Deborah would be standing in her empty classroom. It was break time and the students are outside.
Deborah Williams stood alone by the chalkboard, rubbing a stubborn smear of white powder from her navy-blue skirt. Her fingers moved in tight, familiar circles—the same motion she'd used for twenty-three years to erase mistakes. Outside, children's laughter pierced the quiet, sharp as broken glass against her ears. She didn't turn toward the window. Her reflection in the dark monitor screen showed lips pressed thin, framing the deep grooves that ran from nose to chin like parentheses around disapproval.
A strange warmth bloomed behind her sternum, sudden and liquid. She pressed a palm flat against her chest, startled by the childish impulse to giggle bubbling in her throat. The classroom clock’s ticking grew louder, each second thudding against her temples. Why did everything suddenly feel too bright? Too loud? Her sensible low heels pinched unexpectedly, and she shifted her weight, noticing with annoyance how her starched blouse collar scratched her neck like cheap wool.
Hour two crept in on cat’s paws. Deborah found herself tracing clumsy finger-paint patterns in the condensation on the window pane—shapes she hadn’t doodled since art class in junior high. A sharp pang hit her stomach, not hunger, but a frantic yearning for peanut butter sandwiches cut into triangles. The orderly rows of desks blurred as her vision softened slightly, colors bleeding at the edges like wet watercolors. Outside, the skipping ropes thwacking concrete sounded exhilarating, irresistible.
Midway through hour three, her posture unraveled. Her spine slumped forward, shoulders rolling inward like a wilting flower. The chalk she picked up felt alien—thick and awkward—and her neat cursive on the board dissolved into wobbly block letters spelling "HI." She caught herself humming a pop song Jennifer Vine had been whistling yesterday, her voice pitching higher without permission. When Mrs. Peterson peeked in to borrow staplers, Deborah waved both hands frantically instead of nodding politely.
By hour four’s onset, her knuckles looked swollen yet oddly delicate, fingernails softening into pale pink nubs. Freckles bloomed like scattered cinnamon across her nose bridge. She kept touching her face, tracing the strange plumpness in her cheeks and the way her jawline seemed softer, rounder. Her reflection in the monitor glass now showed wide, bewildered eyes blinking too fast. Words tangled in her mouth—"lesson plan" came out as "wesson pwan"—and she clamped a hand over her lips, horrified.
Hour five carved deeper grooves into confusion. Her spine shortened with audible pops, shoulders narrowing as her hips widened slightly beneath the navy skirt, straining seams. The once-pristine bun unraveled into thin, flyaway wisps framing her face. She stumbled over to her desk chair—it suddenly felt towering—and missed her seat entirely, landing hard on her knees. Pain flared sharp and bright. A high-pitched whimper escaped her. Instead of anger, hot tears pricked her eyes. *Why does everything hurt?* The thought whispered through her mind like mist, unstructured and fleeting.
By hour six, soft downy hair sprouted across her arms and cheeks. Her hands looked stubby and unfamiliar, fingernails bitten down to the quick without conscious thought. When she tried to stand, her legs wobbled violently. Her sensible heels slid off entirely, revealing feet shrinking visibly inside nylon stockings. Within minutes, her toes curled uselessly against the cold linoleum, too small for the shoes she’d worn for years. Words dissolved completely; soft, nonsensical babble bubbled past her lips. Panic fluttered in her chest—a trapped bird beating against ribs that felt strangely fragile.
Hour seven crashed over her. Her blouse sagged grotesquely as collarbones softened and shoulders sloped inward. The hem of her skirt pooled around her shrinking waist, fabric swallowing her form in clumsy folds. When she lifted trembling fingers to touch her face, they encountered puffed cheeks and a flat nose bridge. Thoughts fragmented—sharp memories of grading papers dissolved into bright bursts of color and the overwhelming urge to clap at nothing. Her own name evaporated like morning fog, leaving only a hollow confusion echoing where Deborah Williams once lived.
A thick warmth spread through her limbs in hour eight, bones shortening with muffled cracks. Her spine curled forward permanently, settling into a hunched sway. Blinks became slow, languid affairs as her eyes drifted perpetually sideways, lashes clumping wetly. Speech dissolved into guttural vowel sounds and wet clicks. Deep inside the collapsing architecture of her mind, a teacher’s stern reprimand tried to surface—*Sit properly!*—but emerged as a slack-jawed drool tracing her chin. Every surface felt fascinatingly textured; she rubbed her cheek against the cold linoleum, oblivious to the gritty dust.
Hour nine announced itself with sudden constriction. Her sensible blouse bunched violently around her thickening waist, seams groaning. The navy skirt slid downward, pooling uselessly around ankles now perpetually turned inward. Fabric hissed and shimmered—pink unicorns bloomed across cotton as the blouse became a too-tight polo shirt. Pale leggings slithered up newly bowed legs, patterned with dancing cartoon frogs. Woolen socks swallowed tiny feet, one striped bright blue, the other sunshine yellow. Deborah—the name a forgotten echo—tugged at the itchy collar, whimpering.
Her remaining adult awareness fractured like thin ice. The concept of "Monday" dissolved into meaningless noise. Sentences shattered into single words: "Want?" "Owie?" "Baff?" She pawed clumsily at the bright socks, utterly absorbed by their mismatched colors. Outside, a bouncing basketball's rhythmic *thump-thump-thump* pulled her gaze sideways. Her mouth fell open in slack fascination, a thin strand of drool connecting her chin to the dusty linoleum where she sat slumped.
Hour ten slammed down with visceral finality. Her shortened spine settled into a permanent, gentle sway. Her once-sharp eyes drifted perpetually sideways, lashes damp and thick, focusing with immense difficulty on a drifting dust mote. Deep within, the phantom ghost of Miss Williams shouted *Pay attention!*—but it emerged only as a thick, guttural "Guh?" Her tongue felt too large, clumsy and wet against her palate. Every sensation exploded: the scratchy wool sock seams were agonizing, the cold floor tiles exhilaratingly smooth beneath her palms.
A sudden, overwhelming urge seized her—not for lesson plans, but for the bright yellow slide visible through the window. Her body lurched forward instinctively, knees scraping the linoleum. The world tilted, perspective jarringly low to the ground. She crawled, a slow, uncoordinated rocking motion, each movement requiring intense concentration. Her breath hitched in soft, wet gasps. The mismatched socks—blue and yellow—dragged across the dusty floor leaving faint smudges.
Her chubby fingers splayed wide, pressing flat against the cool smoothness of the floor tiles. The sensation was mesmerizing, a stark contrast to the itchy wool pressing tight against her shrinking toes. A bubble of saliva escaped her slack lips, popping silently against her chin. Distant shouts from the playground reverberated in her skull, sharp and enticing. Jennifer Vine’s tear-streaked face flashed faintly in the dissolving remnants of her awareness, a ghostly ache swallowed instantly by the immediate, visceral need to reach that sunshine-yellow metal outside.
She rocked forward onto hands and knees, the thick polyester leggings bunching uncomfortably at her knees. Her head felt heavy, lolling slightly as she focused entirely on the bright rectangle of the classroom door. Each shuffle forward felt like navigating a ship through thick syrup, her limbs trembling with the unfamiliar effort. A low whine vibrated in her throat as her knee bumped a desk leg, the dull thud echoing strangely in the empty room. The scent of chalk dust and stale cafeteria leftovers filled her nostrils.
Reaching the doorway felt like crossing a desert. Her tiny fingers curled clumsily around the cool metal doorframe as she hauled herself up onto wobbling legs. The hallway stretched endlessly, impossibly vast and echoing. Far down its length, sunlight spilled from the open exit doors, illuminating the edge of the yellow slide like a beacon. The sound of children playing crescendoed – shrieks of laughter, pounding feet, the rhythmic clang of the swing chains. A startled gasp escaped her lips, followed by a wet giggle. Every instinct screamed *Go*.
Her legs buckled almost immediately. She landed hard on her padded bottom, the jolt sharp but fleeting. Undeterred, she pushed forward on hands and knees, the cartoon frogs on her leggings smearing with grime. Focus narrowed to the patch of sunlight ahead and the overwhelming scent of fresh-cut grass drifting in. Saliva pooled in her mouth, dripping onto the scuffed linoleum as she crawled past abandoned backpacks – looming mountains of unfamiliar fabric and zippers. The fluorescent lights buzzed painfully loud, making her blink rapidly.
Halfway down the corridor, she paused, transfixed by a glittering sticker stuck to a locker door. Her stubby finger reached out, tracing the rainbow unicorn with clumsy reverence. A garbled sound of delight escaped her – "Shinee!" – followed by a frustrated whimper when she couldn’t peel it off. The distant clang of the slide ladder pulled her attention back. She rocked forward again, knees scraping faster now, leaving faint streaks on the polished floor. Her mismatched socks were filthy, one slipping halfway off a tiny, curled foot. Panic flared briefly, hot and confusing, when her yellow-striped sock snagged on a loose floor tile’s edge. She tugged weakly, whimpering "Off! Off!" before simply kicking free and abandoning it.
Sunlight poured through the exit doors like melted gold. The sheer brightness made her blink rapidly, damp lashes clumping against flushed cheeks. Outside, the sensory symphony exploded – the wet-dog scent of freshly watered grass, the dizzying whirl of a spinning merry-go-round screeching on its bearings, the sticky-sweet tang of spilled juice clinging to the air. Jennifer Vine’s joyful shriek pierced the cacophony from atop the slide, a sound that pricked Deborah’s fading awareness like a forgotten pinprick. A low moan vibrated in Deborah’s throat, her body swaying instinctively toward the playground’s chaotic embrace. Her small hand gripped the metal doorframe, knuckles white with effort, her eyes wide and unfocused yet desperately fixed on the kaleidoscope of movement beyond.
She shuffled forward onto the blessedly cool concrete steps. Each descent was a trembling victory – lowering one chubby, wool-socked foot, wobbling, grasping the rail with desperate fingers, then repeating. She giggled wetly at the wind ruffling her flyaway wisps of hair, a sound as unfamiliar as the alien lightness in her limbs. Her gaze drifted sideways, catching the distorted reflection of a small, round-faced girl in the chromed leg of a swing set: almond-shaped eyes tilted upward, a slack jaw glistening, mismatched socks absurdly bright against the grey cement. The image held no meaning, only a strange brightness that pulled her onward.
The grass felt like prickly velvet against her bare palms as she crawled off the last step. The *thump-thump* of a bouncing basketball echoed near the hoop, vibrating up through her bones. She paused, utterly absorbed by the rhythmic sound, rocking slightly on her knees. A sudden shriek of laughter nearby startled her – a boy tumbled past, kicking up clods of dirt. Debris sprayed her face: gritty earth and the faint sweetness of trampled dandelions. She blinked rapidly, tasting grit on her tongue, a bewildered whimper escaping her lips before dissolving into another fascinated giggle at the dust clinging to her leggings' dancing frogs.
Inside the school office, Mrs. Higgins, the registrar, frowned at the overflowing 'W' drawer of the teacher filing cabinet. Deborah Williams' manila folder felt strangely thin. She pulled it out; brittle lesson plans crumbled at the edges. A single, outdated photo slipped free, landing face down. When Mrs. Higgins turned it over moments later, it showed only a generic stock image of an apple. Confusion flickered across her face, quickly smoothed into dismissal. She tossed the folder towards the shredder bin without a second thought, her attention shifting smoothly to the buzzing intercom. Simultaneously, across the room, a fresh folder materialized silently in the 'D' section of the student records. Crisp forms printed themselves: *Name: Deborah Davies. Age: 12. Grade: 6. Special Needs: Down Syndrome.*
Principal Carter strode past the main office window, his polished shoes clicking sharply. He paused, squinting towards the playground where a small figure wobbled near the swings. A flicker of vague recognition—*Williams? Wait, no… Davies.* His administrative memory seamlessly rewrote itself: *Ah yes, Deborah Davies, new transfer this week, Downs. Must ensure her IEP meeting is scheduled.* He nodded curtly, the ghost of a stern English teacher evaporating from his mind like chalk dust wiped clean. His stride resumed, purpose refocused on budget reports.
Inside Room 207, Mrs. Evans knelt before Deborah. The girl stared past her shoulder, fascinated by the fluorescent light’s flicker. "Deborah? Honey?" Mrs. Evans’s voice was soft honey, guiding small fingers onto textured play-doh. Deborah squeezed, mesmerized by the purple squishing between her knuckles. Grime still streaked her frog-patterned leggings. The scent of wet clay mingled with her own faint tang of dried saliva. "See? Squishy!" Mrs. Evans demonstrated. Deborah's tongue poked out, a wet clicking sound escaping as she clumsily mashed the dough—a triumphant "Uh!" bubbling in her throat. Across the room, Jennifer Vine giggled, stacking bright blocks. Deborah’s drifting eyes briefly caught Jennifer’s smile, her own lips curling into a slow, unfocused imitation.
Outside at recess, Deborah shuffled behind Jennifer toward the slide. Her gait was an unsteady sway, feet shuffling through woodchips. Jennifer scampered up the ladder effortlessly while Deborah paused, fingers tracing the cool, sun-warmed metal rail. "Come on, Deb!" Jennifer called down, waving. The words blurred into pleasant noise. Deborah lifted one foot, then the other, each step a trembling conquest. Halfway up, she froze, transfixed by a ladybug crawling on the rail. Her breath hitched—a wet, fascinated gasp—as she poked it gently with a stubby finger. It flew away. She blinked, bewildered, then giggled, drool dampening her collar. Below, Mrs. Evans watched, ready to steady her if she swayed too far.
The slide deposited her in a heap at Jennifer’s feet, woodchips sticking to her leggings. Jennifer pulled her up, dusting her off with brisk, sisterly pats. "You okay?" Deborah stared blankly, then pointed at Jennifer’s glittery unicorn T-shirt with a gurgle of delight. "Oooh! Pwetty!" Jennifer beamed, taking Deborah’s hand. "Wanna swing?" Deborah’s eyes drifted sideways, locking onto the swings’ rhythmic arc. She lurched forward, dragging Jennifer with her, a low hum of anticipation vibrating in her chest. The chains’ metallic screech made her flinch, but Jennifer’s guiding hands on her back soothed her. "Push me?" Jennifer asked. Deborah blinked, processing, then planted her hands clumsily on Jennifer’s shoulders and shoved with all her wobbly strength. Jennifer’s laughter rang out—bright, unburdened. A smile, slow and lopsided, spread across Deborah’s face.
Sunset painted the playground gold. Mrs. Evans approached, holding Deborah’s forgotten lunchbox—now plastered with cartoon puppies. "Time to go, Deborah," she murmured, wiping a smear of juice from the girl’s chin. Deborah whimpered, clinging to the swing chain. Jennifer nudged her gently. "See you tomorrow?" Deborah’s brow furrowed, the words echoing strangely. Then her gaze landed on Jennifer’s bracelet—shiny plastic beads spelling "FRIEND." Her fingers brushed it. "F-fwen?" she echoed tentatively. Jennifer squeezed her hand. "Yeah. Friends." Deborah’s eyes crinkled at the corners, a soft sigh escaping her. She let Mrs. Evans lead her away, her steps shuffling but calm, the ghost of "Miss Williams" finally dissolving into the twilight.
The end.
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