Incandescence

03: Paranoia

He wasn't there when I returned to my dorm after dinner that evening. As I settled down on my bed, book in hand, I kept expecting him to appear at the window, Scream movie style. When I got dressed for school this morning I waited for him to jump out from under the bed, chuckling at his own wit. But he didn't. Whatever I said yesterday, it clearly bothered him. Mason hasn't shown since.

            Now, sitting wearily in Spanish class and feeling like a zombie myself, I struggle to concentrate on the day's lesson as a result. The time on the class clock reads 3.47. Only thirteen minutes left to endure . . .

            "Joshua," Señora Livingston barks, setting her sights on a boy at the back of the room. "Pay attention, or else you can spend an hour after the bell rewriting classwork in detention."

            Nothing much passes the aging Spanish teacher's eyes. She's like a hawk, forever vigilant, always ready to swoop down on unsuspecting prey. It's miraculous I've managed not to cross her slacker-spotting radar for this long. Discreetly, I tuck the scrap paper I've secretly been doodling on under my notebook, and attempt to focus on my work. It's no use, however. Everything around me is a dreary haze. The face of the boy seated beside me wavers when I turn his way; the vivid vocab posters taped to the creamy walls are a kaleidoscopic blur; even my notes, or lack thereof, seem to distort on the lined page.

            Sleep, it appears, is catching up on me.

            The moment Señora Livingston returns to her desk and presses play on a listening tape, I tune out once again, my eyes absently training on the door, where they remain for the rest of the lesson. When the bell rings I am out of my seat in a flash – miraculously fast, given my current sleep-deprived state – darting down the corridors, up the stairs with athletic speed until I reach my dorm.

            My vacant dorm.

            Everything is as I left it this morning. Clothes scattered across the rug, bed unmade, curtains drawn. It's a good thing Annie hasn't been on her rounds yet, as she would have no doubt collapsed from the shock of the mess. I take a step inside, probing the room for evidence he's been here over the last several hours. But there isn't any. Suddenly, a little shut-eye doesn't sound so appealing anymore. Instead of collapsing on the bed as my heart very much desires, I take off once more, wandering aimlessly through the halls with no direction, no purpose. I end up standing outside the library on the third floor of the castle, purely by fault. Now I'm here, however, I can't resist going inside.

            Libraries, they're like a second home to me. Ever since the age of three, where Aunt Marian, my mother's sister, used to take me along with her each weekend to the local one in town, I've been in love with them. When she moved east I kept up the ritual of spending my Saturday mornings buried in the library's confinements. Whether it's the books themselves, the rich, almost musty aroma they give off or the memories of my loving aunt I associate with them, they've always been a favourite place of mine.

            This library is no exception. I often find myself up here; it's a place of sanctuary. A safe haven. Pushing open the double doors, I step inside. It's a huge room, nearly twice the size of the auditorium, filled with towering rows upon rows of mahogany bookshelves. The gleaming chandeliers and ingrained brick hearth give the room a cosy, traditional feel, while the computer labs running down the right-hand side of the room bring about a contrasting air of modernism.

           Confident in my footsteps, I set off towards the back of the hall, where several long wooden tables are scattered around, with the low lighting and desk-lamps providing a makeshift study area.  A dozen or so students are dotted about, silent, heads either buried in books or buried in homework. Any other time I would be thinking, It's a Friday, why in hell are you doing homework? But at the moment I can't blame them. I'm not exactly getting that Friday feeling, either.