A basket of crayons sit in the middle of a table.  Some are broken in half; others don’t have the Crayola wrapper anymore. Years of kindergarteners’ rough hands and a low school budget have caused the crayons to lose their crisp new look. Soon they will be disturbed from their summer long slumber and will feel the touch of the new students’ hands. Students that have never been in a classroom before, and just like every year, will push the crayons’ condition from bad to worse.
I’ve been teaching kindergarten at the same school for almost 16 years. I loved my job and would never have traded it for anything else. My students weren’t like other five and six year old however. My students were the ones who weren’t allowed to attend regular school. I taught the mentally ill, whether their condition diagnosed or not.  I loved my job, and I would never have traded it for anything else, but I will never go back to teaching as long as I live.
I had ten children in my class the year it all happened. I remember the first day of school. I was so excited to see bright new faces in my classroom. Like every year, I’m always very eager to learn new names and meet new parents.
Just like the students I taught, the parents were always one of a kind as well.  They were understandably over bearing, so I was always prepared for the slew of background checks and questions.
“How long have you been teaching children with special needs?” asks Alex’s mother.  If I can recall correctly, Alex was diagnosed with autism when he was two.
  I assured his mother that I had been teaching for many years, and her son would benefit greatly from my class. Alex looked blankly at me, his fingers in his ears. He had a pair of stained overalls on with a green striped shirt underneath.
After countless meetings with parents, the first day of class rapidly arrived. I smiled at the children all sitting at the tables, surprising calm. I’ve had years where I can’t get anyone to sit down in a chair for more than five minutes.
I scanned over the class and counted heads. There was only nine. I knew that my attendance list said ten. I looked at the seating chart to see who was missing.
   “Molly Jacobson.” I said out loud.
` Before I could make my next move, a frantic knock was heard at my classroom door.
Standing there was a woman on the heavier side. Her hair was in a messy pony-tail, and her sweet pants and t-shirt had holes in them. She gave me a weak, fake smile and rubbed her already disturbed eyeliner.  Behind her was a small child with a little pink dress on. She had two little blonde pig tails on either side of her head. She looked up at me shyly with huge, golden brown eyes. For a reason I will never know, I felt infinitely uncomfortable.
“Hi, you’re Ms.Long, right?” the woman asks awkwardly.
“Yes I am!” I said enthusiastically. “You must be Ms. Jacobson.” I shook her hand, and then directed my attention down to the child. I smiled warmly. “And you must be Molly. I’m Ms.Long.”
Molly glared at me without saying a word. I never got her medical files, so at that point I didn’t know what to expect.
“Goodbye now.” said Ms. Jacobson.  I’ve never had a mother leave so quickly. No questions, no background checks, nothing; just a lone kindergartener standing awkwardly outside my doorway.
I led her to her seat reluctantly. She smiled at me. She had a full set of adult teeth. I’ve never seen someone so young with such a developed smile.
As the days went on, I began to develop a relationship with all of my students. Through teaching them and working with them, I too learned so much about each and every one of my children.
Molly was different. She never spoke. Not a word, not a whisper. Unlike the other two children who didn’t speak, she was different. The most communication I got from her in the first two months was the oddly adult tooth smile she shared with me on the first day.
Until one day around January, she spoke the first sentence to me. It was lunch time and I was eating at my desk. She walked up to me slowly and stood.
“Hi Molly, do you need something honey?” I said, wiping salad dressing from my lips with a napkin.
“Don’t worry my Cinderella; your prince charming will come for you someday.” Molly said with a monotone voice, and walked away just as blandly.
My heart stopped in mid-beat. My jaw dropped. I felt as if I were going to throw up. My mind went to my grandmother rubbing my back and I sit on my on my bed, just a teenager. I remember I was crying so hard my eyes hurt. My boyfriend of four months had broken my heart. I remember the words my grandmother spoke to me, one of the last memories I had of her.
“Don’t worry my Cinderella; your prince charming will come for you someday.”
I finished the rest of that day without emotion. I tossed and turned that night. How was it possible? This child deemed “mentally ill” had quoted my dead grandmother word for word. For some reason I brushed that incident off in order to get some sleep.
Weeks went on as normal. Molly went through class without uttering a word. I forgot about that incident for quite some time, though I don’t know how that was possible.
It wasn’t till around spring break Molly talked again. Again, it was lunch time and I was enjoying my chicken sandwich at my desk.
She walked up to me just like last time. Just as calm, and just as abruptly.
This time I just stared back at her. Our eyes locked, unblinking. I heard a shriek. It was Alex. He was rapidity banging his head on the table. Another student, Jill, was tearing pages out of a picture book and swallowing them whole. Two more of my children were ripping each other’s hair out. The classroom went into frenzy.  Screams were filling the room.
She broke into an adult smile for the second and final time. She was not a kindergartener. She was not mentally ill. She was not human.
“Say goodbye to your students, Ms.Long.” she said calmly.
I don’t remember what happened after that, I swear. Everything went black. The next thing I remember is waking up here.
I was paralyzed. I could not have saved those children even if I wanted to. Molly had taken an iron grip on all of us and was not letting go.
I am not a murderer; now please take this straight jacket off of me.