We were designed to feed for survival. What began as simple sustenance, a bulwark against decay, evolved with time into pleasure—and then, in sin, transgression. Killing others had been the same—just another necessity, now forbidden. But prohibitions meant nothing to someone like me, long severed from faith or its comforts.

Holiness never tempted me—not even as the most adored girl in the congregation. I craved recognition. My mother had been my sole measure of sanctity – until this new saint came to share her pew.

Joanne said she prayed for me every day. “The Lord will free you from your chains,” she said after discovering the aggressions.

Although I thought believing in some supernatural power was a bunch of crap, I felt her cry joined my mother’s. Sometimes, I dreamed she was in heaven, smiling beside baby Jesus and the angels like she always wanted to.

Many places had already seen their first snow on that chilly November morning. We still waited for ours, but the students wore their winter best. My classes moved swiftly, and the kids enjoyed some free time, doing Christmas cards as gifts for their families.

I watched them from my desk when I heard knocking on the door frame.

“Excuse me.”

That red hair was unforgettable. The small woman calling was wearing a pink blouse, white jeans, and sandals. Her glasses shone in the dim afternoon sunlight as she leaned into the classroom.

I got up and walked towards her.

“Hello, Mrs. Brooks. You look very chic, as usual.”

“Thank you, Ms. Graham. When you’re done, join me in my office. It’ll be a quick chat, I promise.”

“Sure! I’ll be there right away.”

Half an hour later, the director pointed to the couch, asked me to sit, and offered me a warm drink.

“The coffee is especially strong today.”

“That’s how I like it! Thank you.”

She chuckled and took a sip of the pitch-black liquid.

“Cunning, as usual.”

Mrs. Brooks rested her cup on the table in front of us.

“Tessa, some of your colleagues and students are concerned about you. And so am I.”

“Why is that?” I smiled.

“For the last few months, we’ve noticed some changes in your behavior. Don’t get me wrong, you’re still the ace among the teachers in class, though something in you has quietly slipped away.”

She turned to me and let her cup rest on the center table.

“You don’t smile anymore and act wary and scared. Besides, people are talking about—”

I pulled at the long sleeves of my shirt and coughed.

“There’s nothing to be worried about.”

Mrs. Brooks gave out a sigh and reached for my hands, holding them.

“Honey, it’s ok, take your time. Mrs. Davis and I are here for you whenever you need a safe space, someone to talk to, or support. Nobody deserves to go through situations that make you feel afraid.”

Tears rolled down my cheek as I nodded in a positive response. She smiled and let go of my hands, allowing me to finish my coffee and leave. My heartbeat sped up; that was the moment I was waiting for.

* * * * *

I could smell the gingerbread cookies filling the air. December greeted us, and the students were excited about the vacations, giggling and talking about their plans to enjoy the holidays with family.

The break was almost over, and Joanne, Mr. Patel, and I sat together, watching our angels. Mr. Thompson’s death had shaken the stout, towering Indian man. He worked in solitary silence for nearly a year—until the day Mrs. Brooks urged him forward. “You must set an example,” she told him, her voice firm yet kind. “Honor your friend by continuing the work he believed in.”

Matt Thompson and Shivansh Patel had been best friends since they started at the school, 20 years ago. They golfed, watched sports, and went fishing together; none of us could match his loss. But the director’s words lit a fire in him, and now we shared pleasant moments during the break, and he was back to enjoying his classes again.

Far from our patio, the kids started a slight commotion. Mr. Jenkins, the school janitor, walked at a fast pace. He wore his green coveralls, trustworthy black boots, and a basketball cap, covering his white hair and shielding his face from the sun.

As some of them wowed and whispered, we stood up from where we were sitting to see what was happening. He turned his head, looking for something, and carried a beautiful rose bouquet.

“It seems like he’s coming this way.”

Shivansh’s curiosity far surpassed ours.

“Look at that beauty. There must be at least twelve fresh roses!”

Mrs. Davis smoothed her hair with her fingers and checked if her perfume was still spot on.

“Their red match your outfit, Joanne.”

She winked at me, smiling.

“The color that makes women even more powerful, right? The bow is lovely, too! I’d look like a Hollywood star who won the Oscars.”

We chuckled and waited as Mr. Jenkins’ steps grew quicker toward our group. He took a moment to catch his breath.

“Good afternoon, everyone. Ms. Graham,  these are for you.”

As he transferred the bouquet to my arms, I gasped and thanked him for his time. He tipped his hat, turned, and left. In a fraction of a second, Steele was upon me, his face turning red around his ears. His breathing was fast and uneven. 

“So, did you like those flowers?”

“I loved them, honey, thank you.”

As I reached for the card, he scoffed.

“I didn’t send you anything.”

Steele grabbed the bouquet out of my hands, smashing it on the floor. He slapped me in the face and started yelling before any of the teachers nearby could intervene.

“Now you have proven to me you are a cheater and a goddamn liar!”

Before he could do me any more harm, Joanne put herself between us as Shivansh pushed him away. Gaping in awe, the students barely noticed their teachers yanking them back from the scene. Mr. Jenkins appeared again and helped contain Rick as he tried to lunge at me. Behind him came Mrs. Brooks. Not wanting to attract prying eyes, she redirected the fracas to her office, away from curious eyes.

There, Mr. Patel and Mrs. Davis consoled me because of my uncontrollable sobbing. While I waited outside, I could hear Mr. Brooks speaking to Steele, who mumbled his responses. He tried to justify his actions rather than be accountable, but the director wasn’t buying any of his excuses.

Half an hour later, I was called in, Mr. Patel’s handkerchief in hand. Richard sat on the couch as she asked me to sit in a chair before her.

“Ms. Graham, thank you for coming.”

I nodded, observing her deep-blue eyes. In contrast to her vivid red hair, they looked like an omen. “This in no way justifies the violence perpetrated against you.”

Rick grunted.

“Since I need to complete  the paperwork on what happened, would you be so kind as to show me the card you retrieved from the bouquet?”

Weeping, I reached for the right pocket in my black jeans and got the crumpled small envelope. I opened it, trying to undo the wrinkles. When I looked at it, its delicate design felt more beautiful because of its handwriting. It read, “Another year of a journey to be proud of. Happy school anniversary! With love, Shannaya Graham.”

 Though she insisted there was no need for context, I informed her she was the person who adopted me after my parents died. As the years went by, she habitually celebrated the date I got my internship with flowers. That year, she thought it was best to send them to the school, as I had told her I was busy because of the time I spent with Richard. The director frowned,  angrier than before.

“Thank you for your cooperation, Ms. Graham. You’re dismissed for now. Take the rest of the day off. You’ll need it.”

Joanne walked me to a police station to file a report and get a protective order. I explained the situation to the doorman and the janitor in my building. They told me they would warn the entire staff and everyone understood it was a matter of safety.

A week later, Steele didn’t show up to teach anymore. Mrs. Brooks informed me she fired him after handling all the paperwork and reinforced the security to ensure he’d never step foot again at school. 

* * * * *

The last day of classes was finally upon us. I said my goodbyes to my colleagues, wished them all the best and walked home. When I got to my sanctuary, my cell phone lit up with one of that disgusting leech’s messages.

Whenever I read them, either from the ones with “You can’t do this to me, you bitch” or “Please be reasonable, let’s talk this out,” I thought of Barbara and wish she had heard all about it. I had candles, popped some champagne, and sunk into the bathtub. The warm water embraced me, softly massaging my body.

I poured myself a glass of the sparkling wine and tapped it lightly against the bottle – a small, private celebration of how smoothly everything had fallen into place. The bubbles rose steadily, indifferent to what they were celebrating.

The fizzing sensation filled my mouth, and I remembered the steps to that victory. Steele’s insecurities made him an easy target once the last piece of the puzzle was placed. Getting Mrs. Brooks’ attention didn’t take long—Joanne was far too reliable. I made sure she was concerned enough to tell the director everything.

The parents’ eyes were following us, too. He noticed it when some mothers from Josh’s class stopped interacting with him. Our cherry on top was the bouquet, and all about the anniversary was true, except we used to celebrate it with a dinner. I’d go to the restaurant every year, but the way she made up for it when I told her I couldn’t make it and why came in handy.

I hated Rick with all my might. Not just for the way he chased women, but for how his mere presence needled me. Revenge had carried me this far, but I needed witnesses. And when he kept returning? That wasn’t charm—it was fate handing me a match. Now, it was time to burn. Once I’m done, Josh will have a clear path to his true mother.

I took a deep breath and felt the alcohol kick in. The phone vibrated, showing another message; it was Mia’s. I grinned, imagining all the possibilities it brought. But before I read it, I’d patiently plan how to kill Richard Steele and finally give his miserable, disgusting life some purpose.

Editor: Lucy Cafiero