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Through the slits of the library curtains, I watch my peers down in the courtyard, dressed in white armour, preparing for their session in fencing. I watch two opponents stand across from one another, bowing down in respect before standing in the attack position. I know I should turn away, settle back behind a desk to continue my planning for my upcoming session with my students, inhale the bitter scent of old literature and pages held together by thin bindings. Trust that I want to will my eyes not to look at the way at which their bodies move like fluid through air, weightless almost, as they dance across the cobblestone. Yet, I cannot. So I allow myself to stare at them, unashamedly and unassuming.
The whispers of obedient students forms a shield from the rest of the thoughts that haunt me, so I try to focus on that. The mentions of History and Physics and auditions for a world known orchestra and the way girls discuss the length of another's dress and call her vile names, with lipstick stained words and bubblegum smiles. Gum is forbidden at St. Catherine, as it is not the likes of artists and musicians and composers. Yet, in the corner of bathroom stalls, you'd find a wide arrange of it, a rainbow of tastes, stuck to the hard metal. See, I ponder over the obtuse existence of gum, yet I cannot stop taking in the fluidity of movements of my peers.
So I force myself to turn around, to let my cane's end echo across the library, to go back to my desk. Within the next hour, the bell will ring, and I will return to where it all started for me. When I had reached for stage lights and the awe of admirers, when I walked across a stage and knew that I was perfect, complete. I look back, and I huff, what a naive child. Yet I do not scorn my past self, I was a child, and I will not take away my wondrous beliefs of cloud castles and golden highlights.
The image that stops the continuous thump of my cane, is the fact that my notes and my books, were dropped to the floor. Neatly stacked, with my leather bag, placed right on top. A clenched jaw is a response, as annoyance forces my eyes to move upwards to take in the person now occupying my seat. If it weren't for the anger that had my throat choked together like a snake wrapped around a tree, it would've been the gasp of shock. It is not the kind of shock you experience when you find the belief you had to be untrue, to feel jolts move across your body as adrenaline forces you to take note of your surroundings. No, it is the kind when an angel has fallen to the earth, fingers tangled between the skies and wings disintegrating like a fallen star.
I am sure, the asshole who took my seat, disregarding my belongings, is a fallen angel.
"Excuse me", I speak loud enough for him to hear me, but not so that I bother focusing pupils. The boy looks up, and if I had thought I knew what heaven was in the breaking of dawn and the tinted fade of pink and gold, I'd be wrong. His face reminds me of a sun-kissed moon, perfection in its magnificence. The boy's hair is a neatly combed mess of midnight locks, with eyebrows that magazines try to sell to its consumers. His mouth is full of its jaded pink, pulled together in concentration.
His clothes are what fashion runways aim to be - stylish, personalized, fitting. A tight black turtleneck adorns his upper body, while brown slacks held together by a belt embraces his waist. Golden rings lace around his left pinky finger and right middle finger, the one with a black stone in its centre. The only reason I take note of him, of his beauty, is because for once - it does not belong to its owner. Beauty should be tangible, hardly dealt out, and this boy has it, along with talent and a brutish attitude.
"You're excused", he states in a monotonous voice, looking back down at his work, and his right-hand taps again the hard wood of the desk. I take a step closer, slamming my cane against the steel structure of the desk. It is a sharp sound that echoes across the library, and the boy flinches at the sound.
"I was seated here and you moved my books. Move", I demand him, glancing down at his work. It seems he is busy composing a song, and his hand was tapping out the keys of an imaginary piano.
"I like this view, and you weren't here, which makes this not my problem", he makes a note on his work with a pencil. Inside, it is like a hot lava of that burns the carvings of my ribs, and I find it hard not to bite my tongue in regret. Who does he think he is?
"Well then, I am sure you would not mind if I joined you", I instead say and glance down at my books, knowing I cannot bend down to get them. Wonderful, I will have to ask the moronic boy to pick them up for me. I ignore them, and go to sit on the table, right on his work. My legs dangle from the wooden surface, and I sway them as I stare around the library, nonchalantly ignoring the sharp intake of breath next to me.
"You sat on my work", the boy grits between clenched teeth, his hand embracing the steel pipe of the desk. His knuckles turn white, and I find myself grinning in amusement, something I haven't done in a while.
"You sat on my chair. Cry me a river, Mozart", I say bemused and hide a yawn with the back of my hand, showing my disinterest in the conversation. A crack echoes across the hall, and I notice grey paint splintering between the boy's fingers from where he is gripping the table. He stands up suddenly, nearly throwing me off the table, and grabs his books. I stand up from the table to give him his crumbled paper back, and he glares at me, slapping it out of my hand. A look so filled with venom, a cobra would feel ashamed by it. I know I should be concerned about the fact that if looks could kill, my mother would've been arranging a funeral, but I cannot stop staring at the boy's eyes.
They are not the blue that hides behind the clouds over Edinburgh, nor are they the green of the meadow near the brook, or the colour of warm hot chocolate in the winter. They are the first beams of sun after a hurricane, the brilliant shine of melted gold, the first taste of spring. For a moment, the boy and I regard one another, his eyes filled with annoyance and rage, and my eyes seeking to see deeper in the rings of his irises.
"Happy?", he grunts out, before turning around to storm away, leaving a fresh fragrance of deep wood and vanilla.
"Jubilant", I call out after him, despite the shushes from my peers. I start to make my way around, before noticing a yellowed page on the floor. I go to sit down on my chair, collecting my books from the floor first, and then I reach for the paper, gripping it between my fingertips.
It's the composition the boy was composing, playing the piano on the table, before I sat on it. From what I can hum, the composition starts off slow, and heartbreakingly slow. Above, a title is scribbled out hastily. I can't make it out, as it seems to be in Latin, of all languages. The bell jumps me from my confusion, and I fold the paper between my books, hoping to be able to find information on it later.
Right now, I have to focus on the fact that I am about to face my newly appointed class, a new generation of dancers.
