My Dark Professor

My mind is poisoned, and so is my heart. These very things that should make me a complete human being are ruined. My soul is poisoned too. Dark and bitter. Everything about me is dark and bitter.  I'm always angry. Angry at the world and everything I gaze at. I can't help it. I was born with this poison. But the poison does have an antidote. Unlike the fairytales where the cursed prince's antidote is true love, mine is exactly the opposite of love. The relationship I have with the antidote is far from love. It's a passion, an addiction, a gut-wrenching need. My antidote doesn't immediately cure. In fact, it fuels the poison and spreads it until it can no longer be contained. My antidote is writing.   I write every day. It's the only thing keeping me sane. I wouldn't know how to live without the worlds and people I create. They keep me grounded.  When I was twelve years old, I wrote my very story. It was a short story about a boy who wanted to travel the world and visit as many bookstores as possible.  I was so excited that I ran to my father to show him my story. It was written in the black notebook he gave me for my eleventh birthday. I gave the book to him and asked him to read it.  The next day he called me in and gave it back. But the book was torn, and the front page blackened with cigarette ashes. He looked me in the eye and said, "You are a Williams. You will one day take over the Williams Company. You are the only heir; it is your birthright."  I smiled at him.  "Dad, I already knew that," I said, laughing.  "No, son, you don't get it. Do you know what it means to be a Williams? It means being strong and powerful. Not soft, not traveling to bookstores, and certainly not writing useless stories. You are twelve now. You'll be an adult in just a few years' time. What you should be doing is sitting beside me and learning how to rule the world. Not daydreaming about made-up worlds."  I felt my young heart shatter at his words. I didn't cry and scream, even though that was all I wanted to do at the time.  I took back my ruined book and walked out.  Because I was a Williams, and I was strong.  Being a teacher is f*****g brutal. Sometimes I wonder why I chose this path. I hated listening to kids talk about how they were going to be the next Shakespeare. Naïve young minds had no idea the sacrifice it took to get to that level. I humor them, though. I listen and encourage them because that is my job. To cultivate and nurture their dreams. Even though those dreams were unrealistic sometimes. Today I listened to them talk about the first time they read the 'it book', the book that made the most impact in their lives and gave them a life-changing moment.  "Mr. Williams, what do you think?" I looked at the girl who asked me the question. "What do I think?"   "What do you think about The Nightingale?" I try to smother a laugh but end up coughing instead. "Well, it's a good but bland book." She looks up at me in shock.  "You think it's bland?" "Yes, don't you think so?" Now I have the entire class's attention. They are all staring at me, shocked. But why? Because I think everyone's favorite book is bland or because I almost laughed, which I've never done in class before.  "No, sir. I think The Nightingale is the most captivating novel I've ever read. I couldn't stop thinking about it for a month after reading it. It was that good."   She says, her eyes bright with excitement. It was obviously her favorite book.  "Tell me, what do you like about it?" I ask, genuinely curious. I get a response immediately; she doesn't even pause to think about it. "I love how the writer makes everyone in the book important. There was no main character. I love how each character connects to the other and how I connect with them. I felt the emotion in every single word written. It was as if the writer was giving us a piece of his soul." A piece of his soul.  That was exactly what the writer gave away in every word he wrote. But I don't say that, though. "I'm glad you found it interesting, but why did you choose it?" "It made me realize how much I took everything for granted. Every breath I take is an opportunity to do what I was born to do. It made me go after my talent and love for writing, which was always present, just never acknowledged." Her words make my heart clench. I put a fist on my chest to soothe the ache. I didn't expect that the words written by a poisoned mind could have this much influence. Half of the class talks about the book they chose and why. Some I listen and even ask questions, others I ignore because they don't make sense. How could a book make you marry your crush? Or make you forgive your abuser? I don't judge them, though. I wasn't here to judge.  The other thing I hated about teaching was that I saw everyone, especially those who did not want to be seen. Experience has taught me never to ignore those. There was a reason they wanted to be hidden. I knew exactly how it feels to watch the world behind a curtain and feel like you don't belong.  I saw her. I saw her more than I'd liked.  She thinks nobody sees her, but I do. I read an essay written by a student in one of my classes and immediately knew who it was. She reminds me of a boy, a boy like her. He used to hide and never let anyone know about his gift. To some extent, to this day, he still hides.  Unlike the boy, this girl was like a bright star in the night sky, hard to ignore and look away from. Besides her brilliance, who could ignore those soulful eyes? Those black orbs looked like they could suck you right in and never let you out. They were heavy and sad, always sad. I wonder why? I shouldn't wonder about such things, especially when it concerns a student of mine, but I can't help it. I'm drawn to her in an unexplainable way, maybe because I recognize the poison in her too. The poison that plagues my entire being.  Right now, she's trying her best not to get noticed by me. Staring straight ahead and not looking in my direction, listening but not really paying attention. Smiling and talking appropriately, but her mind is somewhere far away from here. I wonder where she's at. I wonder what her 'it book' is? I wonder...no I should not.  I try to concentrate on answering and listening to the class, but my mind always wonders back to her.  Then finally, I gave in. "Lily Graham," I say. She startles from her slump, and she finally looks at me for the first time since class began. I meet her gaze, then immediately regret ever calling her out. I almost forgot the effect those eyes of hers have on me, how heavy and intense they are. "Y-yes, professor," she says, more like she questioned as if she couldn't believe that I called her out. "You didn't tell us about your 'it book.'" Her eyes widened comically in panic.  "I-I," she stammers. I should feel bad. I know firsthand what it feels like to be dragged away from your hiding place. I know the anxiety of being put in the spotlight when you least expect it.  But I don't. I don't feel bad because I like seeing her this way. Out of her head and actually present now. "Yes, go ahead, tell us," I say encouragingly, though my tone doesn't sound encouraging at all.  Her anxiety is palpable even from where I'm standing.  She shakes her head back and forth, making her kinky curls bounce along and scatter all over her face.  I feel that weird tingling in my chest and stomach again. It's strange that it does this every time I look at her. I ignore it like I've been doing.  "Don't tell me you don't have one?" I wait for her to speak.  It takes a whole minute for her to finally open her mouth and... and f**k, her voice. I've heard her mumble a time or two but never heard her actual voice this loud. Because If I did, I would never forget the sound of it. Like that of a siren, sweet and luring. It goes straight through my nonpenetrating dark heart.  "I do have one. It's called The Boy who has no Soul by Devewill," she says. Her lips are trembling as she tries her best to hold my gaze. I know I am staring at her unblinking, which can be unnerving, as I am told. But I don't care, I need to see and hear her again.  "Tell us why you chose it?" I ask. It seems the entire class has stopped what they were doing to watch us. She realizes it, too, because she's trying to duck back into herself.  I won't let her. "Why?" I ask again.  "Because I-I relate to the boy." I clench and unclench my hand to keep my body steady. Because I was ready to go up to her and shake her so she spills every thought she had when she read it. I start asking her how she relates to him but pause, this isn't the right setting for her to reveal that. We were a bunch of strangers to her, maybe she wouldn't want us to know. Anyone who has read that book knows how deep and painful it is. It fits her, this sad girl liking sad books.  "I'm glad you were all able to talk about your favorite books. Thank you for sharing," I say to the class then dismissed them. I pack my stuff and start getting ready to head to my next class. As I am leaving, a girl comes up to me. The girl whose favorite book was the Nightingale. I stare at her, waiting for her to get out of my way. I don't like the way she was smiling at me. "Well?" I ask when she doesn't say anything but continued to stand there. She clutches a book in her hands. It was the Nightingale.  Did she figure it out?  "I know this is inappropriate, but I was wondering if you would like to have coffee with me sometime," she mumbled, then blushed.  I silently sigh in relief. I thought she knew. But what she said didn't throw me off guard.  This isn't the first time a female asked me out on a date or tried to get me alone. And certainly not the first time I've had a student try to hit on me. I know how to handle situations like this.  I look at her seriously not even letting my lips twitch from the stern frown I have on. "No, I would not like to have coffee with you. If you would move out of my way, I have a class to teach," I say sternly. Her eyes widen in shock, and her mouth is agape.  "I-I, I was just-" she starts to say, but I cut her off.  "I know exactly what you were trying to do. I hate to burst your bubble and whatever image you had of me in your mind, but I don't go out with students. Especially not one disrespectful enough to approach me right before her peers."  She turns around to look behind her, finally realizing where she is. Some of the students lingered behind, and they were currently watching us with wild amusement.  Jenner, or whatever her name was, blushes even harder than she did before. She looked like she was about to burst into tears at any moment. I will not be present when that happens, so I move her aside and walk away. "He is the rudest and hottest man I have ever seen."  Again, not the first time I've heard such comments from my female students. Unfazed, I walk past them, not sparing them a second glance.  I needed to get to my other lesson. My head throbs with an incoming headache. I heave out a sigh. Why the hell did I ever think being a teacher was going to be easy?