Post by Solomon Moon on Sept 3, 2019 17:51:11 GMT -5
It was like falling into a pool of cool water as Sol passed through the heavy wooden doors that separated the dormitory atrium from the school grounds that he'd heard other students calling "The Quad". It had to be nearly midnight, and the air was chilled on his sweat beaded neck and face. The sky overhead was clear, silver pinpoints of starlight shining in a host about the shattered face of Remnant's moon. Sol could almost imagine that the cold void was reaching down from that infinity to touch his face, and the thought gave him a curious sense of vertigo as he thought it.
He leaned against the door, propping it open with his weight, debating the dark expense outside or the prison within. His heart skipped a beat or two, and that tingle of anxiety crawled up his spine at the thought of returning to his room. His right hand was balled into a tight fist that would have been painful a couple years ago, an unconscious reaction to his mood. His long sleeved bedshirt was damp with sweat, despite the coolness of the night, as was his left palm. The glove on his right hand that slid up into his sleeve was bone dry. Whatever perils may wait in the darkness of the quad, they didn't seem to matter against the idea of returning to bed.
He touched the shirt's pocket, over his heart, and the little leather notebook inside, which rattled quietly against the pencil that was attached to it be a little golden ribbon. His scroll was back in his room.
He pushed off, feeling not unlike a boat leaving the safety of port to sail through the cool sea of the night, and heard as the door swung shut behind him. He wondered if anyone would notice that he was gone, and if they would send anyone to look if they did. He doubted either to be very likely.
His bare feet sloshed gently against dew soaked grass as he stole away diagonally through the courtyard, heading for the treeline he knee was just beyond the central yard. He only realized he was running when he had to stop to catch his breath just past a lonesome wooden bench, on the border of the light cast by the lampposts that ringed the court. He slowed to a walk, fighting the lizard in his head that demanded he hurry, that he find cover, a fresh sheen of sweat crawling down his neck like an army of icy little insects. His breathing was hard and irregular, and it annoyed him.
About three ranks into the phalanx of trees that ringed the quad, Sol decided that was far enough and slipped into a bough of roots, pressing his back to the rough wood, feeling the damp soaking through his pajama shorts, and waiting for the shakes to go away. He hoped they wouldn't send anyone to look for him, and he hoped that no one would find him if they did. His fingers, those that he had left, went to the his shirt pocket again. With trembling fingers, and the assistance of his right hand, which did not tremble, not anymore, he pulled the little notebook out and opened it in his lap. It was too dark to see, so he had to imagine what was written there. The golden ribbon, the same that tied the book to the little pencil, marked the most recent page.
"Came to Haven, journey uneventful. Had some intrusive thoughts on the train ride, think it was the engine sounds that did it, but can't be sure. Didn't lose any time. Doc said it might be hard to go to a new place. Think she was right. This might have been a mistake."
Sol stared at the blank page and wondered how much of what he could read was real, and how much had just been populated by his mind. Sometimes it was hard for him to tell which was which. He tried to think of what else he would write down now, if he could have seen well enough to do it. His therapist said that could help, and that it would help steer his mind away from the poison. Probably, if he were a normal student, he would have had something to say by now, of how many friends he'd made, which classes he preferred, who his favorite instructors were. He wasn't normal though. He'd been here a week, though hadn't started classes yet, and knew no one's names, he didn't even have a roommate. On that last part he wondered how much Doc had told the school about his sleeping habits, probably all of it. He still felt very awkward around his peers. He'd grown up with little interaction with children his own age, and while there had been a novel attempt at a peer group, that had all vanished when he enlisted. After that, adults, often decades older than himself had been the core of his social exposure, but at least the rigid rank-division of para-military had mandated a structure of etiquette that was easily followed once internalized. That had served as a substitute for socialization, at least in part, but now that he was amputated from that structure, he found himself unsure of how to engage with his peers. Dealing with the professors was easy enough, their authority was similar enough to superior officers that transferring obedience to them was a simple matter. However, to make matters even worse, he was also the oldest student in his year, and that gulf felt impossible to bridge. He felt that he had no way of relating to them, no common ground with which to enact a mutual exchange. He felt, surrounded for the first time in more than ten years by people his own age, utterly alone.
"I hate being right." He sighed.
(984 words)
He leaned against the door, propping it open with his weight, debating the dark expense outside or the prison within. His heart skipped a beat or two, and that tingle of anxiety crawled up his spine at the thought of returning to his room. His right hand was balled into a tight fist that would have been painful a couple years ago, an unconscious reaction to his mood. His long sleeved bedshirt was damp with sweat, despite the coolness of the night, as was his left palm. The glove on his right hand that slid up into his sleeve was bone dry. Whatever perils may wait in the darkness of the quad, they didn't seem to matter against the idea of returning to bed.
He touched the shirt's pocket, over his heart, and the little leather notebook inside, which rattled quietly against the pencil that was attached to it be a little golden ribbon. His scroll was back in his room.
He pushed off, feeling not unlike a boat leaving the safety of port to sail through the cool sea of the night, and heard as the door swung shut behind him. He wondered if anyone would notice that he was gone, and if they would send anyone to look if they did. He doubted either to be very likely.
His bare feet sloshed gently against dew soaked grass as he stole away diagonally through the courtyard, heading for the treeline he knee was just beyond the central yard. He only realized he was running when he had to stop to catch his breath just past a lonesome wooden bench, on the border of the light cast by the lampposts that ringed the court. He slowed to a walk, fighting the lizard in his head that demanded he hurry, that he find cover, a fresh sheen of sweat crawling down his neck like an army of icy little insects. His breathing was hard and irregular, and it annoyed him.
About three ranks into the phalanx of trees that ringed the quad, Sol decided that was far enough and slipped into a bough of roots, pressing his back to the rough wood, feeling the damp soaking through his pajama shorts, and waiting for the shakes to go away. He hoped they wouldn't send anyone to look for him, and he hoped that no one would find him if they did. His fingers, those that he had left, went to the his shirt pocket again. With trembling fingers, and the assistance of his right hand, which did not tremble, not anymore, he pulled the little notebook out and opened it in his lap. It was too dark to see, so he had to imagine what was written there. The golden ribbon, the same that tied the book to the little pencil, marked the most recent page.
"Came to Haven, journey uneventful. Had some intrusive thoughts on the train ride, think it was the engine sounds that did it, but can't be sure. Didn't lose any time. Doc said it might be hard to go to a new place. Think she was right. This might have been a mistake."
Sol stared at the blank page and wondered how much of what he could read was real, and how much had just been populated by his mind. Sometimes it was hard for him to tell which was which. He tried to think of what else he would write down now, if he could have seen well enough to do it. His therapist said that could help, and that it would help steer his mind away from the poison. Probably, if he were a normal student, he would have had something to say by now, of how many friends he'd made, which classes he preferred, who his favorite instructors were. He wasn't normal though. He'd been here a week, though hadn't started classes yet, and knew no one's names, he didn't even have a roommate. On that last part he wondered how much Doc had told the school about his sleeping habits, probably all of it. He still felt very awkward around his peers. He'd grown up with little interaction with children his own age, and while there had been a novel attempt at a peer group, that had all vanished when he enlisted. After that, adults, often decades older than himself had been the core of his social exposure, but at least the rigid rank-division of para-military had mandated a structure of etiquette that was easily followed once internalized. That had served as a substitute for socialization, at least in part, but now that he was amputated from that structure, he found himself unsure of how to engage with his peers. Dealing with the professors was easy enough, their authority was similar enough to superior officers that transferring obedience to them was a simple matter. However, to make matters even worse, he was also the oldest student in his year, and that gulf felt impossible to bridge. He felt that he had no way of relating to them, no common ground with which to enact a mutual exchange. He felt, surrounded for the first time in more than ten years by people his own age, utterly alone.
"I hate being right." He sighed.
(984 words)