Religious Philosophy

A girl and her teacher have a complicated conversation.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

            “Please say you won’t tell,” he said, his eyes flashing back and forth between my face and the closed door behind me.

            “Who am I not telling?” I asked, my gaze steady.

            “Anyone,” he hissed.

            “Anyone.”

            “Yes, anyone. This has to stay between you and me.”

            “Weird. You didn’t seem this antsy last night. I wonder what set you off.”

            He just glared at me. He had nothing to say to that.

            “Jesus. You’re eighteen,” he groaned as his head drooped over into his hands.

            “I sure am.”

            “At least that’s not a problem, right?” He chuckled weakly, grasping at straws.

            I stared, not laughing, or even smiling.

            “This is your fault, too!” he pushed, waiting for me to feel guilty, waiting for me to feel anything. I continued looking dead at him, my face unchanging, my posture stick straight, my hands clasped in my lap.

            “You seduced me!” he shouted, nearly pushing himself off his chair in front of me. This caused me to laugh.

            “Why is that funny?”

            I laughed and laughed.

            “Stop it!”

            They turned into giggles, my eyes closed and one hand to my mouth.

            “Shut up!”

            I stopped, my giggles echoing in the room mockingly.

            “Why do you insist on making this difficult for me?”

            “I wasn’t aware I was insisting on anything.”

            “You smart-mouthed little b***h!” He moved to stand up, but when I didn’t flinch, he realized it was in vain. 

            “It’s weird, isn’t it?” I say.

            “What’s weird?”

            I look around at the stadium-style seating of the classroom. Each chair had a mini desk on the side that you could pull up or leave hidden.  The room itself was circular, so the students’ attention was drawn to the professor professing down below. When there are two hundred bodies, voices don’t echo at all. Our bodies absorb the sound. But when there are only two people sitting at the bottom in foldout chairs face-to-face, echo is impossible to stop.

            “What’s weird, Jane?”

            “Don’t get frustrated,” I warned, “It’s weird that during the day this is a classroom… your classroom. Where you teach and spread your seed of knowledge.”

            It was his turn to stare silently.

            “I just wonder how many there were before me. How many times this classroom was broken into after dark because there was no other ‘safe place’ to talk. How many girls you begged not to tell.”

            “Just you,” he whispered, done with hearing me speak, which was silly considering how disconcerting it was for him when I wasn’t speaking.

            “Ah.”

            We sat in silence for several tick-tocks of the large-faced clock above the blackboard. My hands remained clasped in my lap, while he fidgeted and altered his breathing, still never taking his eyes off of me.

            “The worst part is,” he said quietly, “I still want you.” His thin lips melted into a smirk I supposed he thought was seductive or intriguing. His eyes eventually wandered from my face down to my breasts and then to my legs, stopping right above my knees.  I wasn’t wearing anything remotely revealing, but I still felt naked.

            I remained stone-faced.

            “I can tell you still want me, too.”

            I gave him nothing. Not a blink, a shift, a cough. Nothing.

            “C’mon Jane. Remember how good it felt to let go?” He finally started to rise from his chair. When we both stood, he was a head taller than me, but now he loomed as if a giant. He reached out to touch my shoulder, but I didn’t move. I stayed very still and blinked up at him. He pulled his hand away.

            “Remember how you squirmed? I do.”

            Again, I said nothing to his threatening smile. His teeth glowed against his red lips.

            “God damn it, Jane!” He returned to his seat, frustrated, nervous, scared.

            “It’s funny you say that,” I smiled with a closed mouth.

            “What’s funny about it?”

            “You’re my religious philosophy professor.”

            He looked at me, obviously not finding as much humor in the situation as I was. I hadn’t moved in so long, and my back was starting to ache. But I didn’t move. He would take advantage of it; consider it leeway.

            “I have school tomorrow,” I said, knowing it was getting late. I had a nine o’clock class.

            “So do I.”

            “Okay.”

            More silence. More tick-tocks. Usually I couldn’t hear that clock with all the talking and breathing and typing and scribbling, but it was so loud.

            “Jane.”

            Silence.

            “Jane.”

            “Yes?”

            “Why are you doing this to me?”

            “I’m not doing anything.”

            “Why… Why?”

            And before I could think to protect myself, he lunged at me, his eyes bulging and ferocious. His hands wrapped around my biceps and shook them with a violence I had never felt.  His fingertips pushed harder and harder into my skin; I could feel his heartbeat in them.

            “WHY?” He kept screaming. “WHY?”

            He continued to shake me, but I couldn’t move to stop him. He was so much stronger, and his face was centimeters from mine.  I didn’t scream or even whimper, but I tried to kick. Once he felt my legs move, he stood on my feet, causing me to cry out in pain. His question was unrelenting as he stood on me and squeezed me until there was no doubt in my mind that there would be bruises in the morning.  There was no point in screaming; he was screaming louder than I could, and if no one came to investigate that, then I was a lost cause.

Finally he let go and fell to the floor.

“Jane, please. Please,” he whimpered as he crumpled. I rubbed my hands lightly over the parts of my arms that he squeezed. They ached and pulsed like I had worked out for too many hours. I winced at the pain. I wiggled my toes, and although they hurt, I knew they weren’t broken. I could walk.

“Please… please…” he cried, tears streaked his creased face, leaving trails down his cheeks. Snot poured from his nose, and pooled on the floor in front of him. I watched my professor, who the previous night was so secure and sexual and powerful, turn into nothing. I stood, only flinching slightly when I put pressure on my toes. He looked up at me with pleading, wet eyes. I only met his gaze for a second before turning around and walking out of that classroom. I would never return.

Author's Note

this was an assignment i created for myself in which i use almost exclusively dialogue.

Reviews

[Keith]

Excellent use of dialog to tell a story. You managed nicely to reveal what a loser the professor was and how in control the girl was.
The story did leave me wondering who truly did the seducing. A nice little mystery unsolved.
This could turn into a great subplot in a novel. It gave off that feel to me.
Well done, Abigail

[Amit Parmessur]

The use of dialogue is always difficult... good job.

[Cascara (aka Sprint Goe..]

Good job!
You described the harrassment in a very realistic yet indirect way.

[Jinx]

Good story! Definitely set a very stoney, dark tone through the body language of Jane. It was the title that initially pulled me in–– I go to college at a very small, liberal arts school where a lot of the students come from a very conservative background (something I clash with, frequently). Due to that, I often find myself locked in debates over religion and philosophy, so it was nice to see someone's work touch on the subject! =]

[SilentVerses]

A story, like no other I have had the pleasure of perusing holds a logic and reality, in its firm grasp intelligence spills from the grip of your intellectual pen, and calculating still you allow a story to unravel, gifted a gem of wording passion your characters dance through the emotions you portray wonderfully, echoing through the hall of your classroom chasm seductive shame twirls behind detached eyelids of mocking cynicism. What excellence a short story grips to allow a wonder of literary grace. Strong and straight the story shows you its teeth and spits grit at the foot of those who sing out love.

[shoaib]

love the way you told this story, awesome work
i really think you did a great job