Lessons Learned
By Andy Morris
I jumped as the wooden door banged shut behind him. He locked the door, trapping us in his small office and offered me an expression of mock-sympathy as he slowly approached.
I always seem to go for the wrong guy. I’d just come out of an abusive relationship with my ex-boyfriend; Greg. He’d hurt me and I was damaged; with deep physical and emotional scars to prove it. I was lucky to get away before he did anything worse. That experience had changed me drastically and I began to rebuild my shattered life.
I moved to Ringwood and got a job as an art teacher in the local school. The previous teacher had just left without warning and as the term had already started I was given a contract right away.
That’s where I met Malcolm; the caretaker.
I often worked late marking coursework and he’d come in to clean the classroom. He wasn’t like the other men I’d been out with - football obsessed morons who drank too much and didn’t give a damn about me.
Malcolm was different but the consensus in the staffroom was that he was odd; a loner, even creepy. I could see why they thought that: He had no friends, showed no emotion - no expression whatsoever. Still, I kind of felt sorry for him. Always the champion of the underdog I saw beneath the socially awkward exterior to the lonely artist underneath.
Malcolm painted wonderful conceptual portraits: The daring hews splashed over his canvasses in violent arterial sprays. His paintings portrayed a passionate deviant self, craving release yet denied its freedom. This was his vulnerable side that he daren’t express through any other medium. I recognised his pain and I knew that I could help him develop his talent. If I could get him to open up and trust me I stupidly believed I could help heal his inner child.
Before I knew it I was spending more time with Malcolm. I recognised the pattern and I knew I was following my unhealthy life scripts by pursuing this relationship but I ignored them … in the name of art.
Sex with Malcolm, though, was like his persona: Drab. He was self-conscious and unsure of himself but I could probably teach him a few things here as well.
On the last Friday of the autumn term, Malcolm and I were the only ones working late, everyone else had gone home welcome the Christmas break.
We and had the school to ourselves and no one would be in until the beginning of January. Malcolm was busy in the main hall so, still ignoring the little voice that warned me not to get too close too quickly, I let myself into the caretaker’s office. A small Christmas tree with too few baubles leaned forlornly on the desk in the corner of the poky room.
A broken holly wreath lay on one of the shelves at the far end of the room and next to it I saw Malcolm had left his phone. The screen, I noticed as I hovered in the doorway, was filled with a photo of me. I hadn’t realised he’d taken it and at first, I naively thought it was quite sweet. I eased my way into the cluttered room and groped my way through an obstacle course of piled up boxes, stacks of shelving and extension leads snaking over the floor. When I picked up his phone to take a closer look I saw he’d taken more pictures of me unawares - Dozens of them! But it wasn’t the ones outside my flat that scared me - It was the ones of the other women and what he was doing to them. It was the sheer terror etched into the bloodied remains of Mrs Green - the ex-art teacher’s - face as he took her picture.
The door banged shut and I jumped around, startled.
Malcolm’s exaggerated look of mock-sympathy filled me with dread as he locked the door. In a way, his feeble attempt at pity was more disturbing than the heavy-looking axe in his hands.
I thought about telling him I loved him. But then, I pondered as he swung the axe up, Malcolm could never harm me as Greg had done. I’d changed since Greg and I’d promised myself...
Then came the wet crack as the blade crumpled the front of my skull. As the blood poured down my face I heard Malcolm chuckle and I realised it was the first time I’d heard him laugh.
I liked his laugh. But I adored his scream as I yanked the axe out of my head and got back to my feet.
I always seem to go for the wrong guy. I’d just come out of an abusive relationship with my ex-boyfriend; Greg. He’d hurt me and I was damaged; with deep physical and emotional scars to prove it. I was lucky to get away before he did anything worse. That experience had changed me drastically and I began to rebuild my shattered life.
I moved to Ringwood and got a job as an art teacher in the local school. The previous teacher had just left without warning and as the term had already started I was given a contract right away.
That’s where I met Malcolm; the caretaker.
I often worked late marking coursework and he’d come in to clean the classroom. He wasn’t like the other men I’d been out with - football obsessed morons who drank too much and didn’t give a damn about me.
Malcolm was different but the consensus in the staffroom was that he was odd; a loner, even creepy. I could see why they thought that: He had no friends, showed no emotion - no expression whatsoever. Still, I kind of felt sorry for him. Always the champion of the underdog I saw beneath the socially awkward exterior to the lonely artist underneath.
Malcolm painted wonderful conceptual portraits: The daring hews splashed over his canvasses in violent arterial sprays. His paintings portrayed a passionate deviant self, craving release yet denied its freedom. This was his vulnerable side that he daren’t express through any other medium. I recognised his pain and I knew that I could help him develop his talent. If I could get him to open up and trust me I stupidly believed I could help heal his inner child.
Before I knew it I was spending more time with Malcolm. I recognised the pattern and I knew I was following my unhealthy life scripts by pursuing this relationship but I ignored them … in the name of art.
Sex with Malcolm, though, was like his persona: Drab. He was self-conscious and unsure of himself but I could probably teach him a few things here as well.
On the last Friday of the autumn term, Malcolm and I were the only ones working late, everyone else had gone home welcome the Christmas break.
We and had the school to ourselves and no one would be in until the beginning of January. Malcolm was busy in the main hall so, still ignoring the little voice that warned me not to get too close too quickly, I let myself into the caretaker’s office. A small Christmas tree with too few baubles leaned forlornly on the desk in the corner of the poky room.
A broken holly wreath lay on one of the shelves at the far end of the room and next to it I saw Malcolm had left his phone. The screen, I noticed as I hovered in the doorway, was filled with a photo of me. I hadn’t realised he’d taken it and at first, I naively thought it was quite sweet. I eased my way into the cluttered room and groped my way through an obstacle course of piled up boxes, stacks of shelving and extension leads snaking over the floor. When I picked up his phone to take a closer look I saw he’d taken more pictures of me unawares - Dozens of them! But it wasn’t the ones outside my flat that scared me - It was the ones of the other women and what he was doing to them. It was the sheer terror etched into the bloodied remains of Mrs Green - the ex-art teacher’s - face as he took her picture.
The door banged shut and I jumped around, startled.
Malcolm’s exaggerated look of mock-sympathy filled me with dread as he locked the door. In a way, his feeble attempt at pity was more disturbing than the heavy-looking axe in his hands.
I thought about telling him I loved him. But then, I pondered as he swung the axe up, Malcolm could never harm me as Greg had done. I’d changed since Greg and I’d promised myself...
Then came the wet crack as the blade crumpled the front of my skull. As the blood poured down my face I heard Malcolm chuckle and I realised it was the first time I’d heard him laugh.
I liked his laugh. But I adored his scream as I yanked the axe out of my head and got back to my feet.