Breathe Into Me

1.

Sapphire - MANCHESTER, ENGLAND (Present time - 2019)

I sprawl my faux leather boots upon the desk, playfully flicking with the flame on my lighter.

Quickly lowering my gaze to the front, Mr Brumen is face planted on the desk, hand unconsciously jacketed around his mug, painted with the words WORLD'S NO. TEACHER.

I let out a snide chuckle, smirking as I revisit the times teachers would infill our heads with nonsense, ridiculing us sleeping in class. The system is jammed with hypocritical bullshit - detention proves it.

Most of the students around me resemble the teacher's state - half eaten zombies and monotonous robots. The majority of us epitomise what this dumb boarding school stands for. After all, it is just a glamourised juvenile detention centre for delinquents, such as myself - if I had to refer to my parent's perception anyway.

If it were up to me, I see no issue in mucking around and being rebellious - we're only young once.

Why should I spend the cusp of my teenage years giving a shit what a bunch of ratty old teachers think anyway?

I flicker my lighter back, drawn to the sunset flames crackling alight.

My rebellious imagination runs wild, knowing with one simple drop, this godforsaken place will erupt into chaos.

Maybe I should drop this lighter.

The biggest harm it would do is shut the school down - a massive gift to me.

When you're already imprisoned, you wouldn't mind seeing your cage explode into flames.

At least that way, that'll be a viable excuse to return to the luxuries of my family's mansion all the way out in the country.

I'm not a city girl, never will be.

Around four million years later, the clock switches to five, concluding detention. I slide my boots off the desk, straightening out my fishnet stockings.

Unfortunately, as my boots slid across the floorboards, this awakes the teacher out of his comatose state. For a second or so, he's disorientated, moaning and murmuring something associated with chicken nuggets or rotten fish.

His eyes flash monstrously onto mine, narrowing when he notices my approaching figure near the door.

"And when did I say you could get up, Miss Forlorn?"

His bushy grey haired moustache furrows up to his nose, brows narrowed inquisitively. Mr Brumen grabs ahold of his best teacher mug and presses it to his mouth - he tantalises me like a tiger who's about to attack his face.

Undeterred, I simply roll my eyes, lips pursed together. "Forgive me sir, but I didn't realise I needed your permission. After all, you were asleep for most of the hour."

His face shifts into a bright crimson, and I'm pretty certain that's more due to humiliation other than anger.

"Don't you dare speak back to me young lady. I am your superior."

I laugh like I'm chatting along to an old friend of mine.

In a strange way, it seems like we are. Because let's face it, Mr Brumen is more of a certified babysitter than our actual superior. He's easier to tease instead of fear as a proper teacher.

"Drinking a cup of coffee with a generic message written across your mug doesn't make you a superior, if I may say sir. And if you were a proper teacher, you would know falling asleep, even in detention, is improper and unorthodox on your part."