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Wiping the spit from her face, Florida teacher Joan Naydich sensed it was time to escape her classroom.

“The last thing I remember is having my hand on the door handle,” she told The Post in her first major interview since being beaten unconscious by a student over a Nintendo Switch last February.

“I don’t remember anything [else] until 3:30 p.m. when I came to. And at that point I was in the ER and my son and daughter were standing there.”

In an attack that’s been viewed more than 10 million times across the globe, then-17-year-old Brendan Depa — 6 feet 7 inches tall and 270 pounds — pummeled Naydich with more than a dozen kicks and punches as she lay motionless on the floor.

With his sentencing slated for later this month, Naydich opened up about the case — and what preceded an assault that left her with five broken ribs, a concussion, and a shattered psyche, including how Depa spat at her and called her “bitch” and “whore” because she had signaled to his teacher that his gaming device was a distraction.

The Rhode Island native, 59, moved to north Florida’s Palm Coast two decades ago and first worked in the Flagler County School District beginning in 2003.

After toiling in the Matanzas High School cafeteria for nearly two decades, Naydich pursued the certifications necessary to become a paraprofessional classroom aide.

With two of her children in the district, the position allowed her to remain close to them throughout the day while also earning a living.

Naydich first encountered Depa, an autistic teen, in January 2022 in a special needs classroom. She provided assistance to the primary teacher, ensuring Depa and his classmates made it to their various destinations throughout the day.

Depa — who was adopted as a young child and then sent to live in a group home — came across to her as an intelligent but troubled teen.

When agitated, he would pelt her and other staffers with epithets — usually some variant of the term “bitch.”

But for more than a year, she never sensed any physical threat from her student.

“He would try to intimidate,” she said.

“But during that school year, it never got to the point where he became violent. It was just verbal.”

When calm, Depa would flash an advanced intellect, showing enough self-control to attend a computer class with the general education students at Matanzas High School.

Video games, as Naydich would soon learn, were his consuming passion.

“Other than him being outwardly defiant, I didn’t notice that there was anything wrong with him,” she said. “He was a normal kid.”

Depa would bristle if Naydich inquired about his classroom performance, telling his teacher to stop “spying” on his school file.

But on other occasions, the towering teen and the diminutive teacher would discuss his college prospects, and a potential future in computers.

Naydich told him about Bethune-Cookman University, a historically black college in nearby Daytona Beach.

She recalled perusing college flyers with Depa in an area just feet from where he would eventually assault her.

The day that would vault Naydich into dark viral lore began routinely, with her waiting for his van to arrive from the group home.

Depa’s bus privileges had been revoked after a fight with another student.

He arrived in a disgruntled state, annoyed that he had to wait for other students assigned to Naydich to arrive before they could go to the cafeteria for breakfast.

Depa told her he hadn’t been given dinner the previous night.

“He was agitated,” she said.

“But no more agitated than usual.”

After eating, Depa went to his regular special needs class.

His main teacher, Naydich said she would allow him to use his Nintendo Switch if he completed his academic tasks.

As was customary, she then walked with him to his next class — a general education course on cyber security.

Naydich noted that he had a substitute, and she explained to the teacher that she would sit off to the side and monitor Depa in case he needed assistance.

The substitute shot a glance at Naydich after Depa pulled out his gaming device and distracted some of the other students with it.

The paraprofessional asked him to put it away, and he obliged.

But he produced it again toward the end of the period, prompting another look of annoyance from the substitute.

Hoping to avoid the issue in the future, Naydich texted his primary instructor who would teach him next and told her that it would be wise for Depa to not bring the device into the computer class moving forward.

They then returned to Depa’s regular classroom, where his primary teacher broached the issue.

Depa realized Naydich had informed her what happened in his prior class — and Depa’s volcanic temper began to bubble.

“That’s when he started calling me names,” Naydich said.

“‘Bitch.’ ‘Whore.’ This and that. I grabbed my backpack and my sweatshirt and I got up to leave the class. The energy changed in there. I just wanted to remove myself from it. I didn’t want to get into it with him.”

Depa then approached Naydich and spat in her face as she moved to the door.

“I can still just feel it,” she said, running her hand down the side of her face.

Naydich then turned to open the door — her final memory before blinking into consciousness in the hospital.

Her son, then a senior at the school, had been sitting in a nearby classroom as his mother was attacked.

The stunned teen was pulled from his classroom, told of what happened and rode with Naydich in an ambulance to the emergency room.

Saddled with ongoing medical and psychological complications, Naydich said she is still battling with the school district for adequate worker’s compensation.

“I was angry,” she said of her treatment in the wake of the incident.

“It’s not like I faked my injury. It’s on video. They all know what happened to me. This is something of a magnitude, the viciousness, that has never happened in this county. I expected more from my employer, from my county, than to be treated like some person who faked a fall.”

A judge will decide Depa’s fate on Jan. 31.

He already pleaded guilty and faces a term of anywhere between probation and 30 years behind bars.

Depa’s supporters assert his dysfunctional childhood and mental deficits should mitigate his term, while others — including Naydich — say he is undeserving of the court’s mercy.

Currently on leave and with no income from her former job, Naydich is relying on a GoFundMe campaign that had raised $136,000 as of Thursday.

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