Saints and Sinners

II | falling behind

Note: If anyone notices all the song lyric references, let me know ;) I trust your keen eyes. Enjoy the chapter, my loves!

Pov: Stellan Eriksson

I am the spectre of St. Augustine, a silent presence haunting its corridors, hand always gripping a notebook and fountain pen, ready to capture the fleeting moments of existence. 

In the pages of my notebook, I could sketch a bird poised for flight, its wings outstretched as if ready to soar upon hearing the slightest touch of my Converse-clad feet upon the gravel path, the sound of crunching rocks serving as its signal for startled escape.

Or I could write about the collision of gazes, the sparks that ignite and the emotions that arise when eyes meet in ephemeral moments of human interaction. It's all a manifestation of human nature, each moment a canvas for beauty to emerge. And what is beauty? Beauty is terror, genuine beauty has always been and will always be quite alarming.

Within these walls, I exchange lingering gazes with those who meet my eyes, yet the depths of my thoughts remain shrouded in mystery. We are all vessels of our own thoughts, each one a labyrinth waiting to be explored. That is why I am perceived as an enigma, not malevolent in the slightest nor wholly benevolent either. 

In this building, I am but a shadow, unnoticed and unseen.

It's easy to get lost within the sprawling campus of Augustine's, situated in the countryside-like location of Winchester Hampshire. I approach the school grounds, dusting stray raindrops off my thick puffer jacket when I step out of the bus, as usual, I'm greeted by the grand entrance gate flanked by towering trees, their branches reaching out to form a canopy overhead. 

The gravel driveway winds its way through lush greenery, unwinding till I reach the initial stairway of the school, leading to its front doors and the following stairway that reveals its interiors adorned by a sense of historically ancient charm.  

I ascend the steps in a hurry, holding my head low and walking past my fellow schoolmates. I look to my left and right, taking in the lush gardens, manicured lawns, and the sight of our school lake that's spread out and disappearing into the vast expanse. My eyes can only see so much of it since the mist has swallowed the waterbody whole. 

The biblical figures carved into the walls of the school watch over its students with unmoving murky gazes. Like me, they observe the buzz of post-summer conversations and assumptions about the following year unfold in front of the gates. I let the chatter fade into the background as I slip on my earphones, letting myself drown in the haunting melody of 'Wicked Game' by Chris Isaak, my favourite song.

I'm barely a hand's reach away from the gate when I take in the masses of security guards and the hold-up of the cue right before the massive gate. What is happening? Why has the amount of security suddenly intensified?

I don't even question it, swallowing the chill that tightens its grip on my throat and making my way around the building, slipping in through the back entrance instead.

I jog to the door, push it open, and behold the stairwell unfurling before me, a winding path of solitude and quiet picturesque beauty. At last, I can reach the Lyceum at my own pace, unhurried and unbothered by the bustling masses. What a blessing this morning bestows.

I ascend the winding, cobbled stairwell, flanked by age-worn stone walls draped in tendrils of ivy, leading me to the Lyceum. Each step echoes the whispers of the past, swirling like mist around the haunting facade of the building.

Through the ornate glass doors, I enter, my gaze sweeping the throng of familiar faces, seeking those who share my space in this world, willingly, that is. My best friends, who know my presence as well as I know theirs.