It's finals week

Dear readers,

In all honesty, this has been a long and challenging semester for a myriad of reasons. I have spent the weekend wrapping up a final project and will be spending the next few days working on a take-home final, completing a group project and presentation, giving a final, computing final grades, and editing and submitting a conference submission. Then I plan on allowing my brain to not think for a little while and cleaning my apartment (which hasn't received a good cleaning since spring break).

All this to say there will be no new posts this week. There is still more to share related to The First Musical, but I haven't had time or energy to go through it yet. I will try to have more ready to go for next week. Thank you for your patience and understanding.

Teagen

The First Musical: Chapter Three: Gisele, Part 3

“Where have you been?” Carmen asked the moment I stepped through the door. She had sprawled out on her bed, reading the text for her discussion class. The rest of her textbooks and school things were scattered across the floor in a haphazard mess.

“Nowhere.” I didn’t want to talk with her about it. She still wanted that lead, and I would be perfectly happy giving it to her if I could. It wasn’t my choice, though; it was his and I wished it wasn’t.

“What’s wrong, Gisele?” she asked, sitting up on her bed. “You can talk to me, you know.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” I murmured, trying to focus on my math homework for the next day.

“Something’s wrong; I can tell.”

I slipped into the sweater on the back of my chair, pulling it tight around me. Cold still seemed to wrap me in a death grip; I just couldn’t seem to warm up. “It’s nothing.”

“Don’t tell me that, Gisele.”

“I’m trying to concentrate,” I snapped. She wouldn’t understand. She’d blame me and any number of things. Between Johnathan, his musical, and having auditioned against my wishes, I couldn’t handle whatever she thought she could do to help. She’d probably do more to worsen things.

After a while I gave up on hoping calculus would make sense and started to regret snapping at Carmen. But she hadn’t bothered me since, so it wasn’t so bad? It just wasn’t me. I couldn’t remember snapping at anyone in the past several years. I felt ambivalent about it. Like Johnathan and everything was changing me into some unrecognizable.

Climbing into bed for the night, my back to Carmen and her unusual silence, I struggled to find sleep. Between singing that song—to Johnathan of all people—and everything else the day had revealed, my mind was too preoccupied to stop thinking.

Even though I’m certain I did eventually fall asleep, I couldn’t be sure. It felt like I opened my eyes every ten minutes to escape the images of Johnathan running through my mind. I couldn’t make heads or tails of him, but I would be happy if I never saw again.

But my nightmares were closer to reality.

The First Musical: Chapter Three: Gisele, Part 1

Our study circle that night was in Baron’s room at Carmen’s insistence. It didn’t bother me as he had a single anyway, but it was weird being in the middle of a wing of boys. Despite trying to ignore this fact, I found it distracting—especially when his friends would peek in as if they wanted to ask something before seeing us and disappearing again.

“So I ran into Johnathan today,” Carmen said. “He’s convinced you should audition.”

This again? I sighed and let it go. If I didn’t indulge her, she might stop talking about it.

“I decided I would audition, too,” Baron said softly. My head whipped around to stare at him. This was Baron. Baron attended Carmen’s performances and whatever else she wanted to attend, but he never had an interest in partaking himself. It was what made him safe. We could be supportive together but I’d never feel pressured into trying because he wouldn’t either.

His green eyes locked on mine. “I was talking with Johnathan and he said I’d be a pretty good singer. That, and there isn’t much dancing unless you get a lead,” he said, shrugging and diverting his eyes back to his textbook.

“That’s great!” Carmen squealed excitedly, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing his cheek. “I can’t believe he was able to talk you into it. I’ve been trying for years!”

“I know.”

As they exchanged their excitement and surprise, I packed my things into my bag. I couldn’t stay here. I knew what was happening. Johnathan was trying to corner me into auditioning for him. Why he was so adamant about this, I couldn’t begin to guess. But I wouldn’t audition. Nothing he did could make me. And if he thought getting my friends to audition would make me follow suit, he was sadly mistaken.

“Where are you going?” Carmen asked, pulling away from Baron.

“I don’t know,” I replied, swinging my bag onto my shoulder and leaving. An urgency swelled inside me to escape, as though they were as dangerous as Johnathan.

“Gisele,” Baron called after me, but I waved him off. I could not deal with this. I wouldn’t perform; no one could make me perform.

The First Musical: Chapter Two: Johnathan, Part 2

“Baron.” His head jerked around in surprise, but he knew who it was already.

“Johnathan. What’s up?” he asked casually.

“Remember the musical I was telling you and Carmen about? The one I want to produce here?”

“I’m not trying out, man;” he scoffed. “I don’t sing…or dance.”

“See, I think you could sing, though. And there wouldn’t be much dancing either,” I assured him. I was the director, after all; I could make certain accommodations. “Most of the dancing is done by the leads, there’s only a couple places where anyone else would dance.”

“Why do you want me to audition? I already declined your offer.” Although he stood comfortably before me, both hands buried in his jeans pockets, his voice sounded irritated and suspicious. He might have been a big guy, but Baron didn’t scare me.

“Because if both you and Carmen audition, Gisele will…at least, I’m hoping.”

He seemed to do a double-take and replayed my words before saying, “You want…Carmen and I already told you she wouldn’t audition.”

Nodding, I said, “I remember.”

“Then why are you forcing it?” The muscles in his arms visibly tensed under his shirt, though his hands remained in his pockets.

“Because I need her to audition.”

“Drop it and leave her alone,” Baron said.

“If she auditions, I can help her. She’d be confident again, not so worried or worrisome.”

Baron gaze turned icy and my instincts suggested running and hiding would be best. After a tense moment, he said, “I’ll audition…but if you make things worse for her, know I will hurt you until you wish you were dead.”

“I guarantee I have no ill-intent for her.”

“You’d better not;” he shoulder-checked me rougher than necessary as he left.

I clutched my shoulder and winced, though a small euphoric rush of accomplishment flooded through me. The seeds were planted and my auditions were only a few days away. If Carmen couldn’t convince her, and Baron’s own auditioning wouldn’t move her either, I’d have to revert to my other plan. I didn’t much want to, though. I doubted she would like it—or me—much.

The First Musical: Chapter Two: Johnathan, Part 1

“Carmen,” I called, jogging to catch up to her. She turned on the sidewalk, searching for me. The moment her hazel eyes found me, she pulled her blond hair over her shoulder.

“Johnathan. What a surprise.” The way she said it revealed how little of a surprise it was. I suspected she’d been looking for me, hoping to discuss auditioning for the lead.

“Not really. I need your help with something.”

“What?” she asked, cocking her head to the side, her doe eyes wide and innocent.

“I want Gisele to audition.”

At first, she stared, her brow furrowed and her lips slightly pressed. Slowly, she realized I wasn’t joking and she smiled secretively. “I’ve told you she won’t. She doesn’t like to perform.”

“Why not?”

“She’s convinced herself she has stage fright.”

“Do you know why?”

Carmen shrugged, and examined her cuticles. “It was before I met her. Supposedly she was really great, at least according to half our town, but I never knew that side of her. By the time I came around, she refused to perform and blamed it on this fictitious fear of hers.”

The only way I would figure out what had caused her to stop was if Gisele told me, but she wasn’t likely to come to me. “Is there any way you could help me get her to audition?” I asked, trying to avoid sounding too desperate.

She thought a moment, shifting the bag on her shoulder up more and pulling her hair around and over the opposite shoulder. “I can try, I guess. She won’t come, though.”

“Thank you.”

“I’d better get to class. I’ll be way late,” she said, glancing in the direction she had been travelling before our conversation, but not leaving.

Had I been interested in her, I would have been tempted to ask her elsewhere, maybe lunch or something. But Carmen was a means to an end. “Have a good class.”

She forced a cordial smile before turning and gliding away.

After she left, I went in search of Gisele. I made her nervous for whatever reason, so I needed to plan my approach. It wouldn’t do to scare her. Observation was key to a good plan, though. Not stalk, observe. Perhaps I would find my answers in her mannerisms. If she really had convinced herself she had stage fright, I could offer her a private audition. I already knew she had the part, and she knew I wanted her to have it. The audition was a formality to say she went through it.

She was leaving the art building when I finally found her. Her thumb was hooked on her bag and her eyes were diverted downward. She walked alone until Baron appeared. Gisele’s features lit up as he walked alongside her, telling her something that made her laugh. Her smile was radiant; it was impossible to see why anyone would want to hurt her.

I followed their progress across campus as they walked to another building, completely entranced by her. The way she moved next to him revealed a confidence she didn’t otherwise show. Her violet-blue eyes were bright with laughter and she seemed to have a little more liveliness in her step.

I would need to speak with Baron, obviously, as well. From the quality of his voice, he could be a fabulous singer. Having him on board—at least as an understudy—would help convince her, and that’s all that really mattered. I needed her…this her, who she was when she was around Baron and Carmen. Who she couldn’t seem to be otherwise. Whatever I had to do, I’d do it. Without her, there could be no musical.

With her, this her, it could only be a success.

I refused to think I may not find the her I wanted. It was a possibility, but one I didn’t wish to entertain.

The First Musical: Chapter One: Gisele, Part 3

I didn’t used to have stage fright. I used to sing all the time, every chance I could. Music and performance were my life; it felt like I wouldn’t be able to breathe without the ability to sing. Though I never learned to read music, I could feel it. At least that’s what my mom had said once when I'd asked her. So even if they weren’t always the right notes, they were beautiful. That’s what everyone told me anyway.

But then he came along, and changed everything. He made the stage dangerous and music foreign; he shattered my confidence because I wanted his approval above everything else. And then he left, crushing my heart and spirit in the process.

Carmen and Baron didn’t know that story. Carmen had moved to town the next fall and Baron transferred the following spring.

If I’d had my way, no one would know. Very few people knew what had happened, and that was out of necessity. But not knowing led to things like Johnathan.

Sitting in the study room, trying fruitlessly to concentrate on my accounting assignment, I realized she would probably still insist I acquaint myself with him, maybe even date him. Not out of maliciousness or naivety, but in the name of putting myself out there again.

Giving up on homework for the moment, I grabbed my bag and left the library, wandering aimlessly around campus. Upperclassmen passed by and glanced at me long enough to register I wasn’t a familiar face before looking away. Over the past couple months I had grown used to that. Despite a population of around 6,000 students, it was a fairly close community. Part of me envied the upperclassmen who seemed to know someone everywhere they went on campus.

As I continued walking, I contemplated what Carmen had said concerning his questions about me. She was right that it wasn’t general interest, though I had determined that long before she had. For whatever reason, he had picked me out of our group; I wasn’t even the performer…at least, I hadn’t been in the past three years. Could he see I’d been broken before? Had he marked me as easy prey?

“Hello, Gisele.”

I nearly jumped out of my skin. Off the path was an old maple tree; leaning against the trunk was Johnathan, a crooked smile on his lips, his blue-green eyes reflecting the light from the nearby lampost.

Without answering him, I continued down the path, heading toward my dorm room and hoping Carmen had decided to spend the night with Baron practicing her audition pieces. I didn’t want to have a conversation with or about Johnathan. If she was there, she’d certainly let him in and then I’d have nowhere to go.

“I really must speak with you,” he said, his footsteps following me down the sidewalk. “Perhaps Carmen has already told you? I’m putting on a musical…an ancient musical.”

Ignore him, I told myself. I repeated it several times in my mind, trying to block out his voice.

“I’m holding auditions for it soon. There’s only one role with a closed audition.” He caught up with me, his hands buried in his pockets as if to assure me he meant no harm.

“I really don’t care,” I said, hoping he’d stop following me.

“But I think you will,” he confided. His footsteps ceased to follow me and I hoped that was the end of the nightmare. “I want you to be my lead.”

Stopping in the middle of the sidewalk, I faced him. His features were stoic and his eyes scanning my face for some trace of my reaction. All I could do was stare dumbly at him. I must have misheard; that was the only logical explanation. There’s no way he had said he wanted me to be the lead.

“You’re insane.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t perform. Now leave me alone.”

Without waiting for a response, I ran the last several yards to my residence hall. Even inside my room with the door locked, I couldn’t help thinking about him and what I couldn’t be certain he had said. As I had turned to retreat from him, I could have sworn he'd said, “You will be my lead.”

The First Musical: Chapter One: Gisele, Part 1

“You’re beautiful. So smile like you’re beautiful. So sing like you’re beautiful. So dance –”

“—like you’re beautiful?” I supplied, interrupting Carmen. She had a tendency to make up her own songs and sing them all around campus in her flighty soprano voice.

“Exactly!” She walked backwards in front of me, bouncing on her toes with every step.

“You’ll run over someone like that;” thankfully, most people walked around her, some glaring.

“Why not sing with me? You aren’t half bad, yourself.”

“No, thanks. Remember, I’m the one who will only do karaoke if you pull me up on stage with you.”

“That was only once and no one complained.”

“Hey, Carmen, Gisele,” Baron called from across the quad, catching my eye. His name was Barnaby, but everyone called him Baron. Carmen beamed brighter than a spotlight while we waited for him to join  us.

“Hey, Baron. What’s up?” I asked when he was close enough I didn’t have to yell.

“Nothing much. Heading to lunch?”

“Baron, tell her she should sing more. She really isn’t that bad,” Carmen pouted.

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close to mumble something cutesy into her ear that made her face light up again. To me he said, “You really do have a great voice, Gisele. It wouldn’t hurt to join a group or something.”

“Will you drag her to auditions this week for me?”

Baron raised his eyebrows at me as though asking my opinion.

“I’m not auditioning,” I said, not for the first time. Auditioning was something I didn’t do. Kind of like being on stage wasn’t something I did. “And you know that, Carmen.”

Baron shrugged and returned his attention to Carmen. “She was always exempt from in-class presentations.”

“Your stage fright is fictitious,” she said, shrugging off Baron’s arm and walking backwards again. Then, as was commonly Carmen, she randomly burst into song; “It’s all in your head, my darling girl. You can do so much more than you give yourself credit for…”

“You can ignore her,” Baron whispered, grinning.

“I always do. Carmen, watch—”

Carmen fell over a guy who had wound up behind her; the two of them landed in a tangled mess of limbs on the sidewalk.

“I am so sorry,” Carmen fussed as Baron helped her to her feet. She shoved her golden locks over her shoulder before turning back to the guy on the ground. He picked himself up slowly, almost like he was distracted, running a hand through his shaggy auburn hair. His blue-green eyes met hers for a second as she gushed apologies before sweeping over Baron and landing on me for the longest two seconds of my life.

“It’s fine,” he said, dusting the seat of his pants. He then reached out a hand; “I’m Johnathan.”

“Carmen,” she said, shaking his hand. “My beau, Baron, and my best girl, Gisele. Nice to meet you, John.”

“Johnathan;” there was a slight edge to his voice.

“You don’t shorten it at all?” I asked, cocking my head to the side.

“No. Do you shorten yours?” The look he gave me was so intense I had to divert my gaze. Part of me wanted to run even. Something about the way he regarded me was different from when he looked at Baron or Carmen and it made my skin crawl.

“Baron does.” Then, glancing at my phone, I added, “I’m going to grab something to eat before the food court closes.”

“May I join you?” Johnathan asked.

“No,” I said a little too quickly. “I mean, I have a class in a little bit. It’s just to hold me over.”

“Gisele—”

“I’ll catch you later, Carmen,” I cut her off. I didn’t want him to know I was lying. I just wanted to be away from him and whatever it was he saw in me.

Freeing Charlotte

There’s something about midnight that always makes me more sensitive to Charlotte’s presence. It may be I’m starting to feel tired at that point, or maybe it’s the witching hour that’s to blame. Every time I walk into her room, it’s as though she directs my gaze past her blue upholstered chair to the window overlooking the next building and the parking lots and trees in the distance. If I walk further into the room, I feel my gaze redirected past the warped mirror on the locked door to the window in the nook of the room; this one looks out over another building and a bicycle shack.

Neither view is inherently beautiful. Instead they are rather strange considering the hour and the emptiness of it all. The sparse street lights and bright parking lot lights make the desolateness even more apparent. Yet there is beauty in the strangeness. I’m unsure what Charlotte wants me to see, why she keeps pulling me to look out the windows. And the likelihood of Charlotte explaining it to me is slim. She isn’t much for talking.

Despite my curiosity, I never linger long. While Charlotte is a familiar and comforting presence—akin to that of an old friend—there is another in the room. This one radiates from the corner near the warped mirror, surrounding the red upholstered chair. It lives in the corner, and its presence spills across the rest of the room. Even in the middle of the day, I avoid that corner. That spirit has a tendency of wrapping around you like a giant fist, sending chills to your very center. To my knowledge, it doesn’t have a name. Unlike Charlotte, who is known across the campus, this being seems to go unnoticed by most.

I wish I could say I’m the brave sort who faces down evil with steadfast resolve. I’m not. If I’m alone in Charlotte’s attic room, I leave as soon as I feel its tendrils closing in on me, bidding Charlotte a good night. A seek of guilt grows a little more every night this happens. Guilt at not being the brave heroine I admire in books and movies. Guilt at leaving sweet Charlotte alone, again, with that sinister specter. Guilt at not being astute enough to understand what Charlotte is telling me. What is the significance of the view out each window?

But Charlotte is clever. She sees in me something I have not yet discovered. More than someone aware of her presence, she sees someone to help. Someone to finally free her soul.

House Down the Hill, Part 9

I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I know, I can hear cars in the distance, and people talking about homework. The light through the floor is the soft gray of a cloudy day.

“Help!” I shout. “Please help!”

It crosses my mind many people will bolt the moment they hear the screaming, but I just need one person to call. Call 911, DPS, even the duty phone. I just need one person to call.

Somebody called. The ambulance, the makeshift ramp, being rushed to the hospital for x-rays and other health exams—it’s all a blur of sheer gratitude. My leg is broken in three places and Catherine chides me for running off. She calls my parents and lets them know I’m safe and alive because I ask her to. They won’t be happy with me, but they’ll hire the lawyer to reduce the charges to something minor and help coach me on handling the University conduct board.

The court requires me, among other things, to see a therapist. The psychiatrist tells me I had been going a bit crazy from the Diethylpropion. When I explain I had stopped taking the diet suppressant toward the end of the first week, the doctor merely says traces of the drug had likely stored in my fat bodies to be dispersed in the blood stream. I’m not sure I buy into his explanation; while it is possible, I feel like the hallucinations wouldn’t have been as powerful or lasted as long as they had. But who knows? By now, the drug is flushed from my system entirely. Though I try to accept this rationale and move on, I still feel some apprehension as I hobble past the house on my way to and from classes.

After that night, they re-boarded the window and posted “danger, no trespassing” signs on the yard. Since then, they have also erected a fence around the property. One of those cheap rent-a-fence things anyone can slip past if they really want. For weeks, it sat with its fence and its signs, quiet and still.

Today a bulldozer is sitting outside the house. Sometime between when I leave for class in the morning and come back in the afternoon, the house has been leveled. All that remains is rubble and the cement walls of the basement. I stand a while, watching the machine scoop up the chunks of wall and brick, dropping each load into a giant dumpster. In a couple more weeks, the hole where the basement had been will be completely hidden under dirt. But even before that, rumors of a shadow start circulating. The shadow is something big and angular, staring at the place where a house used to be. It makes me wonder if I hadn’t imagined it after all.

House Down the Hill, Part 8

Although the room is equally devoid of light, the kitchen seems brighter for its white counters and floors. There are three doors in the space, one leading outside, one shut tightly, and the third cracked open. I slink to the open one, careful not to touch it. I hold my breath as I shine my light through the crack, preparing to see stairs or, worse, some horribly disfigured face.

It’s a laundry room. A broken plastic basket sits on an old top loading washer. Just as I begin to breathe a little easier, I hear footsteps. Heavy, plodding footsteps. They’re coming from behind the closed door, the sound louder and more distinct with each passing moment. Any thoughts of proving my sanity are forgotten as I dash back through the living room, taking the shortest path to the—

Falling, and my own shrill voice filling my ears as something hard scrapes against my side and the streetlight outside disappears from my vision. I bat the carpet from around me and marvel at the hole above me. Then I remembered the woman last night had mentioned termites.

I flash the light around the room. It’s damp down here and smells of mold and mildew, but there are no chains or weapons or torture devices. There is no trace of blood or furniture of any kind. There isn’t even an echo of footsteps anymore. Just plain cement walls, rotted wood, a dusty old beast of a rug, and a single wooden door. I want to laugh and cry all at the same time. I’m going to live; there isn’t some psychopath waiting to kill me—if there was, I reason, he would have come back down stairs the moment I started screaming and falling. But all this didn’t explain what I had been hearing. I know I had heard it,but there wasn’t anything to prove it.

Discouraged but calm, I decide it’s time to go back, shower, and sleep. I roll around onto my knees and pain immediately shoots up through my right leg. My second attempt, I shift my leg to put less pressure and weight on it and excruciating pain seizes my entire body.

“It’s okay, Suze,” I tell myself aloud, taking the bag from my shoulders and starting to sift through it. “You’ll just call…or you won’t call 911.”

In all my planning, I have failed to remember my cell phone. I panic, realizing it isn’t yet one in the morning and I’m trapped, immobile in a house no one wants to go near. I start screaming for help, hoping there are yet one or two stragglers from late night excursions who might help me or at least call the duty phone. After a while, I realize it’s futile to waste my voice until morning. I spend my time trying to stand up. I even scoot to a wall, grimacing and biting my lip until my mouth fills with a strong coppery fluid. With much pain and effort, I find a way to my good foot and hobble to the door.

For a moment, I think I might be able to at least make it to the window. Then I see the narrow staircase. Not only is it about as wide as I am, but the stairs are steep and my left leg already feels like giving out on me. The thought of sitting down and going up backwards crosses my mind, but the stairs aren’t stone. Not only am I unsure if I could even use my arms to help push me up each step with as narrow as it is, but I can’t tell if the stairs are sturdy all the way up. The last thing I want to be is stuck in a staircase in a house no one will go near.

The February chill seeps into the basement, quickly permeating my skin. I pull my black sweater tighter around me, but I’m starting to shiver. Slumping carefully against a wall, I pull the heavy carpet over me. It may be grimy, but at least it’s something.

House Down the Hill, Part 7

While Catherine is away at class—which I opt not to attend today—I prepare a bag of supplies for that night. I find a hammer and a heavy monkey wrench in the toolkit in my car. After searching a while, I’m able to locate the flashlight in my backseat as well. It all goes into a little shoulder bag with my camera. Back in my room, it takes me some time to find a suitable outfit for the night, something all in black. It makes me feel like I’m in a movie, which makes the whole ordeal seem less real. I know it very much is real and my sanity relies on proving it. I’m not sure I can take the rest of the semester waking up to someone screaming bloody murder all night or someone pounding on the door again. I’m not crazy and I’m going to prove it.

My heart is racing the entire time I’m lying in bed, staring blankly up at the ceiling. Catherine is snoring tonight; I think she’s coming down with a bug. I’m waiting for the screaming to start because it means the figure is inside the house and not outside my door. It starts about 12:30, as shrill as ever. I jump from my bed, swing the bag over my shoulder and head out. Shaking and scared or not, this ends tonight.

The walk to the house is eerie. Clouds hide the moon and stars while streetlights cast the trees as long spindly shadows. There is no one around, no parties raging on at the fraternities further down the hill, and no one shouting or playing on any of the athletic fields nearby. It seems even the residents of the apartment building have all turned in early, leaving the night desolate, with no one else to hear the screaming and pleading coming from within those mismatched walls.

All of the stories seem to suggest the psychopath uses the back and side doors. I’m hoping that means the front will be clear. With my size and the height of the windows, it also makes the most sense if I’m breaking in—uh, investigating. The screams are so loud standing on the porch, I want to cover my ears and cower in my fort. But I can’t; not if I want to prove to everyone I’m not insane.

I take out the hammer and wait for the scream to be loudest before swinging at the plywood. It takes quite a while, but eventually the wood gives way to a dark and dusty room. The hammer returns to my bag and I replace it in my hands with the flashlight and monkey wrench. My flashlight illuminates the sparsely furnished place. A few wooden chairs dot the room, all of them tipped over. An old faded carpet sits heavy in the middle of the floor, the tassels still a beige color showing through here and there from underneath the grime. There’s an end table with the remains of a lamp near a doorway with a fridge visible just beyond.

The screaming hasn’t yet stopped, so I hope if I’m less than graceful, my noise will be covered up. I swing a leg over the window sill, steadying myself as I bring the other one over and twist to face the interior. A shadow appears in the corner of my eye, causing me to almost fall backward through the window. I shine my flashlight in that direction, only to find a rocking chair with a coat draped over the back. Sighing, I slowly slip into the room.

The screaming sounds like it’s coming from the basement. As soon as I realize this, it stops. My heart is pounding in my chest and I’m sure the shadowy figure can hear it. He hears it and he’ll come bounding up the stairs any moment now to silence it. I push the thought out of my mind and begin to move towards the kitchen, walking along the outside of the room. It always seems the stairs to the basement are in the kitchen, especially in horror movies.

House Down the Hill, Part 6

 “Suze,” Catherine calls kindly. “Did you call the duty phone?”

I crawl out from under my bed and slowly creep into the living room, peeping around the corner. The man standing there is vaguely familiar, and nowhere nearly as tall or angular as the shadow I had seen. He has a kind face though it is currently etched with concern. A woman is entering behind him; I don’t recognize her, though she’s shorter than him. Both of them are in pajamas and look a little less than awake.

Catherine closes the door behind them as the man asks, “You called about screaming?”

I nod and Catherine stares at me. “It woke me up. Really loud, shrill screaming.” I’m holding onto the wall, still hiding behind the corner, but it doesn’t help steady me any; if anything, I’m shaking more violently now, wondering where the shadow disappeared to and if they’ve seen it.

“You said something about calling for help, too.”

“Yes. The screaming stopped when I called you…and then it started again, but someone was crying for help. They-they sounded terrified.”

“Why don’t you sit down?” the woman suggests. “It’s ok,” she insists.

Cautiously, afraid the shadow will return any second, I move towards the couch in the opposite corner. Catherine brings me a glass of water and sits beside me, rubbing my back.

“You said it was coming from down the hill?” he asks.

I nod, taking another swallow of water. “This isn’t the first time, either.”

“How long have you been hearing screaming?”

“The past couple nights. Tonight was the first time someone was screaming anything coherent.”

The man and woman nod. Catherine squeezes my hand and offers me a tissue. “Something else happened, though,” she says to me. “Why didn’t you want me to answer the door, Suze?”

I try to swallow the lump in my throat. It sounds crazy, even in my own head, but maybe it isn’t. If they had seen it retreating, they would know I’m not losing it.

“Something was at the door. It was banging so loudly. I was scared it was going to break in.”

They look at each other and the woman leans forward. “We didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. We didn’t hear anything either.”

“The screaming stopped before the banging.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t just a nightmare?” she asks kindly.

I shake my head. “I was wide awake.”

“I don’t know how to explain what you heard and saw,” she says, choosing her words carefully. I suppose they train them in those sorts of things. “No one else has complained about screaming or loud noises out here the past couple nights. And the house you’re hearing them come from is condemned. It’s unsafe to enter. Mostly due to termite damage. But there’s nothing in that house.”

“You don’t know what I heard.”

She nods, her lips pressed as though biting back what she really wanted to say. “No, I don’t know what you heard. Because of that, I can’t do much for you right now, especially as the house is condemned and I’m not permitted to search it.”

There’s a harsh rapping on the door and I jump, splashing some of the water from the glass. Catherine takes it and sets it on the counter as the woman stands up to answer the door. One of the officers from the Department of Public Safety steps in and speaks quietly with her. I can make out some mention of the house down the hill and loud noises. The officer makes some remark about ghost stories and demolition. The woman nods and closes the door behind the officer, wishing him a goodnight.

“Why did he go?” I inquire as she sits back down.

“There isn’t anything we can do tonight. He’s going to check out the house more regularly on rounds and see if there’s anything suspicious going on. But we really can’t do much more right now.”

“What about what I heard?”

“If you’d like, we can set up a time to talk tomorrow and see if we can’t do something to make you feel better,” she suggests.

“I’m not crazy.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

I shake my head and sit back on the couch. They aren’t going to do anything. Stupid bureaucracy has their hands tied and they can’t do anything, except offer me a counseling session or two and diagnose me as something I’m not. I’m fat and find my body absolutely disgusting, but I’m not crazy.

“Thank you for coming out. I’m sorry I woke you up,” I say, staring down at my hands.

Catherine sees them out, having some conversation I don’t stick around to hear. I grab my laptop and earbuds again and barricade myself in the fort beneath my bed. When Catherine comes in, I ignore her, turning the volume on my laptop up until she finally surrenders and crawls back under her blankets. A sinking feeling in my stomach tells me she thinks I’m going crazy and the screaming will continue anew the next night only to make me seem more so.

The house is taunting me. I’m not sure what I ever did to it other than not cross the street to pass it; whatever it is, that place has it in for me. If no one else is going to do something about it, I suppose that leaves me.

House Down the Hill, Part 5

That night, the screaming wakes me again. I double over, covering my ears, trying to ignore it. When that doesn’t work, I recreate my fort and retreat there. There are other noises mixed in with the screams tonight. Slamming doors, chains being dragged, the loud revving of a chain saw. All of it only serves to make the voice more shrill and panicked.

I call the Student Advisor on Duty, my hand shaking so much I almost select the wrong contact. The phone is pressed hard to my ear so I can hear the ringing on the other end.

“Hi. This is the CGR Duty Phone, how may I help you?” a tired but perky voice says on the other end.

“I’m in Campbell Apartments number 4 and I keep hearing screaming.”

“Screaming? Do you know where it’s coming from?” I can hear the guy on the other side moving around and the jingle of keys.

“I think it’s coming from that house.”

“What house?”

“The one next door. The creepy looking one.” The screams subside a moment and I hold my breath, hoping that would be all for tonight.

“Oh God! Oh God! Somebody help me! Help! Somebody help!” I jump and bump my head on the bottom of the bed.

“Please hurry, someone’s calling for help now,” I say, almost in tears. “Please.”

“I’ll be right over,” he says, a little more immediacy in his tone.

The words become intermingled in the shrill screams. Across the room, I can see Catherine still soundly asleep in her bed and I envy her. I envy her and am appalled at the same time. How can she not hear this?

Just as quickly as the screaming began, it stops. My mind instantly fills with images of torture and death. I have no idea what is going on, but I only hope it stops. That someone is able to do something and it stops.

There’s a knock at the door. I scramble from my hiding place, relieved the SA has finally arrived, but stop dead as I turn the corner. Stepping back a few feet, I cover my mouth, muffling the scream dying to escape my throat. An angular shadow takes up the window behind the screen. It knocks again, more insistent, and is breathing so loudly I clamp my hand tighter over my mouth to mute my cries. The shadow pounds on the door and starts rattling the door handle.

My heart is racing as I run to shake Catherine awake, shushing her as she comes to, mumbling complaints. I’m practically hysterical at this point. I can hear the pounding and rattling still and I fear the next sound will be the glass shattering. “What’s going—?”

“Shhh-shh-shh.” I’m shaking so much my voice is unsteady.

The pounding stops. I pull Catherine’s hand, trying to lead her to my little fort of safety. Fear and worry are etched across her face. There’s more knocking at the door, this time more polite. Catherine looks at me a moment before slipping from bed and heading out of the room.

“No, don’t answer that,” I whisper after her. “Don’t answer that. Catherine, don’t. Please don’t.”

A moment later I hear the door open.

House Down the Hill, Part 4

The next night I wake to screaming again, the voice shrill and sounding so close. It stops the moment I wake. Just as I’m ready to dismiss it as another nightmare and fall back asleep, it starts again, sounding more distant but more insistent and terrified. I jump out of bed and go to wake Catherine.

“Catherine,” I whisper. “Catherine, wake up.”

She murmurs something under her breath and rolls over. I shake her shoulder roughly, the screaming continuing incessantly. Catherine sits up groggily asking, “What’s the matter,” and the noise stops. I’m sure I look a bit insane, spinning around, trying to remember from which direction it came.

“What’s going on, Suze?”

“You didn’t hear it?” I ask, turning the blinds in the window to peer outside.

“Hear what?” she asks confusedly, rubbing her eyes.

I stare at her, open mouthed and wide eyed. “The screaming. It was so…so loud.”

“What screaming?”

“You really didn’t hear it?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Suze.”

I sigh and close the blinds again. “I’m sorry I woke you up, Cat.”

“You okay?” she asks, already lying down again.

I nod and leave for a drink of water. I’m tempted to grab some ice cream, but I resist. I raise the blinds in the living room, peering outside for some source of the screaming. It couldn’t have been from too far away, not with as loud as it had been.

BAM!

I jump at the sound and my eyes go immediately to the house down the hill. It sits there, almost like it’s staring up at me; it looks quiet and empty, innocent. And yet there’s something about it that’s laughing at me, daring me to accuse it of being up to no good.

Closing the blinds, I set up camp on the couch with another Charlie Chaplin flick. After half an hour, it becomes obvious things won’t be like the night before. The house is in my mind and it feels like its peering in through the window, mocking my attempt to put it from my thoughts. I grab some earbuds and clear out the storage containers from under my bed, building a fort of sorts. It’s hidden from the windows and, though something sinister still seems to be lurking about, it’s enough to allow me to fall asleep to the movie.

The next day, Catherine asks if I had woken her up the night before. I apologize for it as I start replacing things under my bed. She gives me a strange look and then says, “I couldn’t remember if it had been a dream or not.”

“I’m sorry,” I murmur, hoping the conversation will end.

“Are you sleeping all right?”

I nod and ask her if she wants eggs for breakfast. “I’m craving eggs.”

“Sure,” she says carefully. I can feel her eyes watching me all the way to the kitchen. “You know, I thought I was dreaming.”

The pan is melting a pat of butter. I find myself concentrating really hard on what I’m doing. If I have to walk past that place today, I don’t want last night on my mind, not with as mocking as it had seemed.

“You know you can talk to me about it, whatever it is, right?”

“Yeah, of course.” The eggs are cooking beautifully, and I feel tempted to make three or four for myself instead of two with a slice of toast. Though this would have cued me to take a pill, I have already missed so many doses from an insanely busy schedule I have stopped taking them. Instead, I’m developing and relying on my own willpower.

Catherine thanks me for her eggs a short while later and doesn’t pursue further conversation. I can tell she’s worried though; her eyes on my back are as unsettling as the house’s intense presence the night before. I take comfort in knowing hers is in concern and not menace.

House Down the Hill, Part 3

By early February, I finally feel empowered to make some lifestyle changes and it starts with a prescription. I still choose not to exercise at the rec center, but I make a more concerted effort to walk to and from the main campus as much as possible instead of going in the morning and chilling out there until the end of the day when I have group meetings. The walking is a good start, I figure, and it’s not too demanding.

The only real downside is going past that heinous house more often. It’s worst in the afternoons when most people are in class or elsewhere on campus. Despite the abundance of sunlight, there’s something cold and eerie about the place, its vibe spreading like a high tide over the sidewalk. I tell myself it’s just my imagination; the hair raising on the back of my neck and the strange gust of wind as I cross the driveway are the stories psyching me out. At those times, I feel as though there are eyes, somewhere behind those boarded up windows and condemned walls, watching me and waiting. For what, I’m unsure. But I shrug it off the next moment, putting it from my mind, and am soon entering the safety of my apartment.

“Catherine. Catherine!” I sit bolt upright in bed to silence. My heart is pounding and my breath sounds loud enough to wake the neighbors. Across the room, Catherine is mostly hidden beneath her giant pink and white comforter, the colors and swirling design distinct despite the darkness. I jump out of bed and stumble, my legs shaking under me. She’s breathing softly and nothing appears to be out of the ordinary.

I wait a moment longer. Still she sleeps as soundly as ever. My mouth is dry and my body is still shaking from the shrill screaming I think I heard. For a moment, I believe I might be able to go to bed again, but it’s like a bad dream that persists; the screaming continues, with no obvious cause, the moment I close my eyes.

Pouring myself a glass of water in the kitchen, I sit at my desk to browse the Internet, hoping to find some TV show interesting enough to take my mind off of the nightmare and mundane enough to lull me into a new slumber. I’m proud of myself as I scroll through the list of recommended shows in the comedy genre. I’m already more empowered to turn down my vices—namely unnecessary sweets.

I choose something with Charlie Chaplin and, an hour later, I’m falling asleep on the couch.

House Down the Hill, Part 2

Much of why I chose to live in Campbell this year relates back to my personal health and weight. The three-block walk to and from campus everyday—which strangely felt like it was uphill both ways—would help me to start exercising more regularly. That was the general hope at least. To say I am unhappy with my body is an understatement. I can fill an entire mirror and spend the better half of an hour pointing out every single flaw: the pores on my nose are too big; my back rolls are saggy and catch my shirt to streak it with sweat when the room is humid; my stomach sags down over my jeans, even if the top is supposed to sit at my waist…I can go on for a while. And the whole time this is happening, I only feel more and more self-conscious and wish for an easy fix.

One crisp winter day, I am standing in the bathroom mirror cringing at the sorry state of my flabby upper arms when my roommate comes in, crossing her legs tightly as she propels herself forward in an awkward sort of dance.

“Sorry,” she says, fumbling with the button of her jeans.

I slip out of the bathroom as she yanks her pants down and sits on the toilet. The door blocks the hissing sound when I close it behind me. Deciding I have spent too long today poking at my disgustingness, I rummage through the closet, searching for a sweater from my sister. It’s two sizes too big and never fails to make me feel three sizes smaller than I am. Considering the torture my mind puts me through, it’s a small consolation to not feel as huge for a little while.

Slipping into the heather gray sweater, I leave the bedroom to plop down on the couch with my health science textbook. I cross a leg under me before setting it on the ground, berating myself for thinking I might be smaller than I am and could curl up on the small sofa. Soon, Catherine comes into the main room and starts browsing the selection in the cabinet over the sink.

“Want anything?” she asks, her back to me as she moves to inspect the snack cupboard.

“No thanks,” I reply, though the taste of cool, creamy ice cream melts over my tongue and fills my mouth.

She shrugs and takes out the box of granola and a bag of craisins. “How’s your day, Suze?”

“So-so.” I know she saw me prodding my collection of fatty stores, and it’s not a new sight to her. She usually makes small efforts here and there to share a healthy snack or to try a new workout class with her; the latter is the more humiliating of the two and the reason I continue to avoid going to work out.

“You know, my sister was struggling to lose weight for years. She was practically addicted to chocolate cake.” She’s mixing the granola and craisins into some plain yogurt from the fridge. “They put her on this medicine to help suppress her appetite. She’s lost a lot of weight because of it. She was telling me about it the other day when she called about her wedding.”

My textbook is trying to tell me something about sleep and healthy stress, but I can’t help but perk an ear to what she’s saying. Having tried just about every diet plan in existence since I was 12, I’m skeptical, though it doesn’t stop me being hopeful.

Catherine adds, “I could get more information if you’re interested.”

“I don’t know,” I admit; did I really want to put myself through another round of miracle fixes? Just because it worked for her sister…everyone is different, after all.

“Well, let me know what you decide,” Catherine says, to which I nod and assure her I will.

She glides to the window and opens the blinds a moment before lowering them again. “God that place is hideous. I wish they would just tear it down already.” Catherine takes her yogurt and walks to the bedroom. Before disappearing around the corner, she smiles at me. At first I think she might say something, her lips even part in preparation. Then she disappears into the bedroom.

House Down the Hill, Part 1

There’s an old condemned house across from the football field. It’s the kind of house most people cross the street to walk past. It looks rather small with the original part made of brick and yellow painted plaster, three stone steps leading to a plain wooden door. And then there’s the extension—white, wood siding with a white door and unpainted, dilapidated wood steps. The white door is stained brown and copper along the bottom as if dirt—or, if you believe the rumors, blood—had been splashed there from some commotion. The windows are boarded up with tagged plywood; any glass they used to hold is long gone, and most of the frames are broken.

The students, especially those living in the apartments just up the hill from there, call it Murder House. It wasn’t until I had decided to live in Campbell Apartments I even knew of the house’s existence. It is so far south of the main campus, with only the apartments and athletic fields nearby. Not particularly interested in sports, I never had a reason to go out that way before move-in. Then again, to say I was completely ignorant of Murder House might be inaccurate; perhaps I just hadn’t bothered paying attention to the stories people weaved of the place before classes. Stories of local high schoolers disappearing in there, shouting from deep inside in the middle of the night, or the front door opening as people passed by just after sundown. Some claim to have seen a shadowy, angular figure wander back into the house before sunrise, carrying something that occasionally resembled a meat cleaver, a machete, or even a chainsaw—their vague recounts bringing to mind something that belonged in cheap American anime.

I tell myself and my friends I don’t believe the stories. I am a mature, logical person and ghost tales are for younger audiences. That doesn’t stop my pace quickening and the hair on the back of my neck rising whenever I pass the house, though. At times, I have to chide my overactive imagination for giving into the rumors, especially at night when my roommate opens the blinds and the house seems just outside our door.

My roommate often complains to company of the house and how it ruins an otherwise lovely view. Our friends agree and busy themselves with sharing the same stories everyone seems to know. They posture for hours whether the tales are true and contemplate holding a stakeout some weekend night in our living room. The stakeout, of course, never happens, but they seem to enjoy entertaining the possibility. None of them really believe the stories, but it’s one of those things people latch onto and half hope is true. If any of it was true, after all, the University surely would have done something by now as it is their property. That, and they sort of promise our parents and guardians to provide a safe learning environment. Allowing a psychopath to live on campus does not exactly qualify as keeping students safe.

Eternal: Chapter Six, Part 6

She grumbled and sat back. Jake didn’t look at her; he had unwound some but was still visibly tense. I couldn’t help myself; before I knew it I was chilling the air around him, circulating it in a way that was pulling his frustrations and hardness from him. He let himself become relaxed, sitting back and closing his eyes a moment before opening them and scanning the room. Though I had looked away, still working the air around him, I felt his eyes burn into me, trying to figure out what was happening.

“Jake,” Professor Rakins called, pulling his attention from me, “you’ve covered society. Now what about yourself? Where do you draw the line for forgiveness?”

He glanced up at me again before beginning to answer. “I think it depends on the offense. I can forgive someone breaking my heart, or emotionally hurting me with time. But I don’t think I could forgive someone who hurts the people I know, or even those I don’t, in a way that has lasting damage. I couldn’t forgive someone who forces me and others like me to live a certain lifestyle. It’s not possible. People shouldn’t have to live the way someone else chooses for them.”

“What if that someone is a person you love?” I asked, reminded of the decisions Drei had made for me, and the ones others had made for me my entire life.

“Someone who loves you would let you make your own choice,” he responded coldly. “They wouldn’t put you through pain like that. They wouldn’t endow themselves with the power to make your choices.”

“Your parents do,” a girl next to Natalie added.

“Spouses, too,” a boy next to her added. “People you love are always making decisions concerning you.”

“And they shouldn’t be forgiven for it,” he said forcibly, very near shouting.

“Even if that means deciding to put you through a surgery that might save your life?” the boy asked. When Jake didn’t repeal his answer, the boy stood up. “You’re messed up…a real piece of work.” And he left, the other girl and Natalie sharing a look before following him.

“Don’t forget the final,” Professor Rakins called after them before scanning the remaining people. “Miss, I don’t believe I know you,” he said, pointing to me. “It doesn’t matter, but give your name and your opinion on this.”

I regretted speaking earlier, it might have saved me having to debate against him. “Leirba,” I started, avoiding the hard stare Jake was giving me. He didn’t say anything to correct me, thankfully, but this wasn’t going to make things easier. “For me, I somewhat agree with Jake. It depends on the offense. I don’t know if I could forgive someone who murdered someone I knew, or tried to. But I can forgive the people I love. I can always find a reason to forgive someone I love,” I answered, meeting Jake’s gaze. “Yes, sometimes they make decisions for me I don’t agree with, but I love them, and I do so for a reason. And that reason is enough.”

“So what about them?” he questioned bitterly. Many of his peers started muttering to each other, trying to determine who “they” were—coming to many different conclusions—and how we knew each other. “Can you forgive them for everything they’ve done? For everything they continue to do?”

Swallowing, I had to think about it. I didn’t know off the top of my head. They—the government and the people working under it—had taken my mother, had tortured and scarred me, had practically imprisoned Nick—a former boyfriend and still good though absent friend of mine—and forced so many of us to live in constant fear of being found out. Exhaling slowly, feeling everyone’s eyes on me, I replied, “I don’t know. Maybe someday, I might be able to. But it won’t be any time soon.”

That sent him over. He looked to say something as he jumped up from his seat, glared at me a second, and then grabbed his bag and stormed from the classroom.

“From the sounds of it, I should be looking forward to the essays Tuesday,” Professor Rakins chuckled, trying to break the tension in the room. It wasn’t working. There was no chattering and most people couldn’t even look at one another. I hated it; I always hated feeling uneasy, especially when it wasn’t mine. “Well then,” he tried again, receiving no response. “Class dismissed. Remember: Tuesday, 12:30.”

The rest of the students, myself included, left the room; I felt rotten for not supporting Jake on that point, but I couldn’t help how I felt, and I honestly believed that someday, depending on how things worked out, I might be able to forgive them for their seriously misguided thinking and heinous actions. I hoped I would be able to do so. I would never forget their transgressions, but I didn’t want to hate them for the rest of my days.

Eternal: Chapter Six, Part 5

The ethics class Jake was enrolled in was filling up as I arrived. The classroom wasn’t huge—to be honest I was somewhat shocked. There were three rows of chairs in a semicircle around a chalkboard and a desk. From the chattering everyone was doing and the overall relaxed feeling in the room, I knew they weren’t taking a test and was grateful. A few people gave me questioning looks, shrugging it off a moment later. They had a right to be curious. I hadn’t been in this class, and I hadn’t been on this campus the last few months either; they had every right to question. I wasn’t concerned with any of them; the only person I was interested in was Jake, and I hadn’t seen him yet.

Jake walked in a minute to the bell, taking a seat on the middle row on the other side of the half circle. He hadn’t changed much other than he was taller and leaner. His hair was a shaggy gold and his eyes were a piercing blue, as though growing up had given him a harder edge. There was still a hint of youth in his smile, but it was small, hardly a glimmer. I wondered how much of that edge could be attributed to him having to hide. I couldn’t tell how much of the change was just physical either. For all I knew, he could be completely different.

The professor walked in, but the class didn’t quiet until he had settled onto the desk at the front of the room.

“Final on Tuesday next week. Twelve thirty. Be on time, or you won’t be allowed to retake it,” he began, immediately capturing everyone’s attention. “Today we’ll have another ethical debate. Two of the test questions will be essays asking you to argue a side on a major ethical debate applicable to today. They will also ask you to raise some points of an opposing perspective.” The instructor stood and divided a stack of papers into three, handing a stack to each person on the end of the row on my side. When the stack reached me, I passed it on, glimpsing over the sheet. I didn’t envy them this test.

Once the professor settled again, he said, “There are 15 possible issues up for debate. The only way to do well is to be prepared. Don’t expect to fly by the seat of your pants on this one. It won’t work.” The relaxed atmosphere of the room dissipated into tension as his students whispered to the people next to them, worriedly exchanging hopeful looks. “Today we’ll debate the issue of forgiveness. Where do we draw the line? As individuals? As a society?” he posed, leaning forward to grab a sheet from his desk. Reading, he continued, “How do we determine who to forgive and under what circumstances is it possible?” Tossing the paper back to the desk, he waited a moment as they started mulling it over. “Jake,” he called, scanning over the class, “begin.”

I watched him struggle to find the words to start his argument. There was almost too much to take into consideration with this one.

“Forgiveness is a commodity most often shown to those of petty offenses,” he began, slowly pulling together his thoughts into a clearer form. “Usually children or first time offenders of lesser laws. As a society, we aren’t so quick to forgive released convicted felons, murderers, or sexual offenders. But we’ll let rapists off for lack of evidence. We won’t convict a murderer on circumstantial evidence. Yet we’ll put a person caught peeing in public on an unforgiving list of sex offenders. We insist prisoners are ‘reformed’ but won’t give them a decent job; we can’t make people forgive them their wrongs and therefore are unable to allow them to live a decent life as a ‘reformed’ individual.

“So as a society, we don’t have a clear line of where forgiveness is. We’re more likely to forget than to forgive. Just as we won’t send the person who murdered in claimed self-defense to jail, and we’ll forget it happened eventually, but we won’t do the same for a person who murdered, admitted it, and shows remorse for the deed.”

“But if it’s in self-defense, it was kill or be killed,” a girl toward the center of his row argued. “A person is entitled to live.”

“And how do we know that it really was self-defense? It’s still murder,” he replied calmly. “No one can prove it really was self-defense, just like no one can really prove how sane a person is. But we forgive the claimed ‘insane’ as well, opting to pay for their institutional fees. And as soon as they’re deemed ‘sane,’ they either lose that forgiveness and are given a sentence, or they’re released once again on the world.”

“You’re attacking the institutions in place to protect us,” the girl continued. “They have to deal with hundreds of cases and maniacs and other people who would never dream of hurting another person. What do you want them to do?”

“I’m not attacking our institutions,” Jake insisted, remaining eerily calm and collected. “I’m pointing out that our institutions have a very inconsistent view of forgiveness, as does society in general.”

“But what else do you want them to do?” she fought, restraining herself. “They can’t look into every case and they certainly can’t solve everything. Unless you’re suggesting a Big Brother option where everyone is under constant surveillance;” she cocked her head to the side. “That would certainly solve the issue of who’s telling the truth or not.”

“Professor Rakins,” Jake asked, turning to the professor, “are we debating the issue as it is or how it should be?” His jaw was set tight and, though one of his hands was palm down on the table before him, he was shaking. I could see where he might have gained that hard edge. When you see things the way they are because you have to, it’s aggravating when others only think about how it could be worse.

The professor considered the girl and then Jake. “Natalie, he has a point. We are debating the issue as it is, not as it could be.”

Eternal: Chapter Six, Part 4

I was anxious to see Jake again. He had always been different from the others with this air of wisdom and patience; not just that, but he had this way of seeing more in a situation than most people might ever see. It was one of the reasons I wanted him on my team.

That he was in college now seemed appropriate enough, though it also seemed strange. Not strange in a bad way, but strange all the same. The last time I saw him was when he was 15 and leaving to return home; now he was 20, if I had kept track of my years properly.

Valetta had left an extra note in the folder saying she hadn’t spoken to him, but she had managed to find a copy of his schedule. I wouldn’t ask, despite my curiosity; I had accepted long ago that they had their ways of obtaining what they needed. If I didn’t ask, I didn’t have to know, and right now, I didn’t think I wanted to.

The campus clock tower struck noon; scanning the schedule, I headed toward the business and computer science building—with the help of a friendly student who was kind enough to ask if I was lost. I vainly wished I could have assured her I wasn’t, but what would have been the use? Other than to seem smarter and end up stranded anyway?

Walking through the campus, it started misting, and as hoods and umbrellas opened to keep the students dry, I was filled with envy. College had been something I’d been working towards. It had been my dream, my one salvation from the life I hated so much. It was going to free me, in more ways than it did for most people. For me, it was my chance to start over, to be who I wanted to be, do what I wanted to do—for the most part—and not ever have to look back. I had been doing so well; I had already applied and was well on my way…and then I had been screwed over by whatever plan of the universe was at work. When I had visited Kora, it didn’t feel like such a big deal. Probably because I was still so antsy about recruiting people I hadn’t seen in several years. Now I was nervous about this last one, and distractions were more than welcome. This environment, just being in it, was reminding me of everything I had planned for myself, and how every single one of those plans had been destroyed. Shattered. Picked up and tossed into a black hole.

I promised myself when this was over, I was going to work towards a degree; granted I wouldn’t be able to actually go to a university or anything, I could take online classes. It was a close second. Besides, even though I wasn’t happy about not having what I had wanted for myself, what I ended up with wasn’t so bad. There was Drei, all of my friends, and parts of myself I had figured out after all. It honestly could have been worse.