All Nonfiction Bullying Books Academic Author Interviews Celebrity interviews College Articles College Essays Educator of the Year Heroes Interviews Memoir Personal Experience Sports Travel & CultureAll Opinions Bullying Current Events / Politics Discrimination Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking Entertainment / Celebrities Environment Love / Relationships Movies / Music / TV Pop Culture / Trends School / College Social Issues / Civics Spirituality / Religion Sports / Hobbies
- Summer Guide
- College Guide
- Author Interviews
- Celebrity interviews
- College Articles
- College Essays
- Educator of the Year
- Personal Experience
- Travel & Culture
- Current Events / Politics
- Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking
- Entertainment / Celebrities
- Love / Relationships
- Movies / Music / TV
- Pop Culture / Trends
- School / College
- Social Issues / Civics
- Spirituality / Religion
- Sports / Hobbies
- Community Service
- Letters to the Editor
- Pride & Prejudice
- What Matters
A Wrong Assumption
“See you next week, Miss. Timothly!” Samantha, my favorite student, gave me a grin as he shut the front door behind him with a click. The lingering sounds of piano notes still hummed in my ears. She was progressing quite nicely in her lessons. Soon enough I’d be able to teach her more complicated pieces.
I sighed, scooping up the stack of music sheets from the piano. All my appointments for today were over, so I idly switched on the TV, settling down into the couch for yet another mundane evening.
Switching to the news, I was greeted with a blaring headline: yet another elderly woman had been robbed in my area. The reporter on the ground in front of the woman’s house told a frighteningly familiar tale: the woman had been out front gardening, when the assailant had come up behind her and thrown her to the ground, beating her bloody and stealing a gold chain from around her neck. This had happened five times in the last month alone..
The broadcast sent a shiver of anger down my spine. How could someone specifically target someone so defenseless?
Hours later, I had almost forgotten about what I had witnessed on TV. I was busy preparing dinner, when suddenly there was a loud, insistent knock at my door. . . ” Annoyed, I put down my chopping knife and went to the door. When I opened it, I saw a young man, not older than fifteen. Freckles dotted his face, and his hair was burnt to a deep orange.
“Hi Miss. Timothy,” the boy began with a thin smile. “So sorry to bother you, but my truck broke down about a block away. My phone died too. I was wondering if I could use your phone?”
My skin prickled, remembering the news broadcast. I had never seen this boy before. “How do you know my name?”
“It’s on your mailbox.” The boy pointed to the bright yellow box in my front yard.
I stood still for a second, considering. I’m just being paranoid. “Alright, but just for a moment. My husband will be getting home soon, and he expects dinner to be on the table.” If there was anything amiss, hopefully the knowledge of someone coming to the house would be enough to deter the boy.
The boy walked in silently, and I pointed in the direction of my phone. While I had tried to calm myself earlier, my nerves were on fire again. When I was sure the boy wasn’t looking, I glanced out my window. He had said his car broke down a block away, but looking down both ends of the street, there wasn’t a car in sight. My blood ran cold.
Before the boy could see, I slunk into my kitchen, grabbing the knife I had left on the counter, holding it behind my back. There wouldn’t be a reason to use it, would there?
“Are you finished yet?” I snapped, turning around to see the boy standing in my living room, phone in hand.
The boy smiled again, and I thought I saw a flash of something conniving in his brown eyes. “Sorry. The line is busy. Can I call again in a few minutes?”
Quickly, I snatched the phone from his hand, ignoring his cry of surprise as I put it to my ear. There was no one on the phone, and the line wasn’t busy.
“I think you should leave.” I said coldly. The knife was still clutched in my other hand, hidden behind my back.
The boy looked confused. “I just need to make a call ma'am, after that I’ll go-”
“Leave now!” I pulled out the knife, pointing it at him, my entire body trembling.
The boy yelped, his eyes going wide as he put up his hands. I advanced, hoping that moving closer would frighten him enough to make for the door. In a panic, the boy reached behind him and grasped a clarinet that was sitting on my piano. Before I could react, the instrument hit me in the face, causing a blinding spark of pain as the knife fell from my hand. I fell to the floor, screaming bloody murder, opening my eyes enough to see the boy dash out the door, yelling.
The next few hours went by in a blur. I remember sitting on my front steps, clutching my throbbing head as the police spoke to me. The car had been found further down the road than they had thought, and soon enough the boy’s parents had shown up, screaming and yelling about pressing charges on me for attacking their son. Clearly, the boy’s actions had been in self-defence.