Violent Laughter Echoed Around My Grave

CHAPTER III

FUNERALS were always bleak, but this one took the cake.

The hand was clutched mine wore gloves, black and opaque. I could see the pale hands through them, tinged violet. The umbrella obscured our view of the coffins, but neither of us could lift our eyes to watch the service.

The ground was wet from the recent rain. Graveyard earthworms came out to observe, the damp smell of soil strong.

My sister was crying. Why could I not cry, too? 

Everything seemed like a cruel punishment. The strangers and distant friends, the way that people kept stealing sneaky glances at the grieving. 

Overwhelming guilt twisted like a knife, only growing as the ceremony came to a close. The solemn speech felt hollow. The right thing to do, I decided, was to get far away from here. 

I jolted from the dream like I'd been struck by lightning.

My bed was toasty warm, the morning quiet. Panicked, I threw myself from the covers. 

Sharp pictures of the funeral remained clear in my head, like I'd just been standing there myself. Running to the bathroom, my head was soon dunked into cold water. A self-cleansing ritual. 

It was so stupid to believe I'd been cured. Yet, here I was. Feeling emotions that were not mine. It was happening again.

That night, I would take a double dose of my special pills. 

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Gibson. I hope I have some good news for you soon."

Professor Horowitz shook my hand kindly. He was dressed in maroon and a warm brown suit. A scarf was looped around his neck to protect from the bitter cold. 

We had walked down together from his office. The interview had taken place there, a rigid Edwardian room with condensation dripping from the windows. My fake assurance and respectability had hopefully not been tarnished by my sweaty palms or cheap shoes - the professor offered to walk with me to the staff common room. 

"You must be nervous for your first lesson today," he said.

"Maybe." My feet skimmed the stairs. "I've never taught before, so..."

"It's very straightforward as long as you remember your content. Don't be afraid to answer questions. All they want is to learn, and they're looking at you."

"Thank you, professor."

Horowitz nodded. He'd probably heard those words countless times during his twenty years here. 

"Did you attend the incident assembly this morning?" I found myself asking.

"At the Abbey? Yes. Dreadful." He risked a sidelong glance from underneath his thick eyebrows. He must've heard a whisper that I was the poor student living above the murder scene. 

The cold halls of the Abbey had hosted the grave announcement. 

The young man had been Fred Williams, a lacrosse athlete. As the Chancellor spoke his name, a hush fell.

No answers were offered about what happened. I knew the gargoyle had fallen, but no policeman had come up to investigate the stonework. 

"Rotten luck," I said.

Then why did I feel hesitant to believe my own words?

The Abbey had been filled by the staff and entire student body. People craned their necks to view the speaker. Some shuffled uncomfortably. Others conversed in low voices of disbelief.