The Reliever

During our last English lesson, we were instructed to create a story about the best possible experience you could have with a reliever. It had to be at least 500 words in length, realistic, and on our blogs by Tuesday. So, here I am, writing up my story. This is what I wrote.

Last block, Friday afternoon. It's common knowledge that it is hopeless to even try to produce anything in that dreaded, impossibly long, seventy-five minutes. The only thing you could do, was nothing.
Earlier that morning it had absolutely poured. Our P.E. lesson had been composed of our class trudging belligerently through the mud; cold rain drenching you, extinguishing your hope, ragged breath burning your throat, and puncturing your lungs.
We were all well and truly beat.
Fatigued, exhausted, drained, just bloody knackered. We were still damp and could see nothing but Friday night ahead.
We milled about outside the English classroom. Our bodies and minds simply dead-beat, facial expressions falling where they may. Leaning against walls, doors, and each other, inwardly, counting down the moments until we were free.

Maybe it was because we weren't making any noise, but the footsteps sounded unusually loud as a teacher made their way up the corridor. A reliever. At least getting away with nothing would be easier this lesson. What a relief.
The teacher unlocked the door, pinned it back, and went inside. The class walked in, took their seats, and waited. Nothing out of the ordinary. The sky had cleared, and the sun had been injecting heat into our dreary existence since mid-morning. The rain-water was half way through evaporating, and the air was heated and thick. The usually chilly classroom was now a pleasant temperature, the same temperature, in fact, as a warm, soft bed...

The teacher said his name was Mr. Richards. I wondered vaguely if 'mister' was really his first name. He told us in a stern and lifeless voice, that perfectly matched his appearance, to refrain from speaking and to get our books out. I guess we could manage that. No use playing up too soon, not until we knew his boundaries.
Books open, pens in hand, and minds full of cotton wool. With eye-lids drooping, we directed our mutual stare nebulously to the front of the class.
He had black and greying hair that was long, but not too long. He also was proud owner of a pair of very thick, dark eyebrows that came together at the slightest frown.
You could tell we were a little apprehensive.
He wouldn't. He couldn't. Don't try and tell me he actually wants to make us work!
Wasn't he aware of his placing in the hierarchy of school life? He had no binding power, no real control. Heck, I'd never even seen him before.
'Pens at the ready. Now dictate the following,' He began.
Come on Richards, this isn't 19th century England.
'Ignorance is a state of mind.' He said slowly and precisely. 'A very costly state at that, and one that, at all costs, should be avoided.'
Are you kidding me? This is meant to be an English class.
'New sentence. You are all ignorant. I am a adult, and have a great moustache, thus I am far more superior to you. Now, repeat for emphasis.'
Someone blew their nose. No one knew how to react. Most of us probably weren't writing it down anyway.
'Copy what I write on the board, thank you.' He pulled a marker from the breast pocket of his brown suede jacket and took two steps toward the Smartboard. No one said anything as he wrote on the screen of the board.
I've got you now, is what he had scrawled. Then he started laughing hysterically, eyebrows dancing, his hands to his head.
My mind was trying unsuccessfully to reel. The cog of thought was slow and ungreased; confusion and questions simply refused to come. So I shrugged, and decided to enjoy the haze.
Then, we all continued to stare blankly at the man before us, who was emitting an extremely strange noise.
Slowly, he reached around to the back of his head. The sound of a zip was just audible. The facade that had been Mr. Richards fell to the floor, revealing a cackling Ms. Wilson.
'I've got you now!' She shrieked, rubbing her hands together with glee. Her eyes darted from one gaping face to another. You could see her mind running through all the possible punishments, eyes alight with a sickening joy.
Then suddenly, her manically giggling form began to fade and blur, like a far off object finally coming into focus.

'Good sleep, honey?' A kind-faced, elderly teacher asked. I blinked, and looked around the classroom. The air was still and warm, and everyone's expression was bleary-eyed but strangely rested.
The teacher had let us sleep through the whole lesson.

Without a doubt, that's definitely the best thing that could ever happen with a reliever.