“I’m sorry, Mr. Donald.” I glanced at Kenzo who squeezed my hand gently. “I was a little distracted.”
“Very well then.” He grinned, sharp like a knife. “Do well to pay attention.”
He turned to the board, his chalk squeaking as he underlined Sleep and Dreams.
“I find it fascinating,” he said to the class, pacing, his hands clasped behind his back, “how the mind copes with guilt during rest.” He stopped beside my desk. Too close. “How some people don’t dream at all. Others–” There was a pause far too deliberate. “–relive their worst memories every night.”
My throat tightened.
“Tell me, Fraser,” he said, lowering his voice enough that just the row next to me heard it. “Do you dream?”
The class shifted. Someone coughed. A chair scraped.
“Yes, Mr. Donald.” The words came out paper thin.
His brows lifted. “Interesting. Because research suggests that children of highly violent offenders often experience either chronic nightmares…or complete emotion detachment during REM sleep.”
The class gasped, eyes on me.
“What is wrong with this dude?” Kenzo murmured, voice laced with panic.
No one knew who my father was. As far as the rumours were concerned, Mother was a single mom. My father died and we moved to Scotland. Saying children of violent offenders just suggested to the class that one of my parents was violent. An offender.
My fingers curled.
He turned back to the board, murmurs settling in the class. Eyes were on me now, curious, interested. Now, they wondered who my father was. Was he truly violent? How did Mr. Donald know? Did he know my father?
Curiosity would make them ask questions. Questions would lead to the desire for answers. Answers I didn’t want any of themto find. Because if they found it, they would hate me. And if they hated me, I wouldn’t be able to survive the rest of the year in school.
I would have to drop out again.
“For some reason, this topic is bringing us back to psychopathy.” He scribbled the word on the board in scrawny handwriting. “I’m sure Miss Fraser will like this.”
He turned to the class, his gaze resting on me, just briefly. “Now this disorder is often misunderstood, though. Not all monsters lack charm.” He turned to the board, scribblingCHARMin capital letters. “Some are beloved. Some are trusted. Some live ordinary lives.”
His gaze returned to the class. “But of course, that’s highly hypothetical.”
The class chuckled. They didn’t hear the threat. They didn’t know what was going on. It was just another fun psychology class.
“But let’s stay on the topic, shall we?” He gestured to the board. “Sleep and Dreams. Page 99. Read silently.”
The room was immediately filled with rustling papers, whispering, as students read.
I didn’t move. Couldn’t move. I sat frozen. But Kenzo’s hand never left mine.
And when the bell rang minutes later, the class filing out, curious glances were sent my way.
Mr. Donald had stirred the students. Given them the story to work on.
He had begun to pull out the bones I buried.
???
“Let me come with you.” Kenzo insisted, grabbing my wrist,making me halt.
I tugged his hand off. “I can handle this.”
“Beth.” His protest fell on deaf ears as with a breath in, I pushed open the door to Mr. Donald’s class, a mission in mind.
