Skool Daze

The metallic scream of the bell heralded yet another hour of torment for Nicholas Wellings. It was 10 o'clock Tuesday morning and time for another 60 minutes of mind destroying mathematics. The very mention of the word arithmetic sent a wave of nausea through Wellings' stomach. 
 
Within the confines of the maths room his body co-ordination seemed to leave him, his very thoughts became disjointed, chaotic. Such was the extent of fear this subject instilled within him. 
 
The very idea of being forced to participate in the brain numbing horrors of maths itself was terrifying enough but what made it a hell on earth was the presence of the subject master, Mr Swaile. He seemed to take an almost unholy delight in singling out Wellings to answer the most complicated of mathematical equations. He knew the boy had no aptitude for the subject, yet still he endeavoured to humiliate the child in front of his schoolmates. The concepts of mathematics were totally alien to Wellings' mode of thought and the only thing he gained from these periods of pained degradation was a severe inferiority complex. 
 
Again and again those terrifying words would ring in his ears, 'Wellings, come to the front and work out the equation by yourself and explain it to the rest of the class.' 
 
Again and again the command would force the same violent reaction from him, a trembling of arms and legs, a dull dizzy sensation in his head, a sickness in his stomach and on his face the blank expression of one whose mind was in a silent and paralysed panic. 
 
Inside his head his thoughts were a boiling cauldron of confusion, hate and fear intermingled. Hate for this vile man, who seemed from sheer spite to single him out for this torment alone, but the hate was overshadowed by the fear. It was not just a physical fear, it was something far worse. Swaile was not a large or powerful man but he had mastered the black art of sarcasm to an unnatural degree of cruelty. With a single sentence he could whittle the most resolute of pupils down to a tear stained, impotent jelly. 
 
To Wellings' mind it seemed this man had reserved his powers of character destruction for him and him alone. 
 
To the rest of the class Wellings' was a bumbling incompetent, one of the no hope, halfwits. They revelled in his discomfort, in his embarrassed mumblings and clumsy attempts to solve the unfathomable equations before him. 
 
'Sit down Wellings,' Swaile would snort, ' Ebbson, come and show this fool how the problem should be solved.' 
 
Everyday his humiliation would end with a similar contemptuous dismissal. The smiles on the faces of his classmates seemed to him more like the twisted grins of demons than the jibes and smirks of schoolchildren. 
 
He hated Swaile and because of his sufferings had learned to hate the other children in his class. He had no friends, nobody wanted to associate with the class idiot, they felt uncomfortable in his presence. 
 
During the lessons Wellings' mind would often wander, he would imagine he was somewhere else, anywhere else but in that dreadful classroom.  He remembered the days before school and the hateful lessons, he remembered how free he had felt, then there had been no weight upon his soul, no worries or fears which gnawed at his mind during waking hours and asleep. 
 
It was a stifling feeling, almost of suffocation within that classroom, it was only his daydreams that stopped him breaking down during the lessons. Many times he had felt the impulse to breakdown  and cry during one of Swaile's onslaughts but so far he had succeeded in fighting this urge. 
 
Everyday the pressures built upon him, every hour in the presence of Swaile made him feel less worthy, less human. It was indescribable the sweat soaked fears he went through during those lessons, his feelings of inadequacy, he was the buffoon of the class, the mumbling, stuttering moron. He felt like a leper with Swaile behind him, ringing a bell and shouting, 'Unclean, unclean, unclean !' 
 
Swaile, with his acid tongue and soul destroying remarks had turned the rest of the class against him. They looked upon him with disgust, a low thing, a creature from the mire, less than human, an unworthy being, obnoxiously ignorant, a ridiculous joke. He was not part of their fraternity, he was an outsider, a loner, part of nothing, nothing but their scornful laughter and unanimous contempt. 
 
Together Swaile and the children had become one mass being, wallowing in their own superiority. In their presence he was nothing, a dust mite, a smear of slime. 
 
He could hear their laughter and mockery all around him, it seemed to grow louder, Swailes' sarcasm increased in volume and ferocity, the words became unintelligible yet still they cut Wellings deep inside, making him feel even more inconsequential, even more worthless. 
 
'Fool ! Imbecile ! Idiot ! Moron !' the words echoed from ear to ear. He could feel his tormentors like an acid fog all around him. He was totally apart from them, an outsider, a lowly ignoramus surrounded by a frightening army of malevolent intelligence. 
 
A single tear fell from his eye as he curled himself into a tight ball and prayed that his heart would stop beating.