Diary of an average author

Confess

I was offline last night. Mostly because it has been a long time since the WiFi has been scolded? I don't know.

Well, while I was offline, I went through my library because it's the only thing accessible while offline. There I saw this book.

"Confessions & stories" by @WritingDuh

I read it. And then I thought of anything I'd like to confess. And then I figured out, "yup! I have a big secret".

I'm afraid of sticks.

Peculiar? I know. I don't remember when exactly I developed it—maybe two years from now? Three? —but I do remember how I developed it.

Four years ago, I joined an academy. There was a professor there, he taught us— my class mates and I — sciences. Biology, chemistry and physics class where a daily thing, and we were supposed to take three of them consecutively the first thing when we arrived. Take a test first, then attend a lecture, the professor will give you an assignment to be completed till tomorrow, and then you go to the other classes.

That professor, I'm not gonna name him, had a stick. It was a thick bamboo stick, as thick as your thumb, with a 3mm thick tape coating. And when anyone forgot an assignment, or failed three tests in a row, he/she had to face the stick. The children called it 'bone-crusher'— named after a giant from the children story 'bfg' by Roald Dhal— and the 'bone-crusher' was not afraid of being used.

Yes. It was used on girls too.

I was a serious exception though. The professor had a.... liking towards me. So, if others messed up too bad, they'd face the bone-crusher. If I messed up even in the slightest, I faced bone-crusher twice.

No mercy.

I remember I was late for class once, only by a two minutes. The professor told me I was 'very late' and too 'get the hell out of my class and stand out side'. I missed the test that day. My feet were hurting by the time the man came out and then he made me stretch out my palm, my right palm. I took two blows of the stick, full force applied. My hand swelled, there were two welts which lasted for days. And then I was 'instructed politely' to take a question paper and solve it as an assignment ten times, to be submitted by the end of day.... which was in four hours.

With my welted, hurting hand, I wrote  that assignment. And the remark I got was an 'ok, don't be late tomorrow'.

I had faced that stick many times before that. And did many times after that too. Once, I passed a test but only by five marks. Three times assignment, a strike with a stick.

There are so many times I came face to face with that stick, I can't count. I told my parents. They talked to the professor and the principal. The stick went away for a few months. But then it reappeared.

Because of my fear of the bone-crusher, I became the most brilliant student of the academy. I wasn't proud of it, it was not by my own will. But everyone else seemed to be so happy, I didn't tell them that I didn't liked being called 'brilliant', 'intelligent' or 'the best'.

Ninth, tenth and a couple of months of eleventh grade, I faced that stick, and did my best in academic field to escape facing it. I was the most obedient, most punctual, and excellent student in the academy, and trust me, I'm not exaggerating here.

When did I realise my fear was legit?

A few months ago, a friend of mine picked a stick from the ground, and quite mockingly raised it to hit me.

I screamed. It was like my heart had stopped for a while and I couldn't breath. I fell backwards stumbling on my steps, but braced against a wall. My friend didn't realise what had happened. She still doesn't. I never really explained it to her.