The Scourges

Mr. Samson puts down the handouts he has prepared for his 11th grade students and then turns to the clock on the top of the wall. (07H57am) Mister Samson smiles at the idea that even today he will be able to fill, at least a little, all those little brains whose only interests are, the other s.e.x, stars often as pretentious as they are superficial, and party as soon as cla.s.s is over.

Remembering that today two new pupils are joining cla.s.s 11B and having less than three minutes before the bell rings, the tall man, whose mixed complexion suggests that his parents must have had a different skin colour, reaches out toward the top right-hand corner of his desk to grab two thin files.

Mr. Samson is not one of those teachers for whom teaching is just another way to get his cheque at the end of the month. The one who has a real interest in all his students, opens the first file and is a bit surprised to find only very vague information about the new student. He closes this botched doc.u.ment by the administration of his High School, whose work leaves more and more to be desired. His eyes wander briefly the second. Being no different from the first one, he puts them back on his desk, then he turns again to the clock whose hand jumps from 59 to 00.

Since he has reached the age of thirty, he lives painfully that little minute that separates him from the arrival of the pack that will soon enter his domain. His days in contact with all these kids remind him of how quickly time pa.s.ses and although he has married and has two adorable children, although he can"t understand why, his greatest fear hasn"t changed since he was eighteen years old. The fear of that day when he will come face to face with death terrifies him. Soaked in sweat, panting, every night he wakes up screaming at the mocking reaper to spare his life.

08h01am Following the (Ring Ring), no different from other days, in a deafening noise mixed with slightly hoa.r.s.e or too high-pitched voices, the door opens violently and to the sound of laughter, the rush to the places allocated at the beginning of the year, begins.

"h.e.l.lo to all! A little quiet, please. Jimmy, don"t start boring Gina. Vivian, let me remind you that this is a school, not a disco. Will you make an effort to wear a slightly longer skirt next time?"

"If you don"t like my legs, you don"t have to look at them."

Of course, one sentence from that little girl for whom fabric is a very secondary accessory, triggers a surge of booing directed at him. Mr. Samson sighs. As he does every morning, no less than five minutes are needed to calm down these excited students who, deep down, aren"t so mean.

"All right, now that you"ve regained a more or less civilized att.i.tude, I"m going to hand out some..."

[Knock, Knock, Knock] The timing is very bad, but his words are interrupted when someone knocks on the door. Despite his desire to ignore the unwelcome that is disturbing his cla.s.s, and to continue distributing his handouts, Mr. Samson rests his doc.u.ments. He doesn"t have fifty choices, and although appreciates only very moderately, that one disrupts one"s cla.s.s, he invites the person in.

It"s strange that if his students always have such difficulty concentrating when he gives his lecture, the impromptu arrival of an ordinary person can easily capture the attention of his dear childrens.

As the doork.n.o.b lowers, hearing the complete silence that has finally settled in his cla.s.sroom, Mr. Samson shakes his head. If he could compete with the calm of someone knocking on the door, no doubt he would be named best teacher of the year.

Slightly annoyed by this general curiosity that he will never be able to compete with, he takes a deep breath. With his eyes directed towards the door that opens, when a very tall blonde girl appears, the pleasant but rare silence is instantly broken.

He himself must recognize that although this beauty is young, the impression that her deep blue eyes seem to be able to plunge into the unconscious of those she looks at, cannot leave one indifferent.

To welcome the one who is to be one of his new pupils, Mr. Samson"s lips stretch to the sides. Now armed with his cordial smile, he takes a step forward and prepares to stretch out his arm, when another tall girl, who again provokes the excitement of the boys, puts her head on the shoulder of the very tall blond.

At the sight of this brunette with a mocking smile, all the horror of that night is break in him like a wave that makes him stagger. Unable to take his eyes off the beautiful brunette who has just joined the sides of the tall blond, so as not to fall down, Mr. Samson hangs on his desk.

He is still conscious, yet his mind is in a kind of second state between reality and unconsciousness from which he cannot escape. His fingers, deprived of blood flow, become white as they crash against the wooden furniture.

Immobile, facing his students who look at each other without being able to understand the situation, his eyes are open, but too immersed in a past that his mind has obscured to protect a traumatized young man, his boiling brain is no longer able to process the information they send him.

"What am I going to do with you, Jamal? A crazy? Kill you? Ignore your presence? There are so many options, that I have to tell you, I"m a little hesitant."

He remembers Terence. His severed arm, from which a fountain of blood gushed forth. He sees an emotionless Troy drop his axe in the direction of his friend"s skull. He thinks back to that moment when the clouds dissipated. As if he was bathed in the pure light of a full moon wishing to illuminate the scene that was being played out, to the sound of a watermelon being smashed with a baseball bat for fun, this skull that under the sharp blade split in two before bursting in all directions. Of a Troy screaming like a beast as he tried to tear out the axe deeply embedded in the body of a headless Terence, and finaly, to pick up the one that bathed in his friend"s blood. How could he forget the nightmare he been living that night? The drama which unconsciously triggered him to reconsider his priorities and life choices?

"Isn"t it a beautiful vision that these two intimate friends offer us?"

That voice, he knew that voice very well. All the way to the playground, he"d been talking to this beautiful, naive girl. He wanted her so badly that he secretly hoped he could enjoy her body before to make her into a toy that he and his friends would slaughter. However, during this toy hunt nothing happened according to his wishes.

That night, subjected to the most extreme terror, he knew that if Troy came to claim his head, he would have neither the strength to fight, nor even the strength to run for his life. Yet, when he heard these sarcastic words coming from his back, he found the courage to turn around.

She was there! Negligently sitting on the roof of the car. As beautiful as ever with her long legs rubbing gently against the windshield and her small feet resting on the hood. Her pretty dress was still as clean as when they had picked her up not far from her home.

When, after a little laugh, the pretty girl"s big eyes plunged into his own, he was able to experience Troy"s ordeal.

In a total darkness that only the dim light of his flashlight could break, corridors after corridors, getting wrest pieces of flesh torn off, deeply claw until his bones were visible and even getting a finger cut off, facing this mocking reaper that haunts his nights but whose face he could not discern, his friend ran away as much as he could.

His head deformed by the pressure of the girl"s hand as she crushed his skull against the concrete floor. Of the blood who dripping from his eye sockets when a cracking sound echoed through the ruined building. The smile of the beautiful girl bringing her pink lips close to his face. The few inaudible words she whispered in the hollow of his friend"s ear before allowing him to get up. They were only a few words, but they must have been the cause of Troy"s transformation, because when he straightened up, his eyes contained no longer trace of life.

"Don"t worry about your friend Troy because after all, to him, you were just a lackey, just good enough to work in the cotton fields. Now, let"s move on to the second act. Curtain up! Act 2 - Scene 1 - Troy"s mutilation by Troy."