a collection of short storiesdivevil
I remember
  • I remember when I was in grade school I used to pour a bag of milk onto the strictest teacher in the school. It wasn’t because I was naturally vile (that’s what I believe anyway). I just didn’t like to drink milk. It was bad for me. And by bad, I didn’t mean bad as in bad-sick, but bad because I simply didn’t like its taste and smell. So. It was bad. It is bad.

    Then, at my school, there was a small ten-minute break for milk and biscuits, and every student had to drink at least a bag of milk each. Even if it was against their will. Talk about fascism. So. The mild, obedient kid that I was, I decided that, that day, I wanted to rebel.

    I picked up that bag of milk, which seemed much more to me at that time. It was a bag of revolution. I picked up that bag, I opened it, I leaned over the balcony railing in front of my class, and I released that stream of freedom down, down, down; my target was the ground.

    But rebellion was never easy, my history book told me that. Maybe God wanted to punish me for daring to rebel. The strictest teacher inschool chose that exact moment to walk past that exact spot where I was emptying the content in the bag onto. Oh, woe was me.

    I quickly leaned back inside, drawing the straw into mymouth, and pretended that I didn’t just commit a crime of the century.

    That strictest teacher in school, obviously, wouldn’t let go. She couldn’t let go. Letting go would go against her whole principle. She had an image to uphold. So she came up the stairs, with hair dripping wet with white liquid, and demanded that the culprit came out of hiding, and received a proper punishment.

    When nobody said anything (and I think this was because no one saw me, not because they were great friends) she pointed a finger, and said, “It’s you, isn’t it?” to a girl near me. The girl shook her head. No, it wasn’t. She swore it wasn’t. The teacher was furious. She looked as if she was sure, it had to be that girl. She said loudly that if she found out who it was, that person would be as good as dead. (I paraphrased, but the essence was the same.)

    She looked at that girl one last time, as if trying to burn the image of that girl into her memory. Well, now she was as good as dead.

    I was a good kid. I stayed where I was the whole time, pretending to drink milk, and didn’t say a word.

    Rebellion was hard, and it needed a sacrifice.







    Well, I lied.

    It was no honor. No rebellion. No great revolution. No meaningful act.

    I just hated milk, and my luck happened to fuck me (and also that girl) over.

    I was petty. I poured that bag of milk onto a teacher’s head, and didn’t want to take responsibility.

    There was no sacrifice. Only a scapegoat.

    Lies. Plain and simple.



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