Epic

          He crouches behind a blue sedan. With the stealth of a Marine he rolls and ducks behind a stationary truck. He makes a dash for a telephone booth with only a few more metres to the school entrance. Dressed in jeans and a bomber jacket, he pulls his baseball cap lower to cover his eyes.

          “Epic.” he thinks to himself. He zips up his jacket, its cold this time of the year.

          In an instant, he moves from the telephone booth, climbs the stairs and reaches the large wooden doors to the school. With a heave of conviction he shoves the doors open and walks right in. Knowing exactly where to go, having floated through the corridors a million times before, having suffered in silence throughout his adolescent life; knowing the sight, scent and taste of the acrid lockers.

          Nothing had changed, not the design of the yellow urine stains on the urinals, the peeling, chapped paint of the corridor walls. Recalling every nuance, mapping his way through the corridors with high ceilings, he kept walking - literally floating again. He had brought himself back here again. He was going to do it.

          Absolute silence, save for the sound of mean, archaic teachers slapping their blackboard dusters on the tables of sleeping students. Some children were milling in the play yard. There was a little boy at the end of the corridor that stopped him in his tracks. It was like looking into the past and seeing himself. Hurt, crying, not quite fitting in.

          The boy had seen him too. He could not have been more than 7 years old, yet his eyes spoke of centuries of wisdom. It was as if the little boy knew why he had come. The awkward, skinny boy with spectacles covered in white tape and knees covered in mud lifted a hand to wave.

          “Epic,” he thinks to himself again.

          “Eh, boy, run away. I am the bogey man,” he rasps, attempting to sound as evil as possible.

          The boy shoots him a quizzical look and turns to run into the play yard, not out of fear, but mostly because the little boy understood what was about to happen. He watches the little boy disappear into the yard. He rubs his nose with his thumb, reaches into his jacket and feels the weight and cool metal of his destiny, flicking aside a crumpled receipt.

           “This is it. Time to show them what we’re made of,” he says out loud.

           He approaches his old science classroom. The wooden door had a little window in it. He peeked through it, noting that Mrs Ang is still a whore, still strict and mean. She was too busy shaming a little girl with pig tails, probably for not having pretty enough handwriting.

          Knowing what to do, he makes his move. Grasping the door handle with one hand, brandishing his destiny with the other, he gently opens the door and calmly walks into the classroom.

         Stunned children stare at him, Mrs Ang appears shocked. Within seconds she recognizes him, her mouth forming an “oh” as he felled her with a single, painless slash to her neck. As she realizes that life is leaving her body, her blood sprays onto the blackboard. A drop or two hitting him in the face. He felt the warmth of it, heard the shrill screams of the little children and propelled himself towards them. One by one, methodically, he slashes life out of them. Not stopping to breath, spurred on by the sheer emancipation each gash brought him.

         He ignores the sound of screaming children outside the classroom, the banging of the door, continuing his mission. Banishing the evils of these poor children, releasing them from their cages, he continues slashing and stabbing and ripping the life out of the children until no one is left standing in the classroom.

         His jacket is covered with blood, his boots leaving bloody prints as he moved. Satisfied with his effort, he moves towards the window, which had been left open. He knew it would be open, since the centralized heating made classrooms unbearably hot and muggy. He deftly places his destiny back into his pocket, whispering sweet nothings to it, telling it how wonderful it was, saying how beautifully it did its job.

         Climbing out of the window and lifting himself onto the ground just below it, he hears the sound of crunching gravel, knowing he will make it to the safe house without complication. He feels deliverance; he has saved those children from tyranny, oppression.

          “Epic,” he thinks to himself as he slowly walks away from the chaos he started in the school. He feels proud. He has been successful, and he can only do better. Armed with only his destiny, he tugs his jacket closer and disappears into the suburbs surrounding the school. He hears sirens wailing, screaming children, agonized shouts and feels comforted.

          Another day will come tomorrow. This was just the first mission of many. It takes a true warrior to cleanse the children of China.

For the poor children and their families in China, I can only imagine the terror and pain you feel. I’m sorry I wrote it this way, but this was how it came to me and I can only write for you this way. This is the first flash fiction piece I’ve written in almost half a year. Much love.