Destructive Criticism
The tension was so warm and thick, she could hardly catch her breath.
“Do you understand what I’m saying?”
He’s only trying to help, she chanted to herself, he’s only trying to help. As Sabrina fixated her gaze on the paper in front of her, she could feel twelve pairs of eyes boring into her from all directions. Like bullets, they pierced her and exited the other side.
She tried so hard to be rational, immune, and fair-minded. But her hot gaze that spread throughout her face told her she wasn’t handling it so well. The criticism ate away at her hard work and left her vulnerable and spiteful. Who was he to tear her down in front of her peers? Who was he to dismiss every word she had thought through so carefully?
The instructor paused, still waiting on an answer.
“Yeah, I do.”
She could hear the anger and humiliation in her voice and assumed he could too. But instead of stopping, he continued his assessment of her writing.
Every sentence was wrong. Every piece of the puzzle was misshapen and ugly. The frail confidence she once had in her piece simmered then boiled, evaporating in the unendurable heat.
By the time he moved on to someone else, Sabrina was battling nausea. The next student received praise, not undue, but obnoxiously rampant from her instructor. Her sense of defeat deflated her further and she wondered for the millionth time if she was really cut out to be a writer.
It wasn’t just the writing, hacked to pieces every time it was criticized by this particular professor. Sabrina knew it was a writer’s job to swallow criticism and keep it down. Use it constructively and disregard the rest. She deemed herself successful at doing so; until this semester, this class. Could her writing really have gotten so much worse? Had her skin thinned so much over the break? Or was the chemistry with this professor just very off?
She missed the next student’s reading. She couldn’t hear it over the sound of her teeth grinding.
“Let’s take a fifteen minute break.”
Sabrina exhaled for what felt like the first time since they had stopped critiquing her piece. The illness of embarrassment subsided a little.
“Sorry about what happened,” Angela said, sympathetically, “that really sucks.”
“Yeah, well…” Sabrina tried to bite her tongue, knowing spiteful speech was not her style, “I don’t think he knows what he’s talking about.”
The rest of class was spent slowly easing back into her rhythm. It’s not a big deal, she told herself, you’ve listened to other people get torn apart the very same way.
But every time, another part of her demanded. Every goddamn time?
The walk back to her car was not as relaxing as she had hoped. Each breath of fresh air was supposed to clean out a piece of her black, sticky shame. But it only grew more pungent. And more and more it appeared to rest on one particular X factor – it had to be him. It had to be Mr. Wright. The irony of his name elicited a chuckle, but came out more like a grunt of effort. This is getting really old, she seethed, I don’t want to go through this any more.
Each person she complained to over the following week got a more exaggerated version of the story than the one before. Sabrina heard it, but didn’t care. If she had to pump it up to get people to see just how angry she was, then so be it. But her friends were non-writers and nothing she said could make them understand. The sympathy they offered was shallow and mechanical.
As the week approached her class day, she didn’t know how she could go back. Why bring another piece, she asked. Why give him more ammunition? But a failing grade terrified her more than the toxic feedback. She forced herself to write another piece, shrouded in doubt and indignation. I swear I’d almost rather die than keep going to this class, she thought, it’s like a slow suicide anyway.
Sabrina stepped into the classroom with a bag slightly heavier than usual. She placed it carefully next to her chair and looked around her suspiciously. The same old gang was back, chatting in their usual way. Nothing seemed threatening to them. She wished she could feel their ease.
“Hopefully he won’t show up,” Angela remarked with a smile. Sabrina returned the smile forcefully and nodded. You don’t know how much I agree, she thought.
But Mr. Wright finally did arrive and class commenced. Sabrina moved her bag into her lap and held it there, hugging it like a comforting teddy bear. It was an odd gesture, but one that went largely unnoticed by peers and instructors alike, just as she had hoped.
Her breath was labored; her whole body was shaking so hard she was sure someone would notice. She gave them ten minutes to take heed. But they didn’t. With a big, shaky inhalation, Sabrina opened her bag and began to search for something. She was staring right at it, but continued the fruitful search for show. Her eyes could not fight the attraction of the object, she was fixated. Eventually, he’d call her name to get her attention. She couldn’t wait that long.
The moment, from when the single-action revolver was taken from her bag, to when it was cocked then aimed, seemed to last forever. Sabrina was puzzled by the lack of reaction. But there was no going back once the weapon was in plain sight – it would all be for naught.
The first shot startled her as badly as it did everyone else. At the firing range she had used padded headphones to mute the noise. It never occurred to her it could be this deafening. By the time she squeezed off the second shot, students were diving under their desks. Sabrina let go of the gun and dropped down under her own desk, head down, arms locked behind her head.
There was panting in the silence. No one wanted to be the first to stand up. Sabrina looked from left to right, examining her peers. No one seemed to be looking at her. Were they unaware that she was the shooter? Finally, a guy by the door raised himself slowly, peering over the instructor’s desk, terrified of what he would find.
“I-You…what!?”
This unexpected reaction brought nearly everyone to their feet. Mr. Wright was sitting in his chair, two holes in his shirt. But there was no blood. He looked to be in pain, but not in a serious way. Sabrina shared in the shock and disbelief. But there was an angry disappointment that bubbled to the surface.
If no one else, Mr. Wright knew it had been her. Hunched over he was looking her straight in the eye. To answer the burning question, he raised his shirt to reveal a Kevlar vest.
“What?” he said in response to Sabrina’s wide-eyed stare, “Did you think you were the first to try?”