Monday, December 12, 2011


I feel like there should be a disclaimer here. Fuck it.

It should be noted that Emmy was only fourteen years of age when she won the attentions of a thirty five year old man named Gram. This, however, did not stop him from pining over the girl, staying up with dreams ever-flowing from the challis of his mind, spilling over onto the tile of his sanity, eroding it until, like so many other men, it cracked and buckled and burst, drowning his heart with nothing but visions of her. Gram thought of former students, one in particular, Darla, who had once wrote in an essay on child brides that “age is just a number,” pushing her agenda that young women have inalienable rights, including who they choose to love and when. But Darla was a blonde memory now, and instead, as he sat behind his desk, staring out over the rows of metal desks and chairs, over the blossoming minds of his students, he stared and fantasized about Emmy.

One could say that this relationship between a child and their mentor, their teacher, is at best awkward, and at worst shameful and wrong. But I leave those judgments to be passed by the Almighty and not by mere mortals on this planet. For who among us is perfect enough to judge another? Moreover, who among us can tell a tale of love and strife of any kind without striking a chord somewhere in the throngs of people clamoring for such a tale? Some will be effected by the use of language, whilst others opt to struggle with the follies of those whose lives are being dissected for art, for make no mistake, the lives that we are dealing with are very much real, or at least, as real as you or I in the eyes of the universe.

Emmy and the rest of her class sat with their heads bowed, focused on the seemingly endless stream of empty bubbles to be filled in, number two pencils clenched between teeth, and sweat starting to form on their young brows. Although Emmy didn’t sweat. She was far too perfect for that, and even in her confusion over question number thirty two, she simply bit the end of her pencil, leaving a trace of lip gloss around the eraser, and pulled on her brown curls, which were lopsided and the product of half an hour in the mirror, trying to figure the process out on her own. Her chest heaved as she sighed, finally picking an answer, and Gram shifted in his seat, trying to see past the pimply faces that blocked his view of the budding B-cups that haunted the far reaches of his brain.

Here, Gram stopped in time. While outside of him, the world spun as usual, breaths were taken, heads were scratched, answers were read by other students, but inside, the Earth stood still, unchanged and unmoving. Frozen, Emmy leaned back, stretching, staring at the nerdy Asian kid’s test, memorizing the answers with a fake yawn that would have fooled the most cynical of teachers. But not Gram, as he watched her every move and begged any Gods that would listen to give him an excuse to force Emmy’s company. This was it, and as the world slowly started turning again, Gram half yelled, half squeaked “Emmy!” Though instead of authoritative, it sounded excited.

“Yes?” Emmy said, in a voice that would be used by a chesty blonde pulled over for speeding. She smiled, pouted, trying to use her looks that had come far too early to get out of the trouble she knew she faced.

“Bring your test up here. You’re going to have to retake this after class, when you can’t read anyone else’s answers.” It was brilliant, Gram thought, in the explicit punishment and handling of a student, as well as the implicit move to bring her closer to him.

The rest of the class finished, the bell rang, and the school day was over. Save for little Emmy, who now had a test to make up, in part to her cheating, in part to her teacher’s hidden agenda. Gram had never acted upon thoughts he knew were “wrong,” especially in his own eyes. Getting too close to a child less than half his age was certainly wrong. But something, some growing pressure deep inside had caused him to not only think of these deviant thoughts, but to also fantasize about them, to will them into reality in his darkened bedroom at home, sweating by thinking of the girl that he wanted, needed, to be with. He felt himself change inside, felt as though his blood ran black, that his heart was caked with a layer of obsession and perversion that he himself could do nothing about. Emmy wandered up to the desk.

“So now I have to take the test all over, just because I might have glanced at an answer?” Emmy said, leaning over the way her mother used to do when Emmy would get in trouble in middle school, leaning over the principals desk, asking for mercy, since she was young and still learning what was right and wrong. Emmy’s elbows were pointed in, towards one another, her T-shirt bulging the way no fourteen-year-old’s t-shirt should bulge. Gram, suddenly blacked out.

Now while Gram is unable to tell the police what happened in the ensuing moments, that doesn’t mean that the rest of the universe was not witness to it. And as the humble stenographer for the universe, it is our duty to relay those events.

First, Gram stood up, walking over and sitting on the front of his desk, next to where Emmy stood. Then, he glanced at the door, ensuring that it was closed. After seeing that they were alone, and that no one should be coming into his classroom anytime soon, he grabbed Emmy by the face, bending low, very low, to plant his lips on hers and hold her tight. While Emmy may have been suggestive, she had no idea what she was really suggesting, and it certainly did not include making out with her teacher, oh no. But that is what happens when men can no longer maintain their sanity. The insane among us lash out at the world, kissing fourteen-year-olds and grabbing at their young breasts. Gram pushed his mouth into hers, swallowing the screams, convincing himself that they were from pleasure, not fear, moving his groping hands lower, tugging at the button of her jeans, his hands much stronger than hers as they flailed, trying to scratch, to push, to pinch, hit, gouge, all to no avail as Gram pushed farther, feeling her warm skin beneath her clothes. She tried to kick at his groin, but the adrenaline flowing through his veins overpowered her own, and visions of them, both naked in front of a fire, feeding each other fruits and giggling into the night clouded his eyes, letting him see only fantasy, never understanding the horror that was fixed in her gaze or the poison in her tongue as his pushed it around, prying her teeth open, losing blood as she bit down.

Another moment passed, now with time frozen for young Emmy, her world being dismantled around her, but for Gram everything was happening too fast, his memories forming and losing detail too soon, not allowing him to revel in the moment, to take joy in the goings-on, to relish his victory. He had loosened her jeans, every kick from her allowing them to be slid down further and further, until they were at her ankles, tripping her as she tried to get away, sliding lower into his grip. He worked at his own pants now, his olive green khakis moving quickly to mid-thigh, Him moving his way inside of her. Her eyes widened as she felt the pain, and in a last ditch effort put her whole body into one swift movement, leaning her head back, breaking away from his forced kiss, and slamming it forward, stunning him as he pushed on, but only for a moment. She managed to take a breath before bellowing one quick scream before he was ahold of his bearings and able to force himself upon her mouth once more.

A fire had broken out across town, and as Emmy’s head made contact, a shrill, piercing sound came roaring down the street, just outside Gram’s window. The sirens wailed, the trucks headed towards a burning building. Emmy’s scream forced its way through the glass, and out into the world, being dragged along by the fire trucks’ cries, following them out into the city, off to rescue someone else from danger.

1 comment:

  1. This was a really nice post. In idea I would like to put in writing like this additionally – taking time and actual effort to make a very good article but what can I say I procrastinate a lot and by no means seem to get something done.

    Bruce Bent II