Surrender to the Nightmare

**This story contains teacher perpetrated psychological child abuse**

Winter of 2006 was the start of a string of winters that McKenna wanted to forget.

As she sat down in the cold concreted prison-like covered area of the oldest building in the school, McKenna’s mum was having words with Mrs McConnell about bullying. She had said nothing of the sort to her mum, but unbeknownst to McKenna, Leonie’s "mum-senses” were tingling.

‘What’s your mum doing here?’ Bec asked as she walked over to McKenna.

‘Talking to Mrs McConnell about bullying,’ she replied.

Bec flinched slightly, trying to not draw attention to her, in case the bully in question was her.

‘Who’s bullying you?’ Bec pried.

‘Mrs McConnell,’ McKenna replied.

‘What?!’

‘Just pay close attention to how she treats me versus someone like Jack.’

She wanted to throw up.

The thought of her mum talking to her teacher was a frightening concept for her eight-year-old brain to comprehend. Fear was already floating around in it. Her stomach was queasy. Her heart was racing and felt like it was ready to burst out of her chest.

It was a tough pill for her to swallow. Life wasn’t fair, nor was it all sunshine and rainbows. It was like a lucky draw. Some kids had a good life growing up, others, not so much. McKenna didn’t want to believe that she was one of the unlucky ones, not until the fat lady sang, and she wasn’t singing … yet.

Maybe some good will come out of mum’s talk with her, she thought to herself.

Next thing she knew, her mum’s recognisable auburn hair was in her vision.

‘Hey Rebecca,’ Leonie acknowledged before turning to her daughter. ‘I spoke with Mrs McConnell, so hopefully today will be better. Let me know what happens.’

‘Thanks mum,’ McKenna replied.

Leonie kissed her daughter’s cheek and walked out the school gate. As she watched from the bench, McKenna’s legs shook, anticipating the wrath that was about to be brought down on her.

The morning bell rang, and McKenna was already walking up the stairs, throwing her bag down onto the bag rack. The smug look on Mrs McConnell’s face sent a shiver down her spine and she hesitated momentarily before heading to her desk, front and centre. Mrs McConnell looked pretty in her pale pink dress with a white long-sleeved t-shirt under it. It was always those who put effort in that should be nice, but as it appeared, Mrs McConnell was breaking the stereotype.

She was nice to everyone else, but just the other day, yelled at McKenna for not using the “right” colouring technique and ripped the page out of her book. It was extreme behaviour to the child and instilled fear into her mind.

McKenna was on edge about what could happen.

‘McKenna, stop talking,’ Mrs McConnell said. She was standing directly in front of her. It was painfully obvious the small child wasn’t talking.

The frightened young girl drew in her lips and kept her head down low. The flight/fight response was getting stronger and her urge to run and hide. She wanted to crawl into a ball and die.

‘McKenna, last warning.’

She knew better than to talk back, so she took it. She let herself be the scapegoat for whoever was talking; better than being sent out for talking back, even though she was standing up for herself. Something she hoped other students would do. But alas, she didn’t have friends in her class, except for Bec, and Bec was useless.

‘Alright, get out your pencils, sharpeners and rubbers,’ Mrs McConnell announced. ‘Science quiz time.’

McKenna feared her middle-aged teacher, but she couldn’t exactly help it. Her larynx could no longer produce noise.

Head low and try not to finish early. You’ve got this. McKenna thought to herself.

‘Put your name on top and you have one hour, starting now.’

McKenna scribbled her name and started going through the questions.

Science was one of her better subjects compared to maths and English. The quiz, to her, was easy but yet slowed down her pace. The pink dress continued dancing within her peripherals, but her eyes remained focused on the task.

Suddenly, her test paper was ripped out from under her.

'Make sure you're answering all questions,' Mrs McConnell said, pointing to a badly photocopied question that McKenna accidentally missed. Then again, she was nowhere near complete. What was the point? Quizzes could be completed in any way; front to back, back to front, questions you know first, etc.

How did McKenna die? Death by embarrassment.

The darkened thoughts should've scared her, but instead, she welcomed them. It felt like a dark cloud overshadowed her, drowning her 'happy' thoughts.

It was bound to happen.

'Right, pencils down everyone,' Mrs McConnell called. 'Pass all your quizzes to the front and get your math books out.'

Head down, and remember, zip your lips and throw away the key.

'McKenna, what's one on four plus eight on nine?'

The frightened young girl decided that the pattern of her desk was more interesting than answering her teacher. Her hand wasn't even raised!

'Pay attention, McKenna.'

But her name was continuously called, and she kept refusing. Her voice was no longer in use. She didn't know how to create sounds. Scared she would get an answer wrong and that she’d be sent out of the classroom, like she had been forced to do, many times before.

She dreamed of a better life. Books were her way of escaping the harsh realities; give her Judy Moody any day of the week! Reality was her kryptonite. She was longing for home and sleep, where limitless dreams awaited.

Nothing made sense to her anymore. The school was meant to be safe. Yet, this was her recurring nightmare.

'McKenna, seven times twelve.'

Silence filled the air, as did the 16 tiny hands that were raised.

Sixteen students that the teacher could've called upon, and yet it was her. It was always her.

Eighty-four, McKenna thought.

'If you don't want to learn, then sit outside.'

Taunting her would not win this teacher any prizes. McKenna may have been an eight-year-old, but she was more intelligent than Mrs McConnell gave her credit for. She knew better than to answer back and fight against the injustice. Instead, it was the straw that broke the camel's back. She was forced to surrender to push her way through the never ending nightmare.

I don't want to talk. I don't want to be here. I either crawl into a hole and die, or I go silent.