He stood there, towering whole four inches below her rotund scalp, a visage so sour, it could sour, sour milk at thirty paces, an angry blackening cane-shaped welt on the palm of each hand and a look of most heinous murder festering and flaring behind a thin bubble in his throat and at the back of each of his eye’s. Images reeled inside his fragile conscious of moments similar to this one along the course of his life. Flickers dating back even into his underprivileged childhood. Immaculate layers of grime and soot from all his hard slogging hours of toil that paid his fees – and unfortunately not his sanitation- sculpted on him and around the newest mark. It only served to highlight and inflame the sore. He shuffled awkwardly and barely bit back a deluge of anguish, with some subtle undertones of his current pain cropping up here and there. His attacker is a woman widely affirmed as the single worst educator in western Eastbromshire. As fat as that American, singer, Al Johnson, with pointed stubby ears much in semblance to a glutinous, bulbous, pigs. She sat heavily in a chair that protested in ways he couldn’t with each of her laboured movements. A large fire screamed its white-hot existence somewhere behind her, lightly searing her self-basting back. Despite this she shivered as in terrific cold which he likened to standing oneself in an ice house along with the confectionery.
His tormentor –the headmistress- as alike as to warrant him fifty utterances ‘they are not one and the same’ lest he collapse in sheer terror of his memories. This incident wasn’t because of any wrongdoing on his particular part, he just so happened to voice his qualms about how one of the students seemed uninterested in every mind-jarringly brilliant fact he had to impart, and instead would either hit one of the unfortunates around him or hurl abuse at any girl who wasn’t doing the same. He seemed like the sort, he said, who was only here purely to give his parents something to brag about. Though this was indeed a very valid point, he was unaware of the parents standing. Chunky, squat, ogres, that lavish their only child exuberantly and place him in only the top institutions, to somehow assure themselves that when their son eventually inherits his fathers business, he would work everyone to full capacity day-in and day-out. His slur he realised was the worst error any new blood made in any school.
Nevertheless she strode away from him to what ever beastly thoughts she was forming at that moment. Leaving him with a cut wage, extra hours and a ten ton weight of utter humiliation. He shuffled awkwardly barely biting back a deluge of anguish... with some subtle undertones of his current painful predicament cropping up here and there....
END
 bob regal · Thu Dec 04, 2008 @ 11:56pm · 0 Comments |
