The Gate

They called her Violent Violet. I never knew why, she did all the things we used to do. Stamp on snails, pull the wings from butterflies, kick the teachers in the shins.

We were all the same. But all so different. This school was made for kids who could give out and take hard knocks.

Doors remained locked, as did the gates. We were taught but did not learn. So we were taught again. Unbelievably we never did grasp the concept of faith in humanity. This was drained out of us at a fairly early stage.

Writing in the dark with only the burning of eyes on you is a harrowing experience. We never knew who was watching who, but we knew we could not copy each other's answers.

Who do you trust in this kind of environment? Sometimes you cannot even trust yourself. Decisions were made and actions executed swiftly in this place.

Now the windows are boarded up and the doors rot on their hinges. The walls are peeling paint and gathering mould and penetrating damp. Holes are appearing in the ceilings, and dust accumulates on windowsills and desks.

Nobody is left in this place. Everyone has moved on. Except for me, of course. Still trying to learn. Being taught by nobody. Writing in the dark, but not forming complete sentences or conclusions. They'll come back for me one day, I'm sure of it.

The gate cannot stay locked forever.