The Kleptomaniac

I wanted a flash fiction story from my favourite pupil, one she could use in her end of year exams. I’ve been a teacher at Coventry College for over a decade, and never have I come across someone who could write so well at such a young age. Destiny, my fav pupil, is barely into her twenties, yet the weight of her literature suggests someone far older. She’d been incarcerated due to poor mental health halfway through her studies. I’d taken the time to go and see her at The Hospital Of St Cross while she was there. I remember walking into that off-putting and sterile environment with genuine fear; what medication did they have her on, what experiments were they performing on her, was the food being poisoned? Psych units have a very depraved history.

            “Hi Professor Cameron, I’m glad you came, come in and sit down. Can I make you a brew?”

            I’d taken a seat in the visitor’s reception area, a room of bare windows and beige furnishings. “Yes, that’d be great Destiny. Thank you. It’s great to see you. Milk and one sugar.” I took a moment to consider her fractured existence as I waited patiently for her to return with promised brew. It was just the way I liked it.

            She sat down, facing me, and handed me a journal. It was a posh notebook, decorated with pictures from magazines and newspapers. In it were letters to me; many many letters addressed to me, ever since I met her on enrolment evening. She confessed her love for me in each and every one of them. Some were marked with lipstick, and some were illustrated with graphite pencil. I’d known we’d shared a bond, but nothing like undying love rendered in ink. I skimmed over them with a smirk on my face as Destiny slurped her cuppa opposite me.

            I kissed her on my way out, and I cried in the car park before driving to my rural home on the outskirts of the city. I couldn’t bear to leave her there suffering, a puppet played by that tyrannical system of oppression, and wished she could return home with me. My wife has been dead six years, and I never thought I’d ever find anything remotely approaching genuine love or compassion for anyone ever again. Until I read Destiny’s work.

            I’m now on my porch, rereading her letters. I’m drinking Jim Beam and lemonade from a tumbler with a tray of nibbles beside me, Bombay Mix actually. I’m beginning to get a sense of how she feels like when I’m teaching her in class. She describes the way she looks at me like someone on a first-time visit to a zoo ogling a wild parrot or some other exotic animal.

            Destiny thrived in the institution, and got out unscathed to resume her studies with me. I’m currently sending her a text message: E-mail me a story about a kleptomaniac. I’d love to hear your thoughts, beliefs and passions regarding the subject. I robbed a Twirl from the petrol station earlier today.

           I prompt her, she writes.

           It’s time to go inside now, to do writing of my own, as I have a love letter to reply to.

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