The Void in the Corner

The staff room was loud. Always loud.

Not in the way a library hums, with quiet energy and restrained murmurs. No, this was the kind of noise that made one wish for a dark, unmarked corner where one could disappear entirely. A void.

And that was exactly what I had found.

It had started innocuously enough—a rarely used corner near the back, tucked behind the coffee machine and an outdated filing cabinet. No one sat there, no one noticed it. So I had claimed it. Slowly. Methodically.

A black corner. A sanctuary.

Dollar store gothic trinkets hung from a tiny wire I had strung across the wall—tiny skeleton figurines, raven feathers, ornate black candles that smelled faintly of lavender and nightshade. Persephone and Hades’ drawings pinned in neat rows: black cats, veiled figures, and tiny gothic mansions. My children were already masters of the morbid and the absurd.

And to any visitor daring enough to glance over the edge of my domain, I left subtle clues. A tiny sign that read, in faintly archaic script: “Enter, and your life will be sent into the Void.”
A warning, delivered in my internal voice: The Void where all missed assignments go. Where bad teachers and students are punished.

Most ignored it. Those who did not—well, they learned quickly.

I had iced tea, a notebook, and my own cigarettes—black paper, filtered, aromatic. Beckett brought his own herbal and dark chocolate candy cigarettes. Persephone and Hades, not to be outdone, puffed gently at their candy cigarettes, mimicking my ritual as if performing a dark, silent ballet.

Beckett’s presence was comforting. The twins adored him; he let them rest their heads on his shoulders, his gentle hands resting on their small backs as they puffed candy smoke into the air. I watched them, smug in my corner, knowing the chain reaction was complete: my calm had become theirs.

Of course, there were always interruptions.

Teachers attempting to lecture me on “role modeling” or “breaking rules.”

Students dropping by, loud, oblivious, expecting a reaction.

I never gave one.

I merely sat. Hand on iced tea. Smoke curling around my fingers. Eyes behind black eyeliner lowered just slightly.

Each attempt to provoke, to scold, to intrude, failed spectacularly. Beckett mirrored my composure across the table. The twins formed a triangle of stillness that even the most confident of teachers hesitated to breach.

One teacher, emboldened, waved a finger at me.

“You really shouldn’t be smoking in here—”

I looked at her. Slowly. Calmly.

“And yet, here I am,” I said. The smoke of my cigarette drifted lazily above me. “It appears the air is unchanged.”

She flinched. Backed off.

Silence returned.

The music debate came next.

“Background music will improve morale!” someone insisted. Pop music. Loud. Cheery. Painful.

“I prefer silence,” I said.

“Depressing!”

“Perhaps. But effective.”

When pressed, I leaned back, letting the subtle curl of smoke accentuate my presence.

“Gothic metal. Post-rock. Post-punk. Darkwave. And visual kei, thanks to my youngest sister’s influence.”

The room froze.

I played it softly from my phone. The low, haunting tones of layered guitars filled the corner just enough to create a subtle, morbid aura. Teachers tried to argue. Students tried to sneak headphones. The room, heavy with atmosphere, became a graveyard of opinions.

They lost interest. Peace returned.

Beckett leaned across the table, lighting his herbal cigarette. I responded with mine, a subtle ritual: our smoke intermingled, drifting lazily between us. Eyes met. Hands brushed. For a brief moment, the world outside the staff room vanished.

The twins watched, unimpressed yet amused. “Better than the Ant Hill kids club,” Persephone whispered.

Hades nodded in agreement, flicking candy smoke rings.

I exhaled slowly, letting the warmth of my family, my sanctuary, fill me. Beckett mirrored the gesture. A soft, indirect cigarette kiss—the light of our flames meeting in a haze of lavender-scented smoke.

I felt calm. Complete. Protected.

This corner, my Void, was more than a space. It was a statement.

A warning. A sanctuary. A ritual.

And anyone who dared disturb it… well, they would find their chaos reduced to nothing.

The iced tea was cold but satisfying. The smoke lingered. The twins puffed candy rings, Beckett smiled faintly beneath the mask. And I, Misstress, reclined slightly in my chair, feeling utterly content in the chaos-free corner I had curated.

The Void, after all, belonged to me.