Marco, Polo

Chapter Two

I continued to fumble with the lighter, my trembling hands betraying my inner turmoil. As I finally managed to ignite the cigarette.

The facade of civility couldn't mask the tension that hung in the air between us.

My mothers face turns as she opens her car door.

Her gaze locked with mine, and in that moment, I could see the sadness etched in the lines of her face. She knew how unhappy I was about being here, in this place that seemed so far removed from the life I had imagined.

Tears welled up in my eyes as I inhaled the soothing smoke from the cigarette. The car's engine roared to life, and my mother slid into the driver's seat. The car pulled away, disappearing into the distance, leaving me standing alone in the courtyard.

I was nineteen years old, caught between the expectations of my mother and the uncertainty of my own future. And you might be wondering how I ended up resitting my fourth year of medical school, not once but twice.

It all began when I graduated from high school at the tender age of fifteen and headed on a journey into medicine. But it was during my fourth year that I stumbled, not once but twice,

I had barely managed to steal a few moments of solace with my cigarette when I heard a stern voice addressing me. Startled, I looked up to find a teacher standing in front of me, her hands outstretched expectantly.

"No," I whispered defiantly, clutching the cigarette tightly in my hand.

"Smoking is prohibited," the teacher stated, i glance down at her lanyard. Miss Martinez. "Hand it over, or you'll be going straight into isolation."

With a reluctant sigh, I extinguished the cigarette and reluctantly handed it over to Miss Martinez.

"Now, let me show you to your dorm room."

With my confiscated cigarette now in the hands of Miss Martinez, I had little choice but to follow her as she led me through the school's hallways. The atmosphere had shifted; the once-empty corridor was now filled with students, and all eyes seemed to be on me.

Miss Martinez stopped in front of a door, her stern gaze fixed on me as she delivered her instructions. "You are segregated from the boys, and there will be no sneaking around, Miss Tate," she warned, emphasising the point. "A teacher will be patrolling the halls all night."

With those words, she pushed the door open, revealing my new dorm room. The space was modest but functional, furnished with two single beds placed parallel to each other, each one flanked by a small bedside table. The beds were neatly made with crisp white sheets, and a pair of identical wooden desks were positioned against the opposite walls, each equipped with a chair and a study lamp.

A large window on the far wall allowed the soft glow of the setting sun to filter into the room, casting a warm and inviting ambiance. The walls were adorned with framed religious artwork and motivational quotes, serving as a reminder of the unique environment I now found myself in.