Seventeen Strangers and One Kindred Soul

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.