Felicia King

It's a given that even the teachers die.

She wouldn't do so today and probably not tomorrow but the rot in her breasts wouldn't go away.

When the future was already handed to her all she had left was the past.

The linen underneath her had wrinkled and felt moist, her neck was stiff.

She pulls out another memory, they seemed so much clearer now, she remembered Sarah.

Why she didn't know, Sarah had never been a great student, smart but lazy.

She had sent off kids to Ivy League but today everything revolved around that memory of her.

She stood in front of class, her hair still reeked of peroxide, in the light it looked transparent and green.

A book report, that's right, it was a book report.

She opened her mouth with uneven pauses and she hadn't brushed her teeth.

Still, this was why she loved her kids, perfect in their invented imperfections.

If they only could remember to breathe.

This boy whispered, so that the girl behind him could hear, that she looked like a whore.

And Sarah looked at her, perfect in her brittle sand castle body.

The classroom was bright and the sun shone in on all the whores and the fags. The fat kids and the suck-ups. Why this memory was still there, she didn't know.

She opened her mouth.

Josh, that's right, his name was Josh and the book was Uncle Tom's Cabin.

What happened next she didn't remember.

Her mouth was open and now she knew exactly what she should have said, however she knew that wasn't relevant anymore. The guilt was since long over. That wasn't who she is anymore.

A haphazard young woman placed in that classroom that wasn't her.