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Kristi's Crypt

•  Grrl by taer

   

• There you are, my little sweetheart, wearing a resurrected schoolgirl dress festooned with safety pins and thrift store belts. Aside from your splashes of blue and gray salt-and-pepper parochial school patterned skirt, you are head to clunky boots in black. Your dark brown hair, eyes and lips, all of them either tinted, outlined or shaded in some hue rich with black.
  
  The collar. Your black dog collar traps my eye. You wear it, completely ignorant of its meaning. To you, it is simply fashion. To others, a symbol of rebellion. To a select few, it is a mark of membership in an elite and secret community. To me, it is sacred.
  
  You, with your devil-may-care "whatever," your insolent slouch, your arrogant glare, and your all-consuming ignorance, you are defiling an icon I hold dear. So often, I have asked you to remove it. I have called on my every bit of logic and reasoning to give you a reason sufficient to unspoil that band with your oblivious insouciance. Every reason but the truth, that is. In my position, the truth must not come out. No, not arbitrarily, at the very least.
  
  You are about to learn the truth. I bore your silent affront for the whole of the semester. I watched you mis-apply your energies in all areas of your life, and stood idly by where my perview did not allow me comment. I strained to remain objective, fair in spite of your flaunting the desecration of what I hold so dear in the recesses of my heart. Only the combined apathy of the administration and your mother both permitted you to continue to go to school these five months with that ... that band on.
  
  Grad party is tonight. Actually, this being the last week of school, every night is probably shattered with revelry. In my Honors and AP Computer Science class, I know there are two parties - one for the industrious lads and lasses who made me proud and took the AP test, and another for you layabouts who wasted all the time in my lab circumventing filters and engaging in prohibited activity, such as surfing for adult material or engaging in online chats.
  
  You think you're so clever, you and the rest of your "punks in black" crew. I recognize your inherent aptitude. Oh, definitely. However, raw talent and affinity for computers is no the goal of my Honors and AP Computer Science class. I assume that is present in every student enrolled in this class. No, I teach discipline. Not simply what to do, but why.
  
  So you bypass the firewall and all the software I've set up. You thought that would keep you safe from discovery. No. Not in the slightest. For your machines, the ones in the back row you punks favored, I installed hardware logging. I recorded what was on your monitors, I logged every key you touched. Only your mouse was not immediately recorded, and I had your display to tell me where you clicked.
  
  With that, I know you. Your Hotmail. Your chatname. I have logs of your text, archives of your emails. I have this window into your life. If need be, I can be you, enough so your friends and even family will believe. I've read your every damning email about me, and your every infantile crush on a guy, and your every melodramatic flameout. I've read about how proud you were to steal cash from your mother for your piercings, and how you toyed with the idea of a tattoo. I know about your older friends, boils on society's ass, who sit in a drunken stupor and think nothing of sharing their booze and germs with you.
  
  And that leaves us tonight. You and your wastrels, planning to drink yourselves into oblivion under the bridge. So many emails, just to arrange for the dozen or so of you to sneak cheap liquor by the fouled waters. I plan to be there. I plan to watch, and I plan to act. When you and all the rest have guzzled until you all are but semi-conscious, I will walk among you and your fellow drunkards. I will find you, and only you. There, you will have one last chance. If you have at last abided by my wishes and ceased to misuse that leather strap, I will pass you by. If not, then I will remove you, secure you, and give you private attention.
  
  I've my own collection of black leather straps, you see. They will bind you helpless, they will steal your sight and voice. They will sing through the air and leave angry furrows on your body. Because you are so enamored of that collar, that sacrosanct emblem of the bond between Master and slave, I will gladly show you the rest of the world from where it hails.
  
  After all, I teach discipline. Not simply what to do, but why.
  


~The End~



Please do not republish without permission.

Email the author: taer