The class of Samwell Mortom was talking wildly as their teacher entered the small, packed room and dropped his leather case heavily on the desk. Everyone but Samwell was chatting off happily about the latetst gossips and experiences of last weekend. The teacher, a man in his forties with a smell of sweat and cigarettes, raised his voice without success. A few more attempts proved enough to silence the class. He introduced himself as their new teacher for Humanities. Samwell looked outside the window and gazed vaguely into the distance. It was his first day on a new school in a new year and already he longed for all to end.
His life had changed drastically last year with his mother her terminal illness. Next, his brother got shot by a police officer while trying to steal medicines from a local pharmacy. With both his mother and brother in lethal danger it was just father and Samwell who could raise income. But hospitals were always hungry for more money and so Samwell's family was forced to leave their house and move to some suburb town where street fights were common cause for commotion. Father took up two jobs to pay the rent, write hospital bills, fund colleges and even save some to buy a few shabby meals.
Samwell remembered those days too well. The day-to-day ride up and down the hilly roads to the hospital and his father trying not to cry as he kept changing to the wrong gears. His mother comforting him with her charming smile and softly squeezing his hands meanwhile asking how school was going. The tears would always come when he watched his older brother. At least, he still thought of him as an older brother, though the boy in coma was more skin and bones than a grown man in the blooming of his manhood. The broad muscled shoulders had shrunk and exposed the shoulder cap as the bone stretched out the skin as to pierce through it. He tried to remember his brother for who he had been. But memories were fading away and all that remained was the face of a sleeping boy with bandages wrapped around his head.
His mother always said the same thing when they were about to leave: "Sam, boy, I am proud of you, just know that." Samwell had known that for sure, but also many other things he got to know. Like lying to the people asking how he was doing, answering they were all getting through and doing just fine. Like telling his friends he didn't feel good tonight and couldn't join the party, just before joining his father at the corner of the street and walk for miles and miles around delivering packages to unfriendly customers who told him to hurry up next time. Oh yes, he had got to know it all. Samwell Mortom knew it all too well.
He didn't pity himself for knowing his life had turned out quite different to what his dreams had prophecied him. He didn't hate his fellow neighbours for having healthy parents and a brother to play baseball with. But most of all, he didn't want to be in that small, smelly room wasting his time on social stratification or chemical equations. What did the people writing such matter knew about problems? For Samwell Mortom knew it all too well.
Then there was this teacher who had surely read his 'file' and was most likely going to act all sympathetic and interested. After all, he was only a 'one year project'. This year here, next year gone before his eyes and done with the problems. The teacher wouldn't know better, just like Samwell would know better than to believe the disillusion.
"Samwell Mortom" it suddenly rang through the class. A few nervous glances caught Sam's attention as the teacher looked at him with those weary eyes. Oh yes, he is thinking it right now, what a sad little b*****d that is. "That will be me yes."
"Well then Samwell, why don't you tell us something about yourself. Since you are new, why don't you tell us where you came from?"
What would you like me to tell you, how my mother is going to die and my brother is a criminal. "Well, you can just call me Sam to start with. I am from Twinstone, a little village up north. Lived there pretty much all my life and moved just a few months ago. I used to play baseball, but lost interest for it, same for the guitar."
"Alright Sam, pleased to have you here with us. I am sure we will all help you out in this new year, won't we guys?"
A few mumbling agreements and short nods was above Sam's expectations. The rest of the lesson was spent talking about new school rules, exam dates and an introduction to the first chapter of the book. When finally the school bell signalled the end of the lesson and Sam was already at the door, a calm voice made him freeze to the spot: "Oh Sam, can I talk to you for a minute, it's nothing to worry about."
"Sure, mr. ..." Sam hadn't caught his name while introducing himself to the class.
Sam waited for all the other students to leave the room and closed the door. Nothing to worry about. We will see about that.
"The name is Jonathan Mortom, I see my first lesson was very memorable."
Sam was quite startled to hear they shared the last name, though it was probably all they could possibly have in common."I am sorry, mr. Mortom, it's just that I have a lot on my mind lately."
"I believe you do. It happens to be that I wanted to speak to you about just that."
Oh yes, there we go. You think you can play this game so easily with me right, well you're wrong about that, Mr. Mortom. "I am not sure I understand what you mean."
"Come now, Sam, I don't mean to cause unnecessary problems. I only like to say that I have been informed about your history. If there is anything I can do to help you through this school year, you only need as much as give me a sign."
This year, right, and then I can s**t my own pants. "Well, there is one thing you could do..." Within the blink of an eye Sam had punched the man in his face and pulled the gun out of his bag, loaded and all. "Help?! You know nothing about help. Have you ever walked those stairs up believing you'd seen them for the last time. Did you ever felt like each morning was another slash of the whip, torturing you for hours and hours on end. Did you ever .." Tears ran down Sam's face and the gun shaked in his hands. He pointed the gun in the direction of the man's face. "Do not dear to tell me you know how it must feel."
Already people began to scream as they watched from behind the glass what horror unraveled in the classroom. Sam payed them no heed, all he did was watch those the eyes of his teacher. He read them like his favourite book. Skipped no detail, registered every movement and was left hungry for more. As much as he hoped to, Sam didn't read fear in those eyes. All they did was gaze back like some stupid bird. Mr. Mortom lay there on the ground, leaning against the wooden desk. His face hid any emotion and seemed almost to be frozen.
"Put that gun down, nice and slowly. Whatever you do, keep calm. We can solve this by other means. Just put it on the ground." The security guard held his own gun somewhat awkward as if he hadn't used it for years. The guard was old, little hair remained on his head.
Sam had diverted his eyes but his gun had remained pointing towards the figure on the floor. He took a slow, but large, step towards the door which made the guard tense up and regrip the pistol. A nervous smile slipped his lips as he spoke again with a low voice. "Easy there, son, just put the gun on the ground. Nice and slowly. We can still work this out alright, nothing bad has happened yet. Let's just stop this OK?"
Sam straightened his back and threw the bag he was holding to the guard.
"OK, now the gun, son, put the gun down." Tears began to swim in the eyes of the old man.
"Father" Sam said, while pointing the gun towards the glass. Screams echoed through the hall as everyone dived away from the gun's gaze. "I just want you to know I am proud of you, all too well."
"For God's sake, Sam, please stop this. Don't... don't..." Sam's father trembled heavily as he took a step into the classroom. "I know it's my fault, I should have been stronger, but..." More tears fell down his cheeks and his eyes started to turn red.
"I know it all too well, father." And with that Samwell raised his arm as to shoot down the guard. But the old man reacted surprisingly fast. He shot a bullet which drove itself straight into the boy's head. Blood ran down the body's face and spread across the floor. Chair legs turned red and drank the liquid eagerly.
But that was all nothing compared to the guard's mourning cries for his dead son. Dead, all too well...
Acropolix
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