The Scandalous Still Life
The bell signaling the end of the afternoon's long, tedious regular classes rang out. Amid the chaotic noise of cadets filing out of the classroom one by one, I sank my exhausted body deep into my chair. The red sunset light filtering through the window cracks pleasantly cooled my feverish cheeks. A heavy warmth pressed firmly against my left shoulder.
"Mmm... Cadel smells so good..."
It was Reina, dozing off lightly with her head resting on my shoulder. Just moments ago, unable to endure the boredom of theory class, she'd been fidgeting facedown on her desk. But the moment the break bell rang, she'd scooted over to my side and claimed my shoulder as her pillow.
The faint lavender scent wafting from Reina's silver hair tickled my nose. My shoulder was a bit stiff, but the fact that this uncontrollable beast was resting so peacefully, merely breathing softly, brought me immense tranquility.
'Yeah, this is a perfect way to wrap up the day.'
Keeping my left shoulder as steady as possible so as not to wake her, I lightly tapped the desk drawer with my right hand.
At that moment, a heavy shadow fell over my desk.
"Evans, sir. The 'still life' assignment you promised to review this morning..."
Lifting my head, I saw Oscar standing there, cradling a large sketchbook preciously in both arms. This morning, the moment I opened the classroom door, she'd clung to me with dark circles hanging down to her chin, begging me to check her work. I'd put her off, saying, "I'll look at it after classes end this afternoon," since I wanted some peaceful morning time. So here she was, right on cue as the bell rang.
Since then, she'd apparently thrown herself into the still life, as her under-eye circles were even darker, her pupils unfocused and drifting into space. But there was none of her usual hunching or avoiding my gaze. Oscar stood tall-chested, clutching the sketchbook tightly to her bosom. Her knuckles, gripping the edges, trembled faintly. In stark contrast to her pallid face, her cheeks burned red like a fever patient's, and her lips twitched grotesquely amid her ragged breaths.
'Oh ho.'
A satisfied smile spread across my lips. My ten years as a student supervisor were telling me this. Those flushed cheeks, trembling fingertips, and subtly lifted chin—they were the classic physiological reactions of a top graduate who'd pulled an all-nighter tearing her hair out, finally solving an unsolvable puzzle through sheer willpower.
"Good work. Judging by those dark circles, you must've stared holes into that apple all week."
"...Yes. To capture the essence of that red, luscious fruit, I poured my entire soul into it."
Oscar's voice was hoarse like a smoker's cough, yet laced with an oddly sticky fervor. I nodded and took the sketchbook she offered. Lulled by Reina's sleeping breaths like a lullaby, I flipped open the thick cover with a light heart.
Shrrk—
And in the next instant, my brain came to a complete halt.
The paper's background was coated in pitch-black darkness, not a single ray of light penetrating it. In the center of that void floated a single red, luscious apple, bound inescapably by rough, thick black leather straps and cold silver handcuffs. The straps dug into the apple's red skin, distorting it grotesquely under the pressure, crimson, sticky juice oozing from the cracks like droplets of blood.
'I told her to draw a still life, not torture an apple! What the hell is wrong with this girl's brain structure?!'
The moment I realized her triumphant reactions weren't from academic achievement but from the thrill of underground art's depravity, a burning pain twisted through my stomach like acid eating away at my gut lining.
I froze in shock, about to dry-wash my face—
"...Ah!"
Click. The classroom's back door opened, followed by a faint, breathless scream from someone.
Thud. A heavy leather-bound scripture hit the marble floor limply, shattering the silence.
It was Isabella, the aspiring priestess returning from afternoon prayers. Passing by my desk, she'd caught sight of the sketchbook I held open. Hands clasped, she dropped to her knees right there. Blue veins bulged on the backs of her interlocked hands, and her golden eyes shimmered with trembling awe and clear tears welling up.
"Ahh... Behold! How abject yet noble this form is!"
From Isabella's lips, still kneeling, came a pious gasp like a pilgrim beholding divine revelation. I stared down at her, stunned by the sudden turn. Her gaze was locked without deviation on the sketchbook in my hands—specifically, on that utterly indecent 'bound BDSM apple' drawing. Her clasped hands quivered in prayer, tears overflowing from her clear golden eyes to patter down her pale cheeks.
"That fruit, spilling red blood while shackled, yet never losing its radiant light...! It is humanity's great Original Sin—the fruit of good and evil—and at once the stigmata of the saint, Evans, who willingly endures persecution for our sake!"
"...Pardon?"
A dumb retort slipped from my mouth, but Isabella, lost in religious ecstasy, seemed deaf to it.
"The holy silence of the martyr enduring the agony of worldly evil's leather straps carving into flesh... To render it in such a perfect, dazzling holy painting! Ahh, Evans. The weight of that thorny path you bear alone pierces my heart through this single image!"
I squeezed my eyes shut. Through Isabella's sacred filter, the handcuffed, abused apple had been instantly laundered into the 'symbol of holy sacrifice, bound of its own will to save the world.'
'No, how is that a holy painting? It's underground illustration that deserves a red sticker for adults only. What the hell do you people illustrate in your bibles?!'
I screamed internally, spitting blood, but Isabella was already crossing herself toward the sketchbook with hands clasped.
But reacting faster to this mad religious interpretation than I did was the artist herself, Oscar.
"Wh-what are you saying?! Who compares my art to some stuffy religious painting?!"
Incensed that her secret, decadent BDSM still life—brimming with her hidden desires—had been recast as wholesome religious art, Oscar bristled with wounded pride. Her dark-circled face flushed red and purple as she tore at her disheveled hair and blocked Isabella.
"Look properly if you have eyes, you stuffy priestess! This isn't some ascetic sacrifice! It's the suppressed emotions of the apple (Reina), crushed under the overwhelming dominance of the leather straps (Cadel), dripping sensual juice without even a scream!"
Oscar's vein-popping shout sliced through the classroom air.
"That suffocating angle where the straps dig in! The contrast of the handcuffs' cold metal texture against the apple's hot red! This is the pinnacle of indulgence reaching climax, not martyrdom!"
To Oscar, the liquid drenching the apple wasn't holy blood. It was the thick 'trace of love' from repressed desire bursting forth—depravity incarnate. Her barrage of overly explicit, visual words made me doubt my ears; I nearly hurled the sketchbook away. This lunatic was boldly briefing her delusions to a ten-year veteran teacher.
And Isabella's face, struck head-on by this profane aesthetic, twisted in momentary holy fury.
"Shut your mouth, you vile heretic!"
Still kneeling, Isabella snapped her head up and thundered at Oscar.
"How dare you! Defiling the saint's holy sacrifice to save the world with your base, lewd secular standards! Your lowbrow delusions are mere dust before this sublime agony!"
"Lowbrow?! A fake priestess who doesn't know the first thing about art! Don't mock my aesthetics!"
"That red juice isn't lewd fluid—it's the precious blood washing away our sins, and that binding is Saint Evans's infinite patience toward the world! Don't sexually harass this sacred silence with your filthy tongue!"
"Sexual harassment? This is performance art of love and dominance!"
With the bound apple drawing between them, a horrific ideological war erupted at my desk. One spat about 'depraved tension,' the other about 'holy martyrdom' like an inquisitor, eyes bulging. The two maniacs' decibels rose, fouling the air.
I pressed my temples hard with both hands, eyes squeezed shut against the relentless headache.
'God, is there truly not a single sane being in this asylum?'
"Mmm... Cadel, too noisy..."
Then, Reina—rubbing her cheek on my left shoulder in peaceful slumber—whined and squirmed. The catfight of religion and art right in front of her nose had finally woken the oblivious beast from her nap. She shook out her tousled silver hair, rubbing her heavy eyelids. Her clear, drowsy purple eyes glanced up at my face, then slowly drifted to the sketchbook in my hands.
"Cadel, what's that? Why're they fighting over a picture...?"
Curiosity in her voice, Reina leaned in close to peer at the sketchbook. My heart plummeted. Setting aside Oscar's delusion that it symbolized 'Reina crushed by Cadel,' I couldn't let this uncontrollable beast see such high-level sadistic perversion as visual aid. If she drew some weird inspiration from it and shoved leather straps or handcuffs at me again, my normal teacher life would end that day.
"It's nothing!"
Slam!!
I reflexively snapped the sketchbook shut with brutal force. The crisp bang echoed through the entire classroom. Oscar and Isabella, glaring daggers at each other, whipped their heads toward me in unison.
"Just... a gross, creepy picture. Not for your eyes. It'll ruin them."
Feigning calm, I shoved the sketchbook deep into the desk drawer, blocking it from view.
"Gross? Ew, I hate that stuff. Burn it right now, Cadel."
Reina scrunched her nose and plopped her head back on my shoulder with a thunk. I lightly stroked her crown to soothe her, then turned to the two gaping maniacs.
My iciest, driest teacher persona settled over my face—the one honed from ten years supervising girls' high school hell.
"Both of you, stop it."
My low, flat tone made their shoulders flinch.
"Causing a ruckus in this sacred classroom is forbidden. The noise is echoing down the hall. Lady Isabella, pick up your fallen scripture and return to your seat at once."
At my firm command, Isabella startled, then bowed piously and retreated.
Left was the culprit of this mess: Oscar. I tapped the drawer where I'd stuffed the sketchbook and glared down coldly.
"And Lady Oscar."
"Y-yes, sir! Evans!"
"No going home today. Infinite repeat sketches until you draw a 'normal round apple.' If even one line reeks of unhealthy tension, all your confiscated works go straight to the furnace. Understood?"
Forced after-school study sentence. A normal student would've begged tearfully, but Oscar's hollow eyes gleamed with eerie light at my threat. Gripping her pencil with trembling hands, she panted like an addict in withdrawal.
"I'll keep it in mind...! Under your strict guidance, Evans, I'll squeeze out everything inside me! Ahh, 'repression' and 'correction'—what a perfect theme!"
"...Back to your seat. Now."
Oscar muttered like she was possessed and shuffled back. Staring at the drawer, I closed my eyes against the vicious headache pounding my temples.
'That rotten artistic soul isn't a disorder fixable with scolding or detention. It's terminal, beyond saving.'
Worse, my 'guidance' and 'confiscations' only fueled her new inspirations. The stricter I got, the sharper and lewder her pen nib would grow in madness. Even mustering every trick from my K-girls' high ten-year playbook, I saw no way to reform the lunatics in this otherworldly delinquent camp. The more I taught, the more they splendidly broke in ways utterly opposite my intentions.
Feeling Reina's steady breaths, I pinched my throbbing brow with deep, teacherly resignation. The sunset sinking outside the window felt especially red and sticky today—like the apple juice Oscar had drawn.