Incidents Around School

Death had passed by Johanna Henry twice.

“Every second of every day, every week of every month, and so on, and so forth. We have passed our deaths by the second. Marked uncertainly in our future, but written nonetheless. I should know.”

Johanna Henry let the words hang in the heavy classroom air, her eyes drifting to the rhythmic, mechanical tick of the wall clock before sweeping across the rows of desks. One, two, three... seven students today. Seven little lifetimes. Her own hourglass should have run empty two lifetimes ago, but time was a malleable thing if you knew whose pockets to pick.

Ms. Henry was young and glistening like expired bottled sunshine at the local stop-and-shop, terribly formidable to apply but pretty once she dried out. She had a bad habit of picking her teeth and chewing on ice while students tried to do anything but listen. You could not let her looks fool you.  

She taught fourth period detention at precisely 4PM on the fourth day of the week, every week like clockwork. “Rules make students,” she jeered, her plump red lips, sagging with deep, creviced lines as she puckered disapprovingly at the latest student to be tardy.

“Purposeful little bugger. That’s five dollars, Mr. Jenkins, and a dollop of skin for the jar.”

Some students whispered, some would laugh nervously. Others would avert their eyes but Mrs. Henry was known to collect the skins of students by whatever means necessary. It was rumored to be how she kept her pale, translucent skin so brightly radiant. It didn’t help that mostly the same students were at detention every week, give or take a few that had given too much skin, those students were the lucky ones.

Mr. Jenkins didn’t cry. None of the students did, it was too exhausting and only made the pain worse. Besides, Ms. Henry absolutely despised the sound of sniffling, or the smell of tears during their silent studies. He held his jaw firm and stiff, bracing for the pain. Instead of walking towards his desk, he made the short, arduous walk to where Ms. Henry sat. His wet sneakers squeaking against the worn-down linoleum.

“What did I say?” Ms. Henry quipped, interrupting him mid-walk. “No flip-flops, no heels, no horse-hooves, no sneakers. That will be double, now.”

From his pocket he pulled out a crumpled five-dollar bill, a set of ones and a few lose coins. His hands shaking as he laid them on the side of her freshly waxed desk. Ms. Henry didn’t look up from her grading. Her lips drawing the thinnest of lines as she pulled them inward in disappointment.

“Billy Arthur Jenkins,” she hissed, the words tumbling out with delayed interest, as though she was savoring every bite, every thought, ever sick and cruel thing she was about to inflict. “You know the tip jar only accepts crisp, neatly folded, or ironed bills. Coins are for beggars. Do better next time, or else.”

Ms. Henry quietly slid a pair of small silver grooming scissors, with razor sharp ends—the kind most use for cuticles, or cutting thread—across the top of her desk. Letting it sit in its weight right next to his crumpled money and a clear paperweight with an exaggerated eye.

None of the students had ever seen the tip jar. Ms. Henry normally put the money inside a fresh, stark white envelope—writing the students name, date of collection, and which part of the body the skin would be taken. The skin, that was the most interesting part. It also went into the envelope. Students would watch, woozily, as the skin was dropped in, right next to the money—on top of it—rather. The envelope absorbing the reddish-stain as it bloomed outwards.

It was the only time Ms. Henry ever really, truly smiled. A satisfactory smile that made students exhale for whatever brief moment they had.  

“Left shoulder today, Billy,” she whispered, her voice brittle, yet matter-of-fact. “The other side is looking a little worse for wear, a bit asymmetrical after yesterday. But it is a good thing that none of my students have ever died. You should consider yourself lucky.”

Billy pulled his shirt over the side of his torso as she wiped alcohol onto the site the scissors would meet skin. Her cold hands pressing firm as she traced the muscle, precisely where she wanted to cut. Her words turning into a happy, upbeat melody she would hum, like a purring cat on idle Wednesday. Something not quite akin to a church hymn, moreso what you would see when you think of tumbleweeds, and dusty bars in the middle of the day.  

It was a wonder she hadn’t tried making the students incise their own bodies—not that it would be too inhumane for her taste—it was moreso Ms. Henry took far too much pleasure in inflicting pain. She wanted it done a certain way. Her way.

The worst part wasn’t the sting, or the pull. It was that first uncomfortable snip. a wet, dull snip that made your tongue detach from itself in writhing agony as you felt yourself coming undone. She always made sure to cut in places that others couldn’t see. Stark little reminders. Places on your body that pulled every time you used a muscle you wouldn’t normally remember on day-to-day basis.

You couldn’t show an ounce of pain or make any noise. As much as she wanted to see, she didn’t like to hear. Soon, it was all over. By 6:45PM the bell would ring. Students would file out into the hall in quiet, orderly lines. Some rigid and limping, others holding ice over taped gauze. Ms. Henry watching them go with a newly awakened glow, her smile looking just a smidgen plumper. Her cheeks flushed and colored in a way that hadn’t been readily apparent hours before.

She pulled the stack of envelopes out from the inside drawer of her desk. Those would join the others. Most of which she had already sat out to bake in the boiling sun, cooked down to bite-sized pebbles by the afternoon heat until the ink dried into the blood and the names on the paper turned a deep, bruised purple.

With a delicate, freshly manicured finger, she picked a piece up from the tray and popped it into her mouth—the sounds of crushed ice filled the empty room. Tiny little morsels.