Mark: Move out of the way! Drive!
Mark gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. Every red light felt like a personal insult as his mind replayed the brutal image of the wooden stick striking his four-year-old son's delicate hand.
Mark: She hit him. A teacher actually struck my boy in a public classroom.
He hit the dashboard in frustration, his chest heaving as tears of absolute rage blurred his vision. His phone lay on the seat beside him, still streaming the quiet classroom feed.
Mark: I trusted that school. We paid for their security upgrades. We gave them our trust.
He remembered plugging in that black power cord to the camera system just two months ago during the school’s volunteer weekend, ensuring every angle of the room was covered for safety. He never imagined he would use it to watch his own child suffer.
Mark: Five more blocks. Just hold on, Leo.
Tire smoke hissed as he pulled hard into the school parking lot, barely taking the time to park straight before slamming the truck door shut.
Mark: Where is the principal? Where is she?
He stormed past the front administrative office, ignoring the front desk receptionist who stood up in surprise.
Secretary: Sir! Excuse me, you can't go back there without signing in!
Mark: Get out of my way!
Secretary: Sir, stop! I will call security!
Mark: Call whoever you want! Call the police while you're at it!
His heavy work boots echoed loudly down the tiled hallway, leading straight toward Room 104 at the far end of the corridor.
Mark: Leo!
Through the small glass window on the door, he saw Mrs. Vance sitting at her large desk, casually grading papers while Leo sat on the floor in the corner, sobbing silently into his tiny shirt sleeves.
Mark: You monster.
Mark kicked the classroom door open with a deafening slam, the heavy wood crashing hard against the interior wall.
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