Our teacher stormed in with an expression on his face like to that of a Spartan warrior entering a battle against demons straight from hell, overflowing with anger and absolutely abounding with abundant animosity.
“Who was it?” he screamed, the violent waves of his thunderous voice shaking the classroom alike with the lives of the students in it. He started walking toward me, looking me straight in my compunctious eyes. A flash flood occurred in the palms of my hands and they were raining with sweat. “Was it you?” he boomed.
“I don’t know,” I said, my voice and body trembling like an earthquake.
My statement acted like gasoline to the wildfire in his eyes as they raged with a new hatred.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” he howled.
I felt as if I were conjuring a tornado that would thrash the entire world around me, but I continued. “It wasn’t me who got caught,” I said with submissive confidence. It was the end for me, but I would go out strong. “I’ve already seen it.”
My weather forecast was correct. With a windstorm of words not meant to be said at school destroying my ears, the teacher punched a desk. There was a crunching sound, and I couldn’t tell whether it was the wood of the desk or the bones of his knuckles. I imagined my skull making a similar sound if the teacher got what he wanted.
The principal opened the door right after the teacher threw his computer at it. “What’s going on in here?” she yelled, her voice cracking through the chaos like lightning.
The teacher stopped, looked at me, and said, “He knows.”
After a brief pause, the principal spoke. “Kill him.”