We’re sitting in a crescent facing our teacher. There’s only one row: nothing behind me except the back of my chair and empty desks. I have one person to my right and five to my left. The boy to my right always steals my answers in class. But it’s okay because our teacher doesn’t like him anyway.

I’m barely able to keep my eyes open. I opt for the “elongated wink.” This clever maneuver is when I shut one eye but make sure the one facing the teacher is open; so I don’t look like I’m sleeping while getting some rest.

The lights shut off as our teacher walks around our line to roll over the projector. The boy next to me checks his phone, sending a small flash of brightness into my peripheral and then I am plunged back into darkness. I press my gnawed down nail into the palm of my hand, trying to keep myself awake. A lack of light is not what I need right now.

The click of the projector rings through the room and a picture of the Egyptian pyramids lights up in front of me. I feel the air change. Darkness creeps behind my eyes and spreads, taking command of my entire brain while a light buzzing starts. My whole body tenses up except for my head which drops to my chest. I’ve dealt with what was about to happen before, but never when I’ve been this tired. They don’t seem to hurt me as much when I can focus on my schooling.

The picture of the pyramids is still up but they haven’t done anything to me yet. I can never figure out how many of them there are, but I usually get an estimate -- only when they strike.

The boy to my right is texting his girlfriend while the boy to my left is laying his head onto his left arm and falling asleep. I’m sitting here waiting for their first move. I know they’re here. I can feel them looming behind some dank, moldy curtain. Only no one else can feel them. They don’t affect anyone else. Only me.

We’re five minutes into the period when the slide changes from the pyramids to a temple inscribed in hieroglyphics. Apparently this change of pictures is their cue. They step out of the fog and begin.

First, one of them peels my fingernail off of my left middle finger.

Then a trace down my spine with one long, jagged fingernal ends in all five fingernails puncturing my lower back, grabbing for some nonexistent organ.

My hair gets pulled to the left while one of them licks my neck.

A piece of skin five inches deep get ripped from the top of my right scapula to the base of my back.

The rest of my nails are pulled off in one go.

I’m sitting, shaking, tears in my eyes while the drawling voice talking about Egypt doesn’t stop to take a breath.

My kneecap gets kicked out of place in one, swift movement by a large black boot. The black boot is the only thing I’ve been able to visually identify them by. It’s a large mid-calf army boot with buckles and straps surfacing from every inch. No scuffs. From what I can tell, there are about 5-7 pairs of boots that are currently behind me.

My scapula is twisted out of place and thrown in front of me. I jerk my head trying to find it on the floor, just in case the paramedics need it to put me back together. But there is only carpet.

The slide changes.

It’s 20 minutes into class and their nails are scraping down my legs, digging until they hit bone.

I don’t let the tears roll down my face. If I cry then I have to leave. And my teacher loses respect for you the second you leave his class for a bathroom break or whatnot. I’m sentenced to my chair for another 35 minutes.

They show they’ve understood my dread by snapping my neck. Boom. Dead.


Not quite. My nails are all still there, my skin is intact, my scapula and kneecap are both in their places and my neck is not snapped.

Unluckily for me, their canvas has been rejuvenated.

30 minutes into the class and it happens again. Only in a different order this time.

Scapula.

Nails.

Skin.

Knee.

Neck. Boom. Dead.

40 minutes into class and the projector turns off.

Before the lights can go on one of them floats in front of me. I physically react jumping back in my seat. Its face was written with torture and hatred. It had no skin. Its eyes were black with no detail and born from hatred. The sick ecstasy it feels from creating pain pierced through its eyes and vibrated through my veins.

They use the time that it takes for me to process a visual connection to the pain that has been wrecking my body for the past month and use it to pop out my eye.

I react again suddenly clasping my hand to my face.

I was always good at keeping still when they were working. I never moved or reacted except for this time. Twice in one minute.

“Nora, are you alright?” the teacher asks me.

“I… I’m… I’m fine, sorry.”

48 minutes into the class: the teacher starts talking again, looking straight at me. He’s speaking about school but he won’t take his eyes off of me. They snap my neck. Boom. Dead. They screw off my scapula and throw it at his feet.

I don’t break eye contact.

I need to look alright.

I can’t arouse suspicion.

I need to be alright.

I need to be alright.

My kneecap goes flying into the lap of a kid three seats down from me to my left.

54 minutes into class and he lets us out early.

What a saint.

I stand up on wobbly knees and bend over to grab my bag.

A big black boot connects with my ass and sends me flying into the courtyard right outside our room.

I grasp my bag and leave without pushing my chair in.

I leave without saying thank you to my teacher.

I bump into every single person in the hallway until I reach the guidance counselor’s office.

“I need to talk to you,” I mumble, unable to make eye contact.

I’m scared I’ll see its face again.

She opens the door and ushers me into her office, leaving them at the door livid at my betrayal.