A Lesson in Self-Destruction

I don’t like leaving the house.

This is not a preference.

It’s a fact.

The outside world is loud in ways that have nothing to do with sound. It presses, intrudes, insists on being acknowledged in ways that are inefficient at best and intolerable at worst.

Today, unfortunately, it’s unavoidable.

I adjust my gloves for the third time in less than a minute.

They’re already fitted perfectly.

That isn’t the point.

“You’ve adjusted those four times,” Diana says.

“…Three.”

“Four.”

“…Three.”

She doesn’t respond.

She doesn’t need to.

I can feel her looking at me.

I keep my eyes forward.

The car is quiet, at least. That helps. The windows are slightly tinted, the outside world reduced to something distant, muted, manageable.

Diana, as always, is entirely unaffected.

One hand on the wheel, posture relaxed, expression composed. Black blazer black dress shirt black leather skirt high heel boots. Dark red lipstick black eyeshadow black eyeliner and thick mascara as thick as our book collection and dark pink blush. Earrings catching just enough light to be noticed without asking for it.

Controlled.

Always controlled.

“You don’t have to come inside,” she says after a moment.

“…I know.”

“You can wait here.”

“…I know.”

A pause.

“…I’m already here.”

“Yes.”

Another pause.

“…It would be inefficient to not complete the task.”

“Mm.”

I glance at her briefly.

“…You’re enjoying this.”

“Yes.”

Of course she is.

The school is exactly how I remember places like this.

Worse, actually.

Noise without purpose.

Movement without direction.

Clusters of students forming temporary ecosystems of distraction and misplaced confidence.

Lockers slamming.

Voices overlapping.

Laughter that carries too far.

I stop just inside the entrance.

Diana doesn’t.

She never does.

“Come along, Becky.”

I exhale quietly behind my mask and follow.

Every step feels measured.

Deliberate.

Necessary.

Nothing here is controlled.

Nothing here is contained.

It’s… inefficient.

A group of students passes by, loud, animated, completely unaware of their surroundings.

One of them nearly brushes against me.

I step aside before contact is made.

Diana notices.

She always notices.

Her hand briefly touches my sleeve.

Grounding.

“Focus,” she says softly.

“I am.”

“You’re anticipating.”

“…Yes.”

“Don’t.”

I don’t respond.

Her classroom is different.

Contained.

Structured.

Quiet.

The moment we step inside, the noise from the hallway dulls into something distant, irrelevant.

I exhale.

“…Better.”

“Yes.”

Of course it is.

It’s hers.

I take a seat near the back.

Deliberately positioned.

Maximum distance.

Minimal interaction.

Diana moves to the front of the room, setting her materials down with precise, practiced movements.

Students begin filing in.

Gradually.

Reluctantly.

Some notice me.

Of course they do.

I don’t react.

I never do.

Whispers.

Glances.

Speculation.

Irrelevant.

Diana doesn’t acknowledge any of it.

She waits.

Patient.

Still.

Watching.

The room fills.

The noise rises.

Then—

She speaks.

“Sit.”

Not loud.

Not aggressive.

Just… final.

The room obeys.

Immediately.

“Today,” she begins, “we will be discussing interpretation.”

A few students shift.

Some interested.

Most not.

One, however—

Leans forward.

Eager.

Too eager.

I notice immediately.

Of course I do.

There’s always one.

The lesson begins normally.

Text analysis.

Themes.

Structure.

Diana moves through it effortlessly, her voice calm, precise, laced with that faint edge of something sharper beneath the surface.

Students answer.

Some correctly.

Some not.

She corrects gently when needed.

Allows space.

Maintains control.

Until—

“It’s actually about power dynamics,” the eager one says.

Unprompted.

Too quickly.

Too confidently.

There it is.

Diana pauses.

Not long.

Just enough.

“…Is it.”

The student nods.

“Yes. The entire narrative is clearly a metaphor for hierarchical oppression and the reclamation of agency.”

Silence.

A few students glance at each other.

Some impressed.

Some confused.

I remain still.

I’ve seen this before.

Diana tilts her head slightly.

“Explain.”

The student smiles.

That’s the mistake.

“Well, it’s obvious when you consider the protagonist’s rejection of traditional structures—”

They continue.

Words stack.

Terminology appears.

Not entirely correct.

Not entirely incorrect.

Just… misapplied.

Diana listens.

Patient.

Encouraging.

Dangerous.

“…and that’s why the author clearly intended it as a critique of systemic control,” the student finishes.

Confident.

Satisfied.

Certain.

Diana nods once.

“I see.”

A pause.

Then—

“Where, specifically, is that stated?”

The student blinks.

“…It’s implied.”

“Where.”

Another pause.

“…In the themes.”

“Which themes.”

“…The… overarching ones.”

Diana’s expression doesn’t change.

“Define them.”

The student hesitates.

Just slightly.

“…Power.”

“And.”

“…Control.”

“And.”

A longer pause.

“…Resistance.”

Diana nods again.

“And how are those conveyed through the text?”

The student opens their mouth.

Stops.

Starts again.

“Well, through the character’s actions—”

“Which actions.”

“…Their decisions.”

“Which decisions.”

The room is quieter now.

Noticeably quieter.

The student shifts in their seat.

“They reject authority.”

“Which authority.”

“…The system.”

“Which system.”

A pause.

Longer now.

“…The… societal one.”

Diana steps slightly closer.

Not threatening.

Not aggressive.

Just… present.

“Describe it.”

The student hesitates again.

“…It’s… implied.”

“By what.”

“…The tone.”

“Which tone.”

Silence.

I don’t move.

I don’t need to.

I already know how this ends.

The student tries again.

Faster this time.

Less structured.

“Well, it’s just obvious if you read between the lines—”

“Show me.”

“…What?”

“Show me where.”

“I—”

“In the text.”

The student looks down at their book.

Then back up.

Then down again.

They flip pages.

Quickly.

Too quickly.

They’re not looking.

They’re searching.

There’s a difference.

“They can’t,” a quiet voice murmurs from somewhere in the room.

Another:

“They’re guessing.”

Diana doesn’t react.

She doesn’t need to.

The student speaks again.

“They don’t explicitly say it, but it’s clearly what the author meant—”

“Based on what.”

“…Context.”

“Which context.”

“…The narrative.”

“Which part of the narrative.”

The student stops.

Completely.

Silence settles over the room.

Heavy.

Complete.

Final.

Diana straightens slightly.

“Interpretation,” she says calmly, “requires evidence.”

No one speaks.

“Not assumption.”

The student stares at their desk.

“Not projection.”

Still silence.

“And certainly not confidence without foundation.”

She turns away.

Just like that.

Moves back to the board.

Continues the lesson.

As if nothing happened.

The student doesn’t speak again.

Class ends quietly.

More quietly than it began.

Students leave in near silence.

Some glance back.

At Diana.

At me.

At the student.

I remain still.

Uninvolved.

As always.

When the room is empty, I stand.

Slowly.

“…That was efficient.”

Diana gathers her materials.

“Yes.”

“…You didn’t correct them.”

“No.”

“…You let them continue.”

“Yes.”

“…Why.”

She looks at me.

A faint smile forming.

“Because they insisted.”

I pause.

“…And if they hadn’t.”

“I would have corrected them.”

“…Gently.”

“Of course.”

We step into the hallway.

Still loud.

Still chaotic.

Still exactly the same.

Unchanged.

Unimproved.

Unaware.

“…They’ll do it again,” I say.

“Yes.”

“…Somewhere else.”

“Yes.”

“…With someone else.”

“Most likely.”

I adjust my gloves again.

“…It doesn’t stop.”

“No.”

Diana’s hand brushes mine briefly as we walk.

Intentional.

Grounding.

Certain.

“It doesn’t need to,” she says.

Outside, the air feels no different.

Still intrusive.

Still unnecessary.

Still loud.

Inside, however—

Everything remains exactly as it should be.

Controlled.

Contained.

Certain.

And somewhere—

Someone is already preparing to prove themselves wrong.

Again.