Preschool

Officer Brian sat at his desk, folding his large hands before him and attempting to shape his grotesque features into a sympathetic look. Dani sat before him, looking down at her bloodied knees and twiddling her thumbs in nervousness and fear.

“Tell me everything you know,” Brian said, calmly leaning forward as he started the recorder.

“It might take a while,” Dani whimpered, still in trauma yet trying to brave it out.

“We have time,” Brian assured her.
Dani took a deep breath to steady her shaky voice before beginning. “Well, you see, he was a preschool friend of mine. Mr. Jonson, I mean. He was my teacher, and he was great. He taught us in a fun way. But that's not the point! I mean, we all loved him, all the students and I, but he was just a teacher, you know? So throughout elementary school we never contacted each other. Of course I was shocked when he knocked on my door in sixth grade.

“I wasn't even sure it was him at first,” Dani continued. “He had grown a beard, no longer had that shiny gold ring he always bragged about, and had gotten new glasses. I sure wasn't used to seeing him without his horn-rimmed glasses and butt chin. My classmates all loved his butt chin. But that's not the point!” Dani stammered. “Sorry, I'm rambling. I'm nervous.”

“Please,” Brian sighed. “Take all the time you need.”

Dani nodded, wiping her brow with her ripped shirt sleeve. “So, anyway, he said he needed to talk. I invited him in, because he was a great teacher, you know. It was the evening, so dad was at parent-teacher conferences, and mom was working late. I probably shouldn't have let him in, but I did, because I thought we could, like, catch up or something.” Dani paused to catch her breath. “Plus, I was curious. Why would he come talk to me after all those years? Why me? Well, let's just say he wasn't as fun as he used to be.

“He came in and sat down on my couch. So I sat down next to him, when suddenly he gagged me and the cloth smelled like...well, I can't describe it. But it smelled kind of like detergent, or some kind of poison. And I don't know what happened next, because the smell knocked me out. When I came to, it was dark. And cold. The only light source was a candle in a corner, and the only heat source was the scraps heat of late autumn that managed to squirm inside the sealed room. I was tied to a chair, my hands bound so tightly I feared I would lose circulation. There was a gag in my mouth. There was a boy next to me, also tied to a chair, but not gagged. He had blood dripping out of one corner of his mouth. I don't like seeing blood. I never did. Mr. Jonson knew that.”

Dani wiped a few tears from her puffy red eyes with two small fists. Her tiny frame shook with sobs. Dani was small for a sixth-grader, with matted brown hair and matching brown eyes. Her face was encrusted with dirt, and there were a few tracks where tears streaked down her cheeks that imprinted to show her pale skin color. One cheek was bruised and one eye was recovering from a bruise as well. Cuts were scattered over her body, some recent, some so faint it was almost as if they were drawn on. Her body was clothed in torn rags, the imprint of a once lovely pattern worn down with time and lack of washings still lingering on the cloth. It was stained with as much blood and dirt as the rest of her body. She looked extra pathetic compared to the large Officer Brian, who sat patiently, waiting for the child to regain her bearings.

“Well, I guess all preschoolers did,” she hiccuped. “Maybe he thought I'd grown out of it by sixth grade. But I didn't. But that's beside the point! I was hungry and thirsty and cold, but beyond all, I was scared. I was frightened. There was a boy sitting next to me who looked in pain, and I didn't want the same fate as him.

“It wasn't long before the candle flickered out with a wisp of smoke. I heard the boy whimper a few times, and I cried a few times. I busied myself with daydreams of being back at home with mom and dad, and somebody rescuing me. Of course, there was no way to tell whether it was day or night. A few hours later, though it felt like centuries, Mr. Jonson came with a new candle that he lit in the corner. I figured that we were in a basement, because he came from up a flight of stairs, and the floor and walls were cement and damp with the dew only an untamed basement has. The only wall that didn't have just plain concrete was one with a blackboard, or so it looked like. He thumped down and turned on a light just above our heads. It flickered on with a ghostly yellow glow. It frightened me, to see Mr. Jonson's face in that light. You could see the insanity in his eyes. I don't know how I never noticed it before.