Mr. Willard

Mr. Willard stares at me from the crowd.

Everyone is clapping but him.

He’s only been my teacher for a few months, but he keeps following me home, and my parents don’t believe me.

I go to the foyer for a drink of water.

He’s there, waiting for me.

I try to run but my body smacks the frigid tiled floor.

My hearing fills with pounding and my memory blurs between screams and a world jerking about.

I shiver from something red and cold soaking my dress.

The light returns and my hands are gone.

Mr Willard is holding them.