I know that’s a horrible thing to say, but it’s true. My class is a teacher’s worst nightmare, because my students are IMPOSSIBLE to control.
They scream at me and spit in my face. They hurl insults at me and laugh cruelly if they see that they struck a nerve. They even get violent sometimes, pulling my hair and knocking me to the ground, where they pin me down and describe in great detail all of the awful, inhumane ways they’d love to kill me.
It’s absolutely terrible.
But I still work up the courage to go back to what is left of that burned, abandoned school building every year. It’s the least I could do for them after the tragedy they underwent years ago.
I sometimes bitterly think it’s the electrician who should be coming to pay this debt every year on the anniversary of that sad day, taking the abuse that these kids yearn to inflict on the cause of their agonizing deaths. After all, his faulty wiring is what caused the fire.
But, then…
I remember how angry I had been when, after I’d smelled the smoke and tried to tell the class what was happening, my voice couldn’t be heard over the incessant talking and obnoxious giggling.
They’d never shown me any respect during lessons, deciding early on that nothing I had to say was deserving of their attention. And now they were so used to ignoring me that they hadn’t even heard my panicked warning.
Of course it was frustrating. But as my students harshly remind me, with their charred and melted faces twisted in fury, I was an absolute bitch for leaving them to discover the danger on their own.
And especially for locking the door on my way out.
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Credits to: photofreecreepypasta
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