The Sinkhole

Craig Casselman decided to teach Mathematical Theory classes back in 1997, when the numbers flowed through his brain like music through a saxophone. He would no longer develop new theories, ideas that could capture his imagination like a brilliant dream. Those ideas could only pay for a week’s worth of food. But Karen was pleased with his decision, they could finally have the life she wanted: the 20,000 square foot house in Winter Park, the luxury of having a six-figure salary, the freedom to buy anniversary presents for herself on a whim. Craig never wanted to take that from her. So he didn’t. He kept everything from her: the banks, the phone calls, the foreclosure, Karen was kept in the dark. She just assumed that all the numbers would make sense as long as Craig kept teaching at the University. He handled the numbers, she handled Rosie and Jules.
Craig stood against the glass window on the fourth floor, or maybe the fifth floor, of the HPA Building. The memo in his hand was from the UCF School of Mathematics, it told him to screw off in such a quiet and elegant tone. The numbers stopped flowing some time ago, and the letter told him to have his office cleared no later than 5:00 pm on Friday, when finals week would be over, when he would be over. What would Karen think? What happened to our money Craig?
With a heaving breath he sighed out, “What happened?” He looked around for a caring heart or a helpful hand. He began to wish that he was strong enough to break through the window. Maybe a shard of glass would put him into a deep, deep sleep. Years would pass like a catnap and the phone calls would stop when he woke up. Or maybe he would fall out and the insurance money could be a better father, a better husband. Karen, Rosie and Jules would be happier. Just then he felt the ground shake and quiver beneath him, and across the lawn he could see Classroom One being swallowed up by the earth. Students and teachers tumbled in the hole like stones in a mudslide, bikes and skateboards looked like bingo balls in a roller as they sunk further and further down to the core of the earth. At that moment Craig wished he contemplated on that bench that disappeared into the catastrophe.
Everything settled and dust floated through the air like smoke from a forest fire. Craig walked down to the mile wide sinkhole, the smell of sewage mixing with mud filled his lungs. The students screamed out for help, a desperate plea for a life after college. He could have helped one, but for what purpose. To give them false hope? No. Instead he tossed his wallet, his keys, his shoes, his cell phone; everything into the gaping sinkhole. ‘This should be enough evidence,’ he thought.
No one has seen or heard from Craig Casselman ever since.