thirst for blood

Greetings from Sunny Feratuvia

In the beginning, there was an ordinary boy — a student with a perspective of a promising career as a doctor. Since he was an adolescent, he had dreamt of exploring the uncharted in order to discover extraordinary medical solutions and share the found revelations with the world. Everything went according to the plan — he got into the University, got his bachelor's degree, began with his major et cetera, et cetera.
I am the boy. And this is a story of my self-damnation. Technically, I am not the one to blame. Nothing would have happened if not for the events from my last year of major degree, when a new dean appeared, and with him — trouble.

The dean and I had known each other long before I began my degree. Or, to be more precise, we had known about each other's presence, though I was not quite aware of that. He was a friend of my father, and would visit our home from time to time. I recall a vision of two fine gentlemen (my father was an estate of elegance and so was his old acquaintance, or at least in the matter of clothes and speech; for that was the only thing I recalled. I had never really seen his face. This could not be said about his voice, which I could easily depict from a crowd of people) sitting in the living room, drinking loose tea and talking about life. I couldn't understand them, because they spoke so eloquently, or in languages I hadn't learned yet, such as Spanish and Latin. I would learn them in a few years from that moment, having in mind an imagery of me sitting right in between my father and the dean. I focused on general science so as to become a doctor, and have my own word in their long-lasting conversation. But regardless of my determination, I was not able to make this dream come true. Not just then.

One day, they fell out and never talked again. It happened two years before my graduation — the Dean had left town. My father would not speak of him as if he had died. To be frank, it felt like it. Not only did he lose strength and vigour, but also became desolated, more keen on hiding in his office, face focused on books. Half the man I had remembered, devoured by grief.
Despite developing severe sickness, my father provided me with the resources, and honestly, I did not know he stored such money in his pockets. I had longed to go to a University, applied even, but my father's health felt like a priority to take care of instead of paying the tuition. I refused to take his savings. He rejected my reluctance. His physical condition, which I hoped to take advantage of, turned out not to be an obstacle, for his riditness seemed stronger than ever. To be frank, it was a pleasant change of character, so I gave in.
Certainly my father must have been aware of my childhood dreams, because despite my uncertainty about leaving him home alone, I had never been happier than the moment I crossed the gates of St. Thomas' College. The place my father had met all his friends, where he had spent the best days of his life (ironically, medical studies had been quite a pleasant experience for him, which never failed to surprise people). Likewise, I could not be more excited to begin. It was my time to shine.

Four years went by faster than one could have imagined. Lectures, lab, lectures, lab, not much sleep, lectures, lab, et cetera. Not much leisure time, only work and learning. If not for the passion for gaining more and more knowledge, my bachelor would have been a torment. But I was not alone. It didn't take long to acquaint myself with fellow students. We would stay up at nights, a group of eleven boys (I can assure no one wants to witness the chaos present at such meetings) occupying Benedict's dormitory, surrounded by books and bones. Obligations joined us. Everyone wanted to pass. Everyone wanted to have fun. With enough cooperation, we had it all. Together. And then he came back, and I ruined everything.

It came to us as a surprise when the whole group had been asked to visit our professor's office, as he had some news to deliver. We gathered in front of the office's door. "Come on, John. Knock."

"Why me?," I moved backwards, leaving Benedict and Bradley to be the first ones in line. I could never understand why we behaved so childishly. Chuck, from the whole group one I had been closest with, sighed and hammered the door, then quickly moved back to stand next to me. The professor emerged at the doorstep, blood red on the face (magical mixture of anger and embarrassment), frowning at us.