Orange Sorbet: The Collection

3. Intuition

TW: paranoia, psychosis, death, gore/blood

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Looking back, I should've noticed it sooner. The more I think about it, the more I realize that the signs were all there: the anxious way his focus darted around the room constantly, the bags under his eyes which suggested he had barely slept in weeks, the withdrawal and strange erraticism that seemed to grow every time I saw him. Though I'm not sure that even then, I could've prevented what happened.

When I first met Professor Lloyd Skinner, he was healthy, friendly even. He taught my Human Biochemistry class during my third year of nursing school, and somehow made a point of becoming acquainted with each and every one of his students. Every lecture, lab, or even passing interaction would end with a reminder that his "office was always open". Surprisingly often, I found myself taking him up on the offer.

Whenever I struggled with a concept or had a question about the material, I would take my inquiries directly to the source, and soon my regular visits to the Professor's office became a sort of routine. Occasionally, I'd stop by simply for the sake of it, whether it was boredom, comradery or even some bizarre feeling of attachment. In time we grew close, and I'd even venture to say we became friends; it was a refreshing change of pace, a new relationship to distract from the harsh stressors of university life. So when the term ended, and I was no longer in his class, I still found myself making regular stops to see the Professor.

It was over a year into our relationship that it started. Graduation was just around the corner, and every member of my class was scrambling to network for potential job opportunities. Luckily for me, I had the Professor on my side.

I'd gone to see him not only for lunch in his office, but to work on my applications with his expertise. I never knocked at that point, rather opening the door and walking right in to find my place in my usual chair across his desk. He smirked briefly as I entered, not looking up from his computer screen until I was comfortably seated in front of him. Then we made eye contact.

Nothing was obviously wrong, and the Professor seemed jovial enough, but something in his eyes was distant and clouded in confusion. His mind was still racing, his synapses still firing rapidly as he looked at me; there was something preoccupying him. We didn't speak much that day, working mostly in the silence, only the sound of typing filling the air. Part of me was glad we'd reached the point in our friendship where we were comfortable enough just to be in each other's company. And as I packed up my things and left, he spoke for the first time in an hour and a half.

"Did you do something different with your hair?" The question caught me off guard, as it was so unlike anything to usually come out of the Professor's mouth. I stood in quiet suspicion for a moment, before stammering out an answer.

"N-no, why?"

"No reason," he said quietly, shrugging, and then looking back at his computer screen. I left him to his work.

It was a week before I went to the office again, having gotten caught up in assignments for my Advanced Nursing classes. This time we made gentle small talk: the Professor asked me about my courses and my career plan, and I asked him about his current courses and upcoming research project, which he was still trying to develop. He said he was interested in studying the human mind, with a focus on observation and perception. We spent almost two hours discussing our respective futures, but the whole time I couldn't help but worry as I watched the turmoil in his eyes strain against his typically content expression. And as I left, he broke my exit with a question again.

"You didn't get a tan, did you?" It was another odd inquiry, and yet somehow I'd expected it.

"No. Are you okay?" I asked. He didn't seem offended by my response, but instead hesitantly and stiffly nodded his head.