Page 6 of Cursed to Be Mine
The inability to truly stand up for my daughter, being new to the area and a single mom with no connections, no weight behind my name, pushed me into politics. And there’s no better platform, no better way of gaining public support than by riling them up over a common hatred.
Red Acres High Supports a Thriving Pedophile Ring
‘Beloved Teachers’ at Red Acres High are Pedophiles
One in Eight Children Assaulted by Teachers at RedAcres High
Those were the articles I published online on my blog, printed out, and hung all around the district. The ones I got into the local news, then the national with changed titles.
I had dug into each and every employee at that school. With the statistical average of ten to twenty percent of children suffering an assault at school by a teacher, with that likelihood being a hundred times more likely than assault by a Catholic priest, I’d known that all I had to do was go looking for dirt. And in no time at all, I had found gold.
Disgusting gold in the form of six teachers assaulting a multitude of kids over the years but gold nonetheless.
The public outcry was intense – an inferno, a furious mob demanding justice. And once I was certain the fire could not be put out by the school’s PR team, I released my next batch of articles online, wanting their contents to cause more of an uproar than what the local news would report.
Red Acres High Refuses to Fire Pedophiles
Red Acres High Tells Mother Her Ten-Year-Old Son ‘Deserved to be Molested’ By Mr. Anderson
Red Acres High Asks Pre-teen Girl, ‘What Were You Wearing?’ Pants and Long Sleeved Shirt Saying ‘Trust In God’
The entire school board was replaced within a week – though none of them lost their pensions. Of the six pedo teachers, four were arrested. The other two were beaten to death in their own homes. Their children were taken away by social services; their partners were run out of state. The state government ended up having to step in to keep the school running and to set upsecurity for the other faculty. People left in droves. A lot of the teachers tried to leave for other schools too, but they couldn’t get hired and so they became bus drivers.
The schools wouldn’t let them teach in a public setting, but they’d allow them private access to children for hours. The logic behind that was shocking.
And with so many parents not getting off work until long after their children were to arrive home…I feared for the last students off the bus. From that day on, I always made sure to pick up and drop off Scarlett myself. On really busy days, I sent Benjamin, having hired him to be my PA not long after that. His older sister had been raped four years ago at seventeen, and on her graduation day, she’d committed suicide. He blamed himself for having never seen the signs.
My career rocketed after that incident. And when I sat on the school board, I made sure the dress code policy didn’t encourage pedophile tendencies, giving them a free pass while blaming our little girls. Scarlett was never sent to the office for ‘being a distraction’ again, robbing her of vital class time.
But now, ten years later, her education was taking a dive anyway. I talked to my contacts at Flagler College yesterday and know she is failing half her classes. My Little Genius throwing her life away.
Sighing, I finish washing the suds off my skin, then turn off the shower. I step out onto the brown bath mat, the soft fibers cushioning my wet feet, and grab a towel off the heated railing. Drying first my body, I then bend over and fling my long hair over me to twist it up in the towel. I straighten and grab my phone, turning it on briefly to check the time and to see if there are any messages.
My body heats at the sight of a notification from Derek Greene – a name I’m pretty sure isn’t real considering the background check I ran on him came up empty. But I understand his paranoia. If I was the head of the Warriors Against Lycans and Lessers (WALL), a secret organization that went out every night hunting for witches, vampires, and werewolves to capture and kill, I would be paranoid too.
I quickly click on it. No previous messages sit in our chat.
Derek:I can’t wait to fuck your ass tonight.
Benjamin would kill me for sending a nude, but I swipe the camera around on my phone to face me and hold it up at a flattering angle, cutting off my face and sticking two fingers inside myself. Although I’m fifty-one and have a scar from my C-section, Derek and his son Daniel make me feel beautiful.
Hannah:Maybe Dan can eat my pussy this time while you fuck me.
I hit send, wait a few seconds, and then delete all evidence before turning off the screen on my phone. Then scowl as I turn it back on to check the time.
Eight-thirteen. I have fifteen minutes to get dressed, my make-up on, and my hair styled and dried.
Walking into my room, I grab the blue dress pants and white blouse Benjamin set out for me yesterday, having laid it over my chair still on the hanger. Throwing them on top of comfortable matching underwear, I settle in the chair and face the mirror.
Five minutes later, my make-up is flawless and natural, and I work on sorting my hair. Blow dried and lightly curled around my shoulders, the style is approachable and fashionable. Feminine. Motherly – perfect for posing with children.
Benjamin is sitting on the white Oviedo chaise by the back windows, dressed in a crease-free gray suit as I enter the family room. Scarlett is, unsurprisingly, nowhere to be seen.
“Morning, ma’am.” He rises to greet me, his southern upbringing combined with him being a military brat making him the definition of respect – a habit he hasn’t been able to break despite being in his high twenties.
“Benjamin.”
He offers me a paper bag with the logoSchmagel’son it, as well as a cup of steaming coffee with milk and two sugars, just the way I like it. I head for the door as he follows behind me, stopping to put on my shoes –dark-blue boots to match my outfit– and grab a small red bag off the hook by the door. Benjamin intercepts me, though, picking up the honey-colored bag beside it. “Cheerful colors, ma’am.”
