Spoiler: Spoiler

3 days. For 3 days I screwed around. In this time, I piled all the shells in the center of our birth-crater. I learned my body. I got my plan. But 3 days did not prepare me for a sucker punch to the face.

I was dreaming of my first time teaching kids, and when I spoke about my beliefs. My ideas about the futility of humanity but the necessity to improve. All the controversy and backlash in response. I was a 34-year-old: chubby, short, grizzled, and hairy to the point of looking like a downtrodden hobo. My sense of fashion was a plain long-sleeve shirt and some jeans. None of it looked good for the School Board of Directors and none of it looked good for the parents.

And I remember little Gwen Tassel in my Third Grade class. She was ever vigilant- a watching and keen-eyed girl. Quite good at imitation too. She did well to mock the voices of her teachers, sing in mimicry of Celebrities, and copy famed actors’ one-liners. A bright future ahead of her, right?

When I became her homeroom teacher, she became puzzled. Who was this man? What is this classwork? Where were the Administrators? I broke down her pretty little paradise of a world and threw her into reality. Of course, I only did that by tying it into our lessons so the kids learned the coursework too- not that they would remember it. Her awed face, that cocked head to the side, and twitching little nose as her mouth threatened to scream. That expression on her face when we first started stuck in my mind.

She did not appreciate my teachings. She did, however, eventually submit to them. I showed them news reports. Political updates. Debates. World Finances. Taxes. The adult world from its basics and up. Then I made them consider their values, the impact of their actions, their end goal for life. They seemed somewhat attentive, but there obviously were those who didn’t care either way.

Little Gwen Tassel did care. She cared too much. She played soccer, studied, and did chores in a regular, upstanding family. But her neighborhood, according to reports I transmitted from the media, was in shambles. A knifing down the street. Daylight robbery. Infidelity. Human trafficking. Prostitutes. Destitute beggars. A little of each, but still a festering problem.

She spoke to her parents about this. Just a small, cute, and adorable child, with blond hair at her shoulders and a violet bow to emphasize her youth and innocence. A girl with a little Dor* brand backpack, some Di*ney Princess shoes, and accompanying clothing from her jacket and skirt's branding. A girl talking about the assault on Mr. Henderson or the abortion Mrs. Mackerberry had last Friday. A girl talking about unstable oil prices, about the stagnation in politics. A girl that left her childhood behind and became an adult.

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Sadly, or realistically, Mr. Tassel did not like this. He did not like the “brainwashing” of his child, the replacement of her mind with an alien, invasive intelligence which sucked the expressive love and purity that was his daughter. On an Easter Sunday, he rounded up some of his buddies and made a plan to strike at night.

When I walked home that evening, I found 5 men dressed in high-class: suits, ties, top hats, monocles- the whole deal. Fancy. But they wore masks and hounded me. I turned left to escape them. They went with me. I went right to bypass their wall of flesh and gentlemanliness. They moved in tune with me.

The silence broke when I tried to say, “Excuse me?” and they attacked. I cannot say which fellow was which as they were all of the same build, same clothing, similar mannerisms. I had more to worry about as I was being attacked.

But I do know I got a left hook to my right shoulder-blade first, dislocating my arm. I turned and ran at that time. But one of them behind me threw a straight punch into my chest, hitting my solar plexus. I dropped to the ground. The others then began kicking me.

I felt pain in my wrist. My fingers- stomped. My shins- smashed. My feet- crushed. My knees- practically caved in. My arms- a bruised, broken mess. They did not become lethal in their attacks; no, they aimed to make me suffer a crippled life.

Only my fetal position and my blubbery fat saved me from permanent injury. That and the fact I had good neighbors to call the police and the law not being as downgraded as it was in the future- when it all grew worse.

That time during the beating to my treatment to my rehabilitation was a burning and cutting pain to live through. Some of the bone fragments were missed during the operation and caused me an ache beyond anything I felt in my peaceful life. It was always itchy- so itchy I wanted to scratch my skin off in long, ragged strips and tear from my flesh the pain.

I spent my life until my late 40s recovering and finishing treatment. The court case to persecute the offenders came quickly after they were detained and arrested after a large search throughout the neighborhood and deep investigation. The media covered the entire thing: "Controversial Teacher Creating Little Adults Brought to Justice" and such at the start.

When leaked footage of my condition came out, the public came to an uproar. My court case passed judge to judge, each being unable to pass fair judgement from the alleged "psychological damage" I caused to so many children and my unnecessarily brutal attackers. Each of them I was unable to attend because of my medical condition, so the prosecution and defense had to hold until then. But the kids I taught came and watched.

The turmoil my case caused was, minimal- at most, it stayed within my general region. That is to say, for the first two years. Suddenly, some of my students I taught years before came to testify against the effects of my teachings.