The bell rung as the last flutter of children entered the small classroom, with walls like thick sheets of snow, snuffling out the sound of the outside world and worn wooden floors that seemed (when you looked close and hard enough) to have agonized faces of the lost etched in the oak.

“Okay class, take out your books and get started on the next chapter,” I commanded from behind my old, black, metal desk — dented and chipped from years of facing the wear and tear of being in an elementary school. I watched them for a moment, as they all shuffled to take out their copies of "The School Story" by Andrew Clements.

The aged leather of the torn chair beneath me squeaked as I turned to my computer. It blinked to life with a flick of the mouse, and I began going down the attendance list. As predicted, John — a small, fair haired boy with glazed over eyes and stiff expressions — was still absent, and this would mark day six. Now, two additional children with normally perfect — or as close to it as possible — attendance were missing from my class as well. I took another visual survey of the class to confirm that only the three out of the thirteen students were absent, then I sent in the attendance, all the while thinking about how I would have to notify John’s parents if he were still gone next week.

“Are we ready to analyze the text? Keep in mind you have a journal due on it by the end of next week.”

The students had to do a journal on how the assigned text connects to them, and what types of conflict were present in the story. I do believe it is a great story, for since we have started it I have noticed more life in the eyes of my students than I have ever seen in them.

“Yes, Ms. Spencer,” the class responded in unison.

They were such bright young pupils, always ready to learn, one of the best groups I ever taught. They were also the quietest and most well behaved third graders I had ever seen, though whether this is a good thing or not, I am uncertain.

“Great! What can be said about the plot so far?”

A bunch of tiny hands shot up like strong wind that blows leaves into the sky, each of them vying for my attention in their competition for the highest hand, as a chorus of “Ooh me, pick me!” broke out, I only had to raise my hand up to silence the class, before pointing at a curly haired brunette girl at the back, brown eyes shining in eagerness,

“Yes, George?”

“The book is about a girl who is tricking all the adults into thinking she is one too so she can publish her book.” She smiled, proud of her answer, which was, as far as I’m concerned for their age, a good summary of the novel so far.

“Very good! Does anyone see any themes or morals yet?” I asked, looking across the sea of seven-year-olds, and they stared right back at me with smiles plastered on their faces, as if they knew something I did not. Their expressions bordered on unnerving, but before I could muse over it further, I was knocked out of my thoughts by a hand in the corner flying up, “Give it a go, Nathaniel.”

In a soft yet articulate voice the, short blonde boy whispered, “Could a possible theme be that sometimes adults take children, and their capabilities, for granted?”

I was mildly shocked by such a complex answer, but really should not be. What would you expect from children who always have this extraordinary feeling about them, an aura that suggests special idiosyncrasy abstruse in the fog of a child’s body.

“Very good Nathaniel, I think you are on the right track!” I exclaimed, clasping my hands together and smiling broadly at the class —- a teacher must always be overzealous —- and the children, still sitting quietly, smiled right back at me, sending a slight chill down my spine. The class continued on as normal, and we went over math I had allocated the previous day, before commencing a new science chapter. I watched the children at recess, and unlike other classes, they did not dissolve into their own individual cliques but played together, usually some sort of clapping hand game or something in a circle or sometimes even the beloved classic game of tag —- yet another unnerving quality, however, was how they barely showed a shred of emotion; as someone who worked with them every day. I could detect the faint tinges of smiles and, but an outside observer might have thought they weren’t even enjoying their play at all.

Returning home (while for most working people provided a sense of relief and comfort) gave me dread and displeasure, because my house was one of many tragedies and despairs, not that of a teacher. There it was: my small quaint cottage fraying at the seams, with Adonis vernalis and vines of Chondrodendron tomentosum entangling themselves across the house like, a garden flourishing upon the bricks, windows like eyes sleeping in the daylight, dreaming, waiting to awake to a night of upkeep and order, a time so long passed its spirit cannot be regained, and spiders finding refuge within every crack. Strolling up the cobble stone path, now sprouting weeds after months of being unkempt, I became aware of how they wobbled and threatened to break beneath my heels and, fearing falling, I sprinted to the green pine door, as one from a fairy tale might look, where a fairy might live, with an off-pink circular window, just the right height to endow me access to peek out, when someone was at the door.

I unlocked the door and entered into the living room, flicking on the light to reveal the boxy TV I left on this morning, a glass coffee table decorated in cup rings, crumbs, and finger prints and the grey sofas, with sunken in pillows crying for attention. A picture of him caught my eye, but I could not permit myself to look at it head on; staring past it, I slowly put the picture face down on the shelf and continued on to my room because —-despite being small and as unsettling as any other room in the house —- it gave me an amount of ease, being the only room in the house that I could bring myself to purge of mirrors and pictures. I sat on the large, creaky, white bed to begin grading, but the act of well-being is hard to portray alone in the silence of your own room, so the flood of memories washed over me, yelling the event of months past in my ear, gnawing at my brain, whispering, “Remember.”

Five months ago, when these rooms first lost their lust and there was no hope in putting it back into any part of my life, and blood spilled across the kitchen floor — “so much blood” —my husband — “through his heart” — I lost everything — “even your mind” —never did find out who killed him — “yet you know” — now I am alone.

The next week in class, the day began almost regularly, with all the students filtering in like soldiers in battle; but by all students I mean five distant shadows, wool-gatherers fantasizing the likeness of a balanced soul, long lost over the weekend.

They took their seats, though with how few of them there were it seemed more like they were scattered haphazardly around the room.

“How about you all sit together in the middle?” I suggested.

All the students gathered at the desks in the middle of the class, with mouths smiling at me, but questioning eyes glaring through me.

“Does anyone know where any of our classmates have gone?”

“I think they are sick, I heard about bug going around, many students in other classes are absent as well.” Colby, a girl with a light brown afro, explained in a manner that was almost threatening.

“That’s a shame, hopefully our friends will get better soon, at least we are here today!” Teachers must be exuberant. “Let’s pull out our books and discuss sources of conflict.”

The class shuffled through their book bags, pulling out their books with an unfamiliar type of strategic unison, and as I have been noticing for the last couple of days, the room began bending around me. Pale walls seemed to create a void around the classroom, engulfing all the thoughts, hopes, and whispers between the children and swallowed my entire identity, for I could feel myself, if only slightly, slipping away. The wooden floor boards seemed to gaze into my soul like some sort of all — knowing being, grinning at my secrets, laughing at my fears, telling all my lies.

“What types of conflict are present in the book, does anybody know?”

“Man vs. man, because the girl had to go against all of the adults to prove herself capable of what none of them thought a child could do,” George answered coldly without raising her hand, missing the eagerness that once came with answering a question. I looked over the five students, two boys and three girls, and all of them lacked the even the slightest glimpse of luster; if I thought they were lost and hollow beings before, now they were ghastly pale echoes of a creature.

“Adults really should stop underestimating children.” Nathaniel grinned, and now the whole class had smiles carved into their faces, like lit Jack o’ Lanterns.

“What connections came we make between the book and real life?” I asked, trying not to let the anxiety slip into my tone. Hands shot up like daggers piercing the air, looking to strike an invisible beast above them. “Yes, Nadine?”

Besides Nadine’s scruffy brown hair, she was dressed elegantly in a black dress, as if she came from a funeral. “It's like how children's knowledge and capabilities are questioned in real life, no one gives us the benefit of the doubt.”

It was almost sad, the way she said it, but her cold glass stare and eerie smile never wavered.

I awoke on a cold slab in darkness, memories washing up on the shore of my mind, but only being in the school stuck, the rest faded as soon as they came, like snow evaporating on a warm day. I was in the school… the students were acting strange, even more so than usual… how far did we get in the class, did I go home? Pain shot through my head as a surgical type of overhead light flicked on above me. The five children were standing above me in a circle chanting.

“Hey! What's going on?” My words cut through the air, snipping the tie the students created with the chant.

“We know the truth about you… and your husband.” Their words were stiff and distant, their eyes completely white as they glared down on me.

“What are you talking about?” I asked trembling — but you do know.

“We know what you did, your secret, your lies, and how they make you the perfect sacrifice,” Colby, who seemed to be their leader, explained.

“The perfect sacrifice for what?”

“Not what, whom.” Nathaniel correct.

“For wh…?” My words cut off as they raised sharp blades above their heads., “Wait you don't have to do this, who ever is making you so this we can stop them, but you have to let me go first.” I pleaded, struggling with, for the first time realizing, the shackles that bonded me to the table.

“As always,” George began, “The adults doubt us.” I started at them in horror, tears spilling down the sides of my face and into my ears, and they stared right back at me, smiling.

---

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All resemblance to actual people, places, incidents, or things is completely coincidental.