As the blazer lands in the flame, something flashes through all of your minds – like the memory from before, but far more vivid.
If you are already in Hell, then surely this office is the deepest, darkest pit, some place reserved for the most horrible of sinners in all of history to reserve their torture. Sitting in front of this desk always makes you feel like a child about to get scolded by a disappointed parent (which isn’t too far off the mark, honestly), and it makes you want to break something.
“Miss █████, you do understand why you are at this school, correct?”
“‘Cause my parents didn’t wanna deal with me anymore,” you say rather nonchalantly.
The guidance counselor sighs, then puts on a strained smile. “Not quite. Mitsugi Academy was established to help troubled youths become disciplined and principled members of society. We provide a safe place away from any bad influences to help students work through their respective issues.” You roll your eyes. The counselor ignores you and continues. “Your parents enrolled you here because they worry that your… behavioral issues will negatively impact your future. We’re here to help you manage your aversion to authority and your… destructive tendencies.”
You scowl. You honestly prefer the counselors who just yell at you. You hate the ones that smile and try to “help” you. You hate how high and mighty they are, how they look at you like you’re too stupid to understand what they’re telling you.
“Now, do you understand why you are in this office, young lady?”
You pause for a moment, thinking through which of your recent transgressions she could be referring to. “Is this about lunch, the chemistry lab, group counseling, or sneaking out at night?”
The counselor pinches her nose. “All of them, Miss █████. This behavior of yours is not only disruptive but also potentially dangerous to yourself and other students.” You’ve heard this before, so you start tuning her out as she continues talking. No matter how many of these counselors you meet with, they all lecture you about the same stuff. You’ve learned that if you argue back, you have to stay in here for longer, and they talk even more, and you want to get out of here as soon as possible. You hate it here. You’ve never hated school as much as you’ve hated this prison with classrooms, where your every move is monitored and your every word reprimanded until you finally, finally give up and fall in line like everyone else. One of these days, you’re expected to get called in here for breathing wrong or putting your pencil down too far to the right and “disrupting the harmony of the classroom”.
As your counselor continues talking and you’re beginning to be overcome with the urge to punch her or break something, you look out the window. It’s a bright, sunny day. There’s a circus performance in town, and your class voted to visit it for a trip (you weren’t allowed to vote, but they think going on a field trip will help you “engage with your class” more).
“-are you listening, Miss █████?” The counselor is snapping her fingers to get you to focus. “I asked what I could do to better support you. I want to help you, Miss █████.”
You smile, stand up, and make your way to the door. Turning the handle, you look back at the counselor and reply.
“Fuck off.”
Before she can reply, you’re out, slamming the door as you leave.
…You snap back to reality. The blazer burns to ashes.
