Feelings for My Teacher

My violent end could have been predicted, and very probably was, by my first grade teacher, Regina Scoop.  She could have told you, and I suspect she did, that I was destined, first, to infect the school and, then, the entire town with my unique brand of distrust and disillusionment. I started on the pathway to becoming a sociopath early on, you see.

When I was accused of telling pernicious lies about my sexual liaisons with Leona “Tender” Matthews, my high school biology teacher, my history got a lot of attention, a lot more than while it was being made. The thing is, they weren’t lies.  And I did not instigate things. I was a victim, albeit a deeply hopeful and willing victim.

As an adult, you would expect those earlier inappropriate experiences with my teacher to haunt me as ugly, improper mistakes.  Your expectations would be wrong, of course, because I have no such haunting memories.  Instead, I have recollections of delightful lust, made current by images of the woman in the newspaper.

What Regina Scoop wouldn’t have known, though, was that it was her loathing of me that led me to murder. It was Regina’s disgust with my private form of passion that prompted me to encircle another woman’s neck with a forty-eight inch length of stainless steel wire and pull it tight until that thin piece of steel cut her air supply like a scalpel slashes through flesh.

Tender Matthews never knew the source of Regina’s trip to eternity, though I tried to tell her a dozen times. I was simply a convenient target of Tender’s naked lust, a lust for which my reciprocity was evident and enormous. We may have struggled to contain the fierceness of our mutual carnal hunger, but the fight was in vain, unable to match the strength of unchecked lust laid bare in an empty locker room late that Friday afternoon.

The appearance of the State Police, guns at the ready, was unwelcome but not a surprise. I was unwilling to succumb to their taunts, yet unable to sidle around them. So the gun play seemed to follow the usual pattern; a socially despicable expression of throbbing lust met by a shower of machismo in the form of lead. Regina’s death was avenged, at least in the minds of the fascists with hot-barreled pistols, and Tender’s lust was hidden behind a veil of rage disguised as purity and gentleness. I was the only real victim in the swirl of chaos, a child whose reciprocal aphrodisia spawned attacks of conscience unequaled in the modern world.

Who should pay for my lust? Or for hers? Or for the fact it existed at all? Poor Regina Scoop never paid for her loathing; it was her unknown accomplice. Tender never paid, either, but she wanted me to pay for abandoning her at that critical moment. Damn her. Damn them. Damn us all.