You’re having a bad day.

You spent all night playing a video game and woke up this morning with two hours of sleep. Grogged, you couldn’t find your schoolbooks and so you missed your usual bus, and the one after that. When you finally get on the bus, you look forward to your first class, math, where you can sleep at the back. Your favourite teacher is there, because she just leaves you alone.

But when you finally make it to math, you find your usual teacher replaced with the teacher you utterly detest. Mr Gibson. Welcome to the fires of hell.

From the start of term, Mr Gibson’s always been up your ass. The first time you met, he scolded you for being two minutes late. Two minutes?! And the second time, he told you off for having messy hair. Like that matters…

And so since today you are 30 minutes late and are still rocking your bed hair, you can feel what’s about to come. When you walk in, Mr Gibson abruptly stops his spiel on fractions and you feel his eyes on you, then the clock, then at your hair. You embrace yourself to face the fury of a demon.

But he simply tells you to sit down.

For a second, you can’t believe it. Did you just escape death? But you don’t hesitate at this chance for freedom, and jolt to the back of your class, rest your head against the desk and sleep on your bag, just as you usually do.

---

When you wake, the class is empty. You look up, rub the sleep out of your eyes, and see Mr Gibson looking down on you. You feel a sinking feeling of despair. So this was your plan, you think. To execute me alone, so nobody can witness…

But instead, Mr Gibson looks at you for a while. Then he pulls a chair over and sits opposite you on the desk. With some effort, you look back. And for a split second, you see the eyes of your father in them. Those kind, compassionate eyes. Eyes which you haven’t seen in over a decade.

“I’m sorry I’m late…” you mutter. But Mr Gibson says nothing. To fill the silence, you continue rambling.

“I think my dog ate my schoolbook, and I spent ages looking for it. And my bus left without me, and then so did the next one, so that’s-”

“Tell me…” Mr Gibson interrupts, “do you like school?”

“Well no sir,” you reply honestly. “I just come here because I have to.”

“And who tells you that you have to?”

“Mommy”.

“What do you enjoy doing?”

“Playing games.”

“So why don’t you skip school and play games?”

“Well, because I can’t.”

Mr Gibson stares at you intently, seeming to wait for more. When you give no response, he makes a small sigh.

“Have you ever seen two rosebushes fighting?” The question takes you by surprise. You shake your head.

“It’s quite a remarkable sight. While rosebushes don’t exactly punch and kick like some animals, it’s a complex struggle nonetheless. If there is only one patch of good ground, but not enough space, the roots of the roses twist, turn and battle each other to survive.”

“People,” Mr Gibson continues, “are kind of like these rosebushes. We have roses we want to plant and grow, but sometimes these roses fight one another, and the resulting struggle can be terrible. One rose may destroy the other, or both may never grow to their full potential.”

At this, you feel a growing tension inside your body. One you’ve never felt before. Like there’s knots being dug up from your innermost soul. The feeling makes you very uncomfortable.

And then you begin to see Mr Gibson’s words in action. You see your rose of luxury. The rose that wants to be happy, crush noobs online and have no responsibilities. But then you see your rose of duty. Your duty to please your mum. To get educated. To give back to society. You see these two roses fighting it out. And recently, your luxury rose has been winning.

But you feel like there’s more. That there’s so much more. That somehow, your abusive uncle plays a role, that your dad dying from cancer plays a role and how you living in poverty plays a role. That there are various pieces of the puzzle that make up you, except you don’t know where they belong.

“My dominant rose,” Mr Gibson says quietly, “is integrity. As a teacher, I believe the greatest good I can do is to make sure you students become morally upright members of society. But to cultivate this rose meant I had to let some others die. Like my rose for being liked. Or for being lazy.”

You begin to understand. When you look into Mr Gibson’s eyes now, you don’t see the devil, but just another human trying their best to make the most wonderful garden. And you begin to realise that everyone is making their own little garden unique to them, and that’s totally fine.

---

You go home that day and take a long nap. In your dreams, you see a wide forest of giant trees, with roots as thick as your arm. And in the middle of the forest, you see a wonderful garden. A garden of roses, white orchids, daisies and dandelions planted perfectly next to each other. And to the side, you see a tired, old man. The gardener. He looks up to you with tears in his eyes, and smiles.