There weren’t many lessons in school that I anticipated with such fervour.

Yes, I had an enduring interest in language, but English was always my favourite and strongest subject. However, when I was 13, what manifested itself as a schoolboy crush led to an interest in another language that would have far reaching changes on my life.

When she walked in the room, all of those boyish hormones suddenly started racing around my body, like an out of control NASCAR vehicle. There she stood, petite, young, blonde and beautiful. She was to be my French teacher for the next year. I had never looked forward to attending a class so much before.

I watched her mouth and listened to that voice. Man, what an accent! I wanted her, in a 13-year-old boy kind of way. But I also wanted to talk like her. Somehow, even the most innocent of nouns and verbs seemed like pure sex on her lips. If I could speak like that, I would have it made.

I really don’t know how I learned anything in her class, as my attention was never on the book in front of me or the chalk board on which she was writing. Somehow my grades were good, but I had fallen in love with Miss Aillot (pronounced eye-o). I had also fallen in love with the French language.

The very next year, Miss Aillot had disappeared from my life. She had returned to France. While her presence was sorely missed, I hung in there and my passion for all things French flourished. I continued my study of the language until I was 19, but a working life soon beckoned and thoughts of fluency with it.

The interest held solid for the next twenty years, but for now, it was only an interest. Then a special lady walked into my life and convinced me to follow a dream. After all this time, I was hesitant, but that lady in my life now was no schoolboy crush. Her nouns and verbs came with an accent too, but they were full of love and encouragement.

Five years later, my dream was fulfilled. As I walked proudly across the stage to collect my degree in French, my thoughts flashed back to when I was 13, and I wondered where that petite blonde was now. Those thoughts were broken by my biggest fan, as I heard her loudly cheering and whooping it up from the audience.

From the 13-year-old: Merci Mademoiselle Aillot. From the husband: Thank you so much, Hon. I shall be forever grateful.

She exhaled. Her final breath. A new life was beginning.

Her eyes opened, a white light blinding her momentarily. She blinked, trying to focus. Sitting up, she looked inquisitively. This was not her body. She no longer felt pain.

In the distance: movement. Faces she recognized. Her father, brother and niece were welcoming her home.

The Doc knew this was going to be no holiday. He pondered his title for a moment, smiling and appreciating the contradiction. He swigged down another whiskey. Pain came easy to him.

The pistol gleamed in the sunlight of high noon. They were awaiting him. There was a score to settle. Let the killing begin…

Usually, they try to swat me, but this Psycho was trying to stare me down.

Relatives reported that his mother was extremely tasty. Tied to that chair, she made easy pickings. A veritable feast.

Norman had his mom’s eyes – but not for much longer. Another chair awaited, and those eyes would make a fine dessert.

Rising, she scanned the room. Everything appeared normal on this abnormal day. Thoughts of past happinesses flashed through her mind, but it was her angry present which now consumed her.

Minutes later, she nervously shut off the engine and checked the vest, convincing herself this was right. Closing her eyes, she muttered a last prayer.