Sanctified

Mr.Adams

Mr.Adams was my preschool teacher. I never liked him, even before the incident I just had this gut

feeling that deep down inside of that man, there was a darkness, the kind that just eats you'er soul

until there's nothing but an empty void. Sure, he smiled at you, praised you for your work, and gave

you a sticker. But there was an under current that just left my four year old's self suspicious. I didn't

talk to anyone, I was a recluse. I'd walk to the little building, it was only a block away from my

mothers apartment complex. My real mother, I hated her with a passion. In my youth I was blind, but

now that I know better, she disgusts me. I still to this day do not know who my father is, or was. The

matter is still in question, my parents suggested that I go and ask her myself, but I won't. Forgiving

and loving your enemies is what God would want me to do, but I can't forgive her, every time I try I

became enraged with buried memories. So I pretend she doesn't exist. But thinking of Mr.Adams,

brings it all back to the surface of my poisoned brain. I had a new mission, and Mr.Adams was in it.

Finding him was quite easy, since he was in a list of sexual offenders that lived in Brockton Mass.

This can be looked up by anyone, on various websites. Say you want to move into a new

neighborhood and you wanted to know if you lived any where around creeps, boom, a map that

shows you exactly where they live and who they are. Of course, I knew who Gregory Adams was.

It was a cold mid December morning, the air was crisp and fresh. I was keeping an eye out for black

ice, as for the last time it had snowed and rained I had slipped and fell. I remember being late and

making up the excuse that my mother had slept in. They barely believed me. My mother never

wakes me up in the morning, she doesn't even wake up. Wind blew and my nose burned from the

cold rush. I began to walk faster, the cold air finally settling into my once warm skin. The sweatshirt

wasnt enough anymore, the teachers woulnd't let me play outside. That was fine for me though. I'd

rather stay inside and play all be myself then be gawked at outside. They never talked to me and I

never talked to them, I came to an understanding at a young age that confrontation just leads you

know where but trouble. Playing with Legos by Yourself is much more fun I think. But everyday

walking to the small building, running into the door just to feel the rush of the heated space, was the

highlight of my small little life. That, and watching baseball on tv. The only thing I had in common

with my mom besides our hair color. The woman at the main desk looked at me with her same grim

expression, her stern beady eyes following me as I walked down the familiar hallway to the room

that had my name on the door. That's how we all remembered, in case we ever forgot. I walked into