The Teacher Without Pupils

Under a tree she sits alone.
A teacher she once was.
She can hear the sounds of children chattering and going about their scholarly business.
She shudders as she feels the cold night air around her.
Her back numb against the smooth bark of the tree she sits under.

It is an old tree and past its prime. Just like her. But it keeps her company and supports her back while she sits.
It listens to her story. It does not judge her. It is a good companion.

She sits with her knees up and her feet against her bottom. Her hands folded on her knees with her forehead against her forearms. The silk sleeves of her shirt make a soft crumpling sound as she sobs quietly.

The night is quiet.

She shudders again. This time it is not from the cold.
She trembles as she remembers the pain.

The pain. The pain that no amount of screaming could compensate her for.
The smell of old tobacco when he came close to her. On his clothing. On his skin. On his breath.
Telling her to shush.
Holding her by the throat and shaking her to make her stop screaming.
Like an animal to be butchered he grabbed her by the back of the head and using his knee to chock her head into place.
She knew that her other eye was going to be gouged out with spoon. Just like the other one had been.

She sobs for herself and for everything she lost.
She feels the tears of blood trickling out of her empty eye sockets.

Time to teach the world a lesson. To always be careful.
Tonight someone will lose their eyes.

Make sure your door is secure, tonight.