Memories of the Reaper

Chapter Four

Derek Grey sat on an uncomfortable bench inside of the administrative building, separate from the other parts of campus. He rubbed at his eyes, trying to avoid the glare of the provost's secretary, whose eyes were magnified by the horn-rimmed spectacles she wore. Instead, Derek stared down at his shoes and yawned.

Don't fall asleep, he thought, his mind repeating the word even as his eyes closed slower with each passing breath.

"Mr. Grey?"

Derek looked up at the secretary, eyes questioning but lips silent.

"Provost Cordoven is ready to see you now."

Derek nodded, exhausted but getting to his feet. He stifled a yelp as a stumbled aggravated his head before slipping past the desk and into the dimly lit provost's office, which Derek knew hadn't been on accident.

"Thanks, James."

The provost remained silent, staring at a file on his desk filled with reports as he sat in his chair and waited.

Derek sighed, closing the door behind him. A fire crackled to the left side of the door, lit by natural gas and blazing despite the heat outside. In front of it was a mandala rug, complemented by the beige walls and framed pictures of distant landscapes. Derek stared at the one containing the Great Sphinx of Giza, before quickly looking away from it as it reminded him of dreams and death. Instead, he sat in one of the plush chairs opposite the provost's own, leaning backward and slumping.

"Do you have any idea what I've gone through this morning, Derek?" Provost Cordoven asked, his massive hands gripping the papers like a vise. His hair was mostly gray with a salt-and-pepper goatee. Though his expression was calm, the provost's eyes were quick and calculating, unnaturally intelligent. For several moments, the older man looked straight into the fireplace as light danced across his pupils. The silence was interrupted only by the crackle of the flames.

"Mr. Sullivan is on his way to the hospital right now with an extreme case of frostbite. He's already threatening to sue the school. I've also already spoken to all of your classmates, whose stories don't make sense. We would be able to clear this up quickly, if it hadn't been for the fact that the recording ended half-way through the altercation. Somehow, the lens was blurred and cold to the touch. So again, we're back to the cold issue. But that doesn't make sense either, as the air conditioning unit was already checked and is still set at seventy-five degrees."

Derek opened his mouth to reply, but the provost put up a scarred palm to silence him—one that shouldn't have belonged to a school administrator, even if it was one for delinquents. "I'm going to read through all of my notes, and I only want you to agree or disagree with what I have written down. All I want from you is the truth, Derek." James flipped through a series of notes on a pad of legal paper before continuing, "I have reports that Sullivan said something to you in Latin, but nobody I've talked to has been able to tell me what. I know that you are currently failing his class, but students are telling me that you started arguing with him in fluent Latin, then in French, then in Spanish, and then finally in a language that was apparently... growling?"

Is that why my voice sounded so strange? Because I was speaking in different languages? Derek thought. But how is that possible?

"I have no idea what they're talking about," Derek said.

"But you hesitated."

"I'm exhausted. Night terrors, remember?"

James Cordoven grunted. "That's what I heard, too. But I need you to be honest with me, Derek: did you kick Mr. Sullivan in the groin?"

Derek blinked. "What?" He shook his head. "No. I didn't touch him."

"So you didn't shove him to the ground, either?"