there again.  I did not want to face the macabre students in the linen and cotton and coffee sack colors.  And though it was a different floor listed on the chipboard key, it might as well have been labeled Morgue.  For that was how I suddenly felt: surrounded by hopeless death.

#12 (Part II)

#12 The Nature of Punishment (Part II)

     Deliberately, I turned my back on sleep.  I swept the comforter to the side, hissing at the scrape of the toothpick ends along the flesh of my fingers.  I padded to the envelope propped on the top of my suitcase.  It was a light weight in my hand, a terrible burden of the future.  More than anything in the world I had wanted my husband back.  But that was door closed to me.  Now my dreams were hamstrung and limited to things I could influence.  Like teaching.

#12 (Part I)

#12 The Nature of Punishment (Part I)

     All the comforts of my new home were stripped away.  I hadn't seen earlier, hadn't thought to check whether I still had sheets and pillowcases.  The idea of sleeping underneath a splinter embedded comforter as welcome as if it were glass shards I slept under for warmth.  My only other option was to spend the night miserably frozen. 
     At least sliding under the comforter gave a few moments reprieve from tomorrow’s task.  The weighted cloth rested heavily over my body.  If I lay still enough it was bearable.  Almost
     I drifted along in the strange twilight between the awake and the not, my mind cataloging the rise of whispers from above, but not alarmed nor interested in what the people upstairs said. Until . . .
     "The tormented Oscar and Wilde once spoke to me of the nature of gods, 'If the gods wish to inflict a punishment, they answer our prayers.'  They would know the truth of the issue.  I believe them."

#11 (Part II)

#11 The Table (Part II)

     Threaded into the cloth of the comforter spread out on my bed were splinters of wood.  They'd been evenly spaced, perfectly held in by their fat needle bodies.  Near perfectly shaped bodies.  I set my bags down and extracted one from the comforter.  No, not splinters.  Tooth picks.  Hundreds of them the same color as the shattered wood at the bottom of Thorn's table. 
     I padded back to the hallway.  Something was wrong with the table, something beyond the four impressions marring the surface.  For a moment I hesitated, hardly daring to touch the table.  

#11 (Part I)

#11 The Table (Part I)

     There is no sight more bizarre than a table that has been destroyed by shattering the center of each leg.  Impression marks scarred the warm surface.  Indents from a sledge hammer showed where the blows - four equally well placed blows - landed.  I could imagine the force of each blow traveling through the table, down the length of the leg until it was too much to bear and the feet . . . the hand turned feet exploded.  Shredded. 
     Should have left splinters everywhere.
     Someone had set the table back against the wall.  Someone had swept the floor clean.  Someone had gone as far as to wax my floor, and put a new liner in the trash can in the kitchen.  Someone had left my bedroom door open.  Someone had put a white down comforter on my bed similar to that in Thorn's home.  Except . . .