The Demon’s Lesson

Everyone has a breaking point. The trouble is, no one knows exactly where that point is, until it’s already been crossed.

The moment comes as I survey the students from across my desk. And it occurs to me, I will one day become a nameless face, lost to the ever fracturing thing called memory. When they graduate, when they evolve into adulthood and the years beyond, what will have been my impact? Maybe it’s a selfish thought, but is it too much to ask to want to be…remembered?

It’s that thought which has me stand from my desk, my old office chair creaking and groaning from its decade’s use. If the students notice my sudden movement, they paid no heed – only the dull scratching of pencils on papers drone on.

It isn’t until I have my hand on the old brass doorknob, it’s surface worn and rough with age, that there’s a pause in the monotonous din. I can feel the students’ eyes on me. The sad slope of my back, as though I carry a burden only I can see. But my grip remains steadfast on the doorknob, ready to walk away from it all, ready to just…

“Fragile minded human. Sit back. And I will show you that which you cannot see.”

The voice reverberates inside my skull just as something lukewarm and foreign snakes up my spine. My body goes rigid, as though momentarily wresting for control. To stay present. To not let whatever this –

“Uh, Mr. Greco? You good?”

My hand. The hand which is mine, and yet, now not mine, releases its grip on the doorknob. I hold it up to my face. Flex it, as though examining it – every scar, wrinkle and stiffness – for the first time.

“Everything will be fine. More than fine. Just relax,” my voice says. In an instant, I know the voice is not only addressing the class, but to me, also. To whatever I’ve become. Something more than just a prisoner, yet without any autonomy.

Through eyes not my own, I survey each of the students. They, in turn, behold me with a mixture concern, worry, and not to my surprise, mild amusement, indicated by the camera ready phones aimed my direction.

“Right,” my voice continues on with a bravado I haven’t used since…goodness, how long has it been? “You can put those work packets away. From henceforth, I’ve decided to induct a new lesson plan!”

Snatches of whispered conversation immediately puncture the tentative silence.

“He’s having one of those menopause things, isn’t he?”

“No, stupid! Only old ladies get that! I think…”

“Ugh, we’re getting more homework, aren’t we?

But the demon raises my arms in a call for silence. “No need for alarm! Trust me: what I have in store requires far less pencil-writing, and far more…shall we say, creativity?”

Little do they know that their actual teacher is stuck within his own body. A glass box, where I can see and hear and even feel. But me, my voice, has been hushed. “Suspended,” perhaps, would be the better term. For a while, I do fight. Scream from my glass box, banging on the barrier as each day comes and goes, and this demon struts around in my body, smiling more than I have in years.

But the demon itself has said nothing to me. Nothing, except that first intruding message: “Fragile minded human. Sit back. And I will show you that which you cannot see.”

So finally, I do. I sit back. I let this demon speak words with my mouth, move with my body. And I see everything he does.

I see when he wears a ridiculous toga to illustrate the rise and fall of the romans. The students…actually laugh. Some – rightfully so – at me, but many of them laugh with me. In this case, the demon. But with the skill and care I once had, and with far more smiling and attentive faces than I can remember, he teaches.

“Your oral presentations are due!” he calls to the class a month later. A month of waiting. Watching. But also, smiling my own smile no one can see. Where it was commonplace for students to slowly file in, clearly waiting for the hour to come and go, they now scramble to their desks as though ready to behold some great performance, and I – the demon, rather – am the performer.

Two hands shoot into the air. Marcus and Abbey. They glance at each other with a sort of nervous excitement

The demon points to them. And it almost – almost – feels like me doing it. Me, calling them forward. Their infectious energy is contagious, and as they face me, faces beaming, I actually…

“We have a joint presentation!” Marcus calls to the class, clasping his hands together. The class “Ooooh’s” appreciatively.”

Abbey nods and steps a few paces back. She turns her cap backwards, and bounces on her toes, causing her braids to swing around her head. “A rap battle between Julius Caesar and Brutus! Figured that’d be more entertaining than just talking about one guy stabbing the other guy.”

The demon gives them the stage. And to my shock, they begin to rap the entire rise of the roman empire, punctuated with dates and locations, while also tactfully insulting the other. The class roars their appreciation, their enthusiasm so palpable, those from neighboring classrooms coming to peek their heads in at the display.

I wish now, more than ever, to be liberated from my glass box. Is this my true punishment, then? To be constrained to a body as a passenger, witness to the events which bring about so much joy, yet can never really take credit for? I think back to those thoughts from a month prior. How, more than likely, I’d become some nameless, faceless teacher who droned on and on.

Perhaps I don’t have the answer to being forgotten. Maybe in another ten years I’ll still be in this school, teaching more students who will move on to greater things. But surveying the students through the demon’s eyes, I see there’s a chance. A chance to create moments like these. A time capsule created and stored. Yet, I was so ready to walk away from it all. Ready, to just…

A boom of applause seems to shake the very floor as Marcus and Abbey finish their performance. They turn to me, eyes bright, clever grins etching their faces. Abbey asks, “Can we do more rap battles? Please? They’re so much fun!”

It’s my own voice that reaches them, released from its glass box. My congratulations and encouragement filling the room.

The lukewarm presence slinks away – no more than a passing shadow on an otherwise sunny day. I’d expect it to leave a parting message. A goodbye, at the very least. But I suppose that would be too sentimental for a demon.