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.