His subtle masochism peered out of his cynical smile as he placed the hourglass on his desk. Silence drenched the room as we all tried to focus. My focus was on him.
Others thought he was an enigma - kind and helpful sometimes, but sarcastic and mean when he didn't get what he wanted.
And he wanted me, to destroy me. I could tell by the way he spewed his malice when he spoke. Never kind or helpful, always cunning and cruel, he missed no chance to humiliate me, to make me feel small, insignificant and above all dumb. He only wanted me in order to break me, to bring me down to my smallest denominator... so that he could laugh, celebrate my vacant self.
As the sand from the hourglass streamed downward, so did my hatred and I wallowed in it. I fantasized that I could cause him harm or could at least make him see that I did not deserve his disdain or could help him understand that I just don't treasure his obsession, that I don't have hours to spend on what seems to be the center of his own life. I had a real life of my own.
When the top of the hourglass was empty like his heart, we all knew it was time to leave. I felt like a fugitive escaping prison.
Days later, when I had to see him again I knew that in his hand he held justification for more torture. And sure enough, once again, he gave me an F. I hate math.
