Mr. Thompson was the Fourth Grade Math teacher. He was sure
of this. He was sure that he was Mr. Thompson. For some reason that seemed just
about as certain as the look on the students’ faces as they saw the man’s ego
contort to an unimaginable extent. Mr. Thompson’s existence, in his head, was
slowly, but surely fading away; although, he knew it wasn't slow. He knew that
the past second felt like an eternity to him. Concepts like time and existence seemed
to alienate him. He felt betrayed that he was left in a world like the one he
was in: a world of hopeless disorientation.
It was the morning of the Sixth of October when little Timmy
glanced at his parents fighting over the last loaf of bread. Timmy always felt
detached from society; he was an outcast like a horse among donkeys, although
he would tell you that he was the donkey, no doubt. He was one of the few children
on the planet who liked to go to school. It was his escape, his solace. He
enjoyed plucking flowers for Mrs. Beasley just about as much as he enjoyed Mr.
Thompson’s classes. He felt close to Mr. Thompson. He looked at him as if he
were an enigmatic father figure. The only reason he was enigmatic to Timmy was that he was always afraid of talking to him. Timmy did, however, solve
all the problems in class and when Mr. Thompson recognised Timmy’s math skills,
he handed him a Rubik’s Cube. Timmy became obsessed with it. He would play it
in recess, in between classes, even in the time he had allotted to pluck Mrs.
Beasley’s flowers.
Many flower-less ponytails later, Timmy had finally solved
the cube and had come to class with an elusive sense of pride. He would show
what he had done to Mr. Thompson and he would finally have a man to look up to
and admire; a man to confide in. Timmy wanted to know what he had to say, the
joy allowed him to sleep with a smile on his face after many nights.
Mr. Thompson felt alone and helpless on the Sixth of October.
His head seemed to be floating up above his head and he felt his view was elevated.
He felt the angels calling him from above and the devil urging him to give him
company. The angel and devil upon his shoulders were making love. There was no
right, no wrong. Mr. Thompson was in the midst of mental breakdown in the
middle of a class filled with eight year olds.
Memories seemed like glimpses, flashes, like specks in the
infinitely wide spectrum of life. Memories of him being bathed as a baby, of
him learning to throw a football, of his wife, her scent. She possessed him.
Then he saw it, he saw what he had forbidden himself from seeing. He saw her asphyxiated
face and her disfigured neck. He fell deeper and deeper into the abyss.
It was strange. Mr. Thompson was incoherent on the Sixth of October,
unlike his usual self. Timmy was mildly worried with the tepid manner of his
class. There was no excitement, no rush. It was dull, not much of an escape. As
the class wore on, Timmy saw something, a brief look of extreme alienation,
something familiar to Timmy. He kept his empathetic gaze on the disoriented Mr.
Thompson as he dropped the chalk and gazed aimlessly at the board. The children
looked around quizzically, but Timmy held his gaze. His eyes met Mr. Thompson’s
and he smiled as he showed him the solved Rubik’s cube.
Mr. Thompson felt as if his world was crumbling in the space
of a few seconds. He realized just how much of a loner he had become. He lived
alone, had Nine pairs of clothes and they were housed in a closet that had more
books than clothes. He switched on his Television almost as often has he fed
his goldfish. He liked the goldfish for his unobtrusive nature, in fact. It all
made sense. He felt empty and he had finally realized why. He looked up at the
blonde kid with blue eyes in the second row of the classroom, the only one who
seemed not to mind the fact that Mr. Thompson was in his company every day. The
kid smiled at him and showed him a solved Rubik’s cube. The kid had finally
done it…. Timmy had finally done it.
He instinctively smiled back as it all settled down. He was
okay. It had been fifteen years since the Pandora’s Box that was his ego had
been stuffed to its brim. It was never opened until a random day, in a random room
that had Seventeen strangers and One kindred soul.
It was a shattering orgy of great realization and empathy.
