Emperor of Destruction [EDITING]

iv.

AUTUMN

Rule number one: Don't piss off an Elite.

I've pissed off three.

I can't concentrate on the lesson Mr. Devonport's teaching because of the Devil's eyes burning at the back of my skull. My knee bounces up and down subconsciously, and I struggle to keep my focus on the board and not on the boy poking me with his stupid pencil. I'm tempted to turn in my seat, grab his pencil, and break it in half.

I close my eyes, ultimately deciding against it. Bad thoughts lead to bad actions. My posture goes rigid when I feel a blowing on the nape of my neck. I tap my foot on the ground, immediately stopping when Mr. Devonport's piece of chalk leaves the blackboard, turning around slowly, narrowing his eyes at me with such disgust.

What the hell did I do to him?

I watch Devonport take a seat on the edge of his desk, crossing a leg over the other. "Miss Hawthorne, I have a few questions. If you fail at answering accordingly, I will not hesitate to send you to the office and have you removed from my classroom. Am I to be understood?" He inquires with a raised brow, causing wrinkles to form on his huge forehead.

The grip I have on my pencil tightens. My cheeks hurt from smiling. "Yes, Sir."

He stands up from the table, pacing around the front of the classroom with his hands behind his back. "Why did Adolf Hitler start World War 2?"

"He had a superiority complex. His craving for more land became bloody and vicious soon after. Hitler had an overbearing ambition to expand his territory. He knew that if he did, no country would defy his orders." I answer confidently.

Devonport stops and stares and goes back to pacing. The shocked look on his face is evident.

The next two minutes are spent with me going back and forth with him, a literal academic professor at a private school. You'd think they'd hire someone with class and not a man-child. Makes you question what the hiring process is really like.

"Who led the French Revolution?"

"Napoleon Bonaparte."

"How long did the war between England and Zanzibar last?"

"38 to 45 minutes."

"How many years did the Hundred Years War last?"

"A hundred and sixteen."

"What was the name of the research ship Charles Darwin traveled with?"

"The Beagle."

"What year did Hitler commit suicide?"

"1945." Thankfully.

"In which year was John F. Kennedy assassinated?" I could feel him gradually getting annoyed at the fact a student knows better than he does.

"1963."

"How many days in a week were there in ancient Roman times?"

"Eight."

I hear him growl out of pure annoyance when he returns to the blackboard. With one last sharp look at me, a scowl finds itself reaching his crusty lips. "Your efforts are commendable at best, Miss Hawthorne. But don't let sheer luck get inside your mind just because you know the answers to beginner questions." He sneers, a pinched expression on his face.

Before I can snap back a response, Devonport starts writing on the board, this time instructing us to copy and take out our textbooks. I ask Clem for the page, flipping to page 67, jotting down the questions onto my notepad, then answering them with a stimulated focus. It doesn't take long for annoyance to overflow in my veins when a hand reaches out, yanking my ponytail. A hushed wince escapes my parted lips. I turn around, facing the perpetrator.