"Dolores! Look at me when I'm talking to you!"
The tall, steel-haired man whacked the long, bendy cane on the young girl's desk.
She sat up even straighter in her chair, and tried to keep composed.
"Better. Now; recite the Twelve Uses of Dragon's Blood."
Dolores' mouth gaped. They had not learnt these yet.
An iron-hard glint entered the man's eyes.
"Don't just sit there useless as a Flitterbloom, girl! And close your mouth; you look like an ugly Lobalug."
The girl bowed her head, quietly accepting the criticism.
The schoolroom was dank and gloomy. It was dimly-lit, and the one candle in the corner cast eerie shadows over the walls that brought the dark spaces between spindly, ancient trees at the dead of night to Dolores' mind. Their long fingers stretched through her imagination... The single desk stood in the middle of the room. The tall, forbidding man stood in front of it.
Dolores lifted her head, and sorted through the carefully organised information in her head. Dragon's blood, dragon's blood...
She began confidently in her high voice, "Twelve Uses of Dragon's Blood. Use number one..." her assuredness faltered, "Mmm... oven cleaner?" Her uncertainness echoed around the dingy room.
A short sharp nod. She breathed an internal sigh of relief.
"Use number two." Her head emptied, as if the information had been blown out by a gust of wind. The silence passed for a few minutes. With each, the tall man's expression grew even more menacing.
"Broomstick maintenance?" Her voice was tiny, nothing more than an insignificant breath. From her tutor's expression, she knew she was wrong. The man's face was black with rage.
"Idiot girl! Why do I even bother to come here every day to teach nothing more than a STUPID, BLOODY, GNAT?" His final words were punctuated by a slam on the desk and a waterfall of tiny flecks of saliva.
Dolores cowered away from him. Fist rising in the air, he stood directly in front of her, hand poised to scream down and make quick contact with her pale cheek. His mind battled with decisions for a few moments. Finally, he smirked and slowly lowered his hand.
Turning, he quickly strode over to a cupboard in the corner. The small girl's heart sank. Not this again...
The man rummaged around for a few seconds, before emerging. A razor-sharp quill glinted from his hands.
His lips spread into a cruel, wide smile.
"You know what to do, Dolores."
Her lips trembled as she took the medieval torture from him, and placed it onto the paper.
A few moments later, a large, squat tear fell from her face and landed on the fresh blood on the parchment.
Forty years later, a teenage boy sits among the cats, frills and lace. His face is contorted in pain.
Dolores turns to look at him. Her smile widens.
"Yes. It hurts, doesn't it?"
Her hands instinctively pull down her cardigan to hide her own scars.