My Beloved Teachers

The greeter-teacher, the smirkier at the door. I feel his gimlet eyes at my back and though it is 5o years later and his mouth is now plugged with dirt his leer can be traced in the brown water stains of mottled walls. A female slave-unit whose name was ‘Miss’ I cannot recall her ever speaking to a child directly, only through the thin lips of her personal intimidator a third level teacher who spat into her ear as if sexually lubricating her fears. I am put right by a serial wrongdoer. A second tier maniac with a lust for rhetoric. His large hands flay like wind-sails, they slap books and heads. On, on, through narrowing corridors and echoing rooms counting sadists, ticking off a long mental list of ghouls all dead and gone except for the abusive drills. One dead grinning fish-head even opens a door for me as I leave forever.