Five minutes left with these young, malleable minds, and all I can think about is how fucking ungrateful some people can be.
I turn to the board, the chalk screeching as I draw a thick line under the word PAIN.
“When was the first time you realized someone else’s pain made you feel powerful?”
I glance over my shoulder, and spot more than a few of my students shifting uncomfortably in their seats.
That’s better.
I chuckle, tossing the chalk up and down in my palm. “That first taste of dominance always hits the hardest, doesn’t it?” My voice drops lower. “Maybe you were six when you first pushed someone off the swing set. Maybe sixteen, when you let slip atiny little secret that spread like a wildfire, obliterating someone else’s reputation?”
My gaze drifts over their rapt faces, fixating just a breath on whoever looks the guiltiest.
They always look away first.
“We’ve explored schadenfreude through various theoretical lenses this semester.” I draw a lazy circle on the board under the word that I’m certain no one in class has memorized how to spell.
The lecture hall door opens, and Deputy Thatcher steps in like he has every goddamn right to. I do my best not to bristle, my mind scrambling furtively to pick up the thread of my lecture. And already running ahead to make sure I say nothing incriminating while he’s here.
Because why the fuckishe here?
Thatcher pauses before taking a seat near the door. His presence ripples through my students, starting up a buzz of whispers that I silence with a bang of my hand against the blackboard.
More than a handful of faces show shock. I’ve never had to use force to draw my students’ attention back to me, and that just makes my loathing for Thatcher grow even stronger.
Fuck it.
He wants a show? I’ll give him a fucking show.
“Savoring cruelty.” I bang the board again on each word, as if that had been the plan all along. And I have to suppress a smile at how my students jump.
My voice switches to something melodic, almost pleasant. “Deriving pleasure—” I circle the word PLEASURE on the board “—from another’s pain.” The stark underline becomes a circle too. “Nietzsche called it humanity’s oldest festive joy. Modern psychologists label it a defense mechanism. I call it honesty.”
I set down the chalk, dusting off my fingers as I amble back to the lectern.
“Cruelty can be taught like a skill, if you’re unlucky enough to have a tutor. But even in the absence of external sadism, it can still be uncovered through a type of…archaeology of the soul. Each layer unearthing something primitive.”
My voice drops lower, making everyone—even Thatcher—lean in.
“We’ve all seen that video from the Rain Dance. Of the people shown in the video, who wrote something in their Activity Log the next day?”
There’s silence. Utter, thrilling,breathysilence.
“Come on. Show of hands.”
Parker doesn’t raise her hand, she just blurts out, “I thought the point of these journals was to emphasize that cruelty was in the eye of the beholder?”
I’m never caught off guard.
Not before a certain dirt-poor Riversider crashed into my life like a fucking meteorite.
Now all I can manage is an annoyed, “And?”
“What’s the point of speculating whether one ofthemfound it cruel?”
Thatcher isn’t even looking at Parker. He’s staring at me, as if he’s waiting for my verdict.
Why the fuck didn’t I cancel class today?
