“We’ll return to Sleep and Dream next week,” he said, voice calm and smooth as he turned to face the class.
No one was bothered. Not much really cared for what was on the scheme. I bet I was the only one that knew what today’s topic was supposed to be.
“Today.” He began to walk further away from the board, toward my row, eyes resting briefly on everyone, as if he was trying to memorise our faces. “I want us to look at a case that raises questions about personality development.”
Then he drew closer to me, but instead of briefly, his eyes remained glued on me, strange and eerie.
My fingers curled around my pen, a cold bloom opening behind my ribs. There was something about his hard brown eyes, the way they stared at me. It was as if he knew me.
“This case took place in France a few years ago.” There was a slight twitch on his lips as he said that. “Some of you must have heard of it.”
My heart dropped, my stomach hollowing. I shared a look with Kenzo, and his eyes were already on me, brows furrowed.
“Male offender,” he started calmly then turned around, heading back to the front of the class. “a college professor, charming in social contexts, exhibited a complete absence of empathy.”
My visions blurred. And I felt it, a warm hand slipping into mine, squeezing. “Calm down, okay?” Kenzo whispered to me.
I glanced around the class, anxiety coiling tight behind my ribs. My heart was racing so fast. Did they know already? Had they caught on?
But the class seemed relaxed. Students leaned back in chairs, clicking pens, listening like it was just another crimedocumentary on TV. They didn’t know yet. That I was right next to them, the daughter of the monster.
“Most of his victims were his students.” He was standing in front of the class now, devious eyes on me. “His motive? They didn’t turn in their projects on time, or walked into his class late.”
That was what dad said. Every killer had a motive. Most of dad’s victims were the ones he said were careless, unserious and always took him for granted.
Mr. Donald went on describing the details, the timeline, every word hitting like a punch to the gut. These weren’t just mere details. These were truths I had spent years burying beneath clothes and new identity.
I had spent years dead.
Who was this teacher? Why was he digging out the bones of my past?
I looked around the class again. They shouldn’t find out. Not this class, not the next class, not this town, not this country. I couldn’t live like that again. I couldn’t go through that horror again. The discrimination, the stigmatization, bullying, revenge plans, murder threats. I couldn’t. I would die this time.
Kenzo’s strong grip wasn’t enough. My hand trembled. I snatched it from his hold, hiding them under my desk.
“And here is the interesting part.” His voice filtered into my ears again. “This man had a daughter that he cherished a lot. She was…his pride, you could say.”
“What the fuck is wrong with this fucker?” Kenzo whispered harshly under his breath.
My lungs stopped working.
“She was about 9 or 10 when her father was arrested.” He was staring at me. Eyes lingering too long. Too, too long. I could feel it in the way my skin scrawled.
“According to the neighbours, they were pretty close. You could hardly see the father without the daughter firmly in his grip.”
That was true. My father was my best friend. At least that was what I thought. I adored him like he was the moon and the sun itself. He was handsome and tall and had long hair. I’d heard some parents say he was a hunk. I didn’t know what that meant, then. Some senior girls were always giggling, expressions bashful, whenever he came to pick me up from school.
He was the most handsome man in the world to me. I wanted to be his favorite girl. I used to hear some kids’ fathers packing up and leaving them behind. It always ended up being the children’s fault that the parents fought and separated. And I never wanted my father, my pride, the only reason kids liked me at school, to one day leave me and Mother. So I was such a good girl. I wanted to be in his good books, always doing my homework, following him around like a damn shadow because I was afraid he would disappear if I wasn’t holding his hands.
Yes, they were right. My father and I were inseparable.
“Psychologists held a debate in Havard if there was a chance she could have inherited the same traits.”
Something inside me fractured. My visions narrowed.
I felt like throwing up. I felt like screaming, defending myself, saying it wasn’t me. But he didn’t mention my name. So all I could do was sit there and drown in fear.
But I wanted to run, disappear into the walls.
