Fight Or Flight

Chapter 14 - History

Author's note:

This chapter was very difficult to write and I will understand if some people think it is difficult to read, too.

**Warning contains descriptions of violence and strong language.**

If this chapter was a film, it would be a 15 (UK) certificate.

Chapter 14 - History

The school closed early. There was too many police around the school. Too much noise, too many questions to be asked.

An ambulance and police cars drove across the sports field and later people said there was all sorts of activity going on over the other side of the brook.

I didn't go home early. I stayed in school.

The police were around the school talking to those, like myself, who'd information regarding what had happened. They mainly spoke to teachers.

I was told that the police would come and speak to me, personally, at home, with my parents present. Mr Rudd, the headteacher, also told me that I'd probably have to make a formal statement to the police, perhaps at the police station.

But that was for later. Much later.

I wished it was much, much later because at some point I'd have to tell my story again.

The story I didn't wish to tell again. The story I had to tell again.

I was told that Mum was on her way to pick me up and take me home. I think it was Mr Rudd who told me. I remember, he thanked me for being ever so grown-up about things, for taking things in my stride. It must have been difficult. Such an ordeal, he said.

But, in truth, I was a mess. Every so often, I would burst into tears. Uncontrollable tears. Floods that wouldn't stop. Hot, wet tears that made my eyes sting. And I kept rubbing them, until they felt raw.

Until I imagined throbbing, red circles around my eyes.

I had texted mum earlier. Told her something terrible had happened, but that I was all right. Just very upset. I wasn't in lessons.

There were no more lessons.

Can U come and get me pls, I texted.

She came and collected me from a small staff room the teachers sometimes used, a room away from the main staffroom. A quiet room.

I wasn't to be left alone, I heard the deputy headteacher say, and I was confined from the rest of the kids.

Like a disease.

Outside in the corridor, it sounded like pandemonium - or something worse - had been let loose. I heard teachers passing, talking to other teachers. Caretakers talking to other adult staff.

I never knew they all swore so much.

Our Art teacher Mrs Phillips sat with me for a while. She brought me a cup of coffee. It tasted like sugary piss.

She smiled and spoke to me gently. Her smile was tear-filled. As if she knew something more but was keeping it from me.

I knew she liked Layla, too; liked her art work, especially. Layla may have even had a passing admiration for her, too.

Mrs Phillips and her crazy ways.

Layla would often say to me. And anyway, what's the big deal about having a husband? Then she'd say, Why can't I just call her Miss? No other teachers are bothered. Like having a husband is such a big, fucking deal to brag about anyway!