"Sometimes I have the strangest feeling about you. Especially when you are near me as you are now. It feels as though I had a string tied here under my left rib where my heart is, tightly knotted to you in a similar fashion. And when you go, I am af...
"Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same" - Emily Bronte
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• e l l i s o n •
Early mornings are something I detest. Why must one wake up before the sun does? It is absurd, I tell you. The sun should be there to greet me in the morning, not be hiding — awaiting its turn to roam the sky.
Unfortunately for me, here I stand — with Jax of course — at 08:12 am, in the administrative office at Oxford. The architecture of this school is really something else. Wood flooring fills the office building, and large paintings — apparently from the art graduates — line the sky high walls. I'm pulling at the hem of my white blouse, when a tap on my shoulder notifies me of Jax's return.
"Here ya go sis." He passes me a piece of paper, my timetable. "Since you are an English major, and I business, we only have foreign language together. Please do not talk to anyone. If you need anything, find me as soon as possible." I nod my head at Jax, feeling like a two year old getting scolded for steeling biscuits from the countertop.
"Your first class is actually just around the corner from here, umm Shakespeare literature I believe." Jax places two hands on my shoulders, then quickly pulls me into a hug. Despite being a little irritated at his words, my arms find a place around his waist. I feel a gentle kiss in my hair, and he lets out a big sigh. "You know I love you Ellie. Dad and I just want you to stay as safe as possible. I couldn't imagine my life without you."
With another forehead peck, along with a smile and a few words of assurance from me, Jax and I walk our separate ways.
♤♤♤
Third period language studies was an absolute joke. Never, in all of my nineteen years, have I seen a person so incompetent when it comes to the art of literature. To be completely honest, all three of my professors thus far have been outright imbeciles!
Every professor thought it be hilarious to treat us as if we were Year 7 delinquents who do not know the difference between Poe and Shakespeare. Going at a pace slower than a snail against a rabbit, I completed all the required homework given, not even five minutes after received.
Oxford was supposed to be a challenge for me. This university has been nothing short of my life goal since I was able to read Sonnet 55 — which was at roughly age 6. Literature is in my blood. Those countless hours I was locked inside my Kensington home, every book imaginable had been reread and annotated, and pages upon pages of parchment were filled with my ink.
Shrugging my school bag upon my shoulders, my feet take me towards the school's dining hall. The tall, cathedral like, building is quite impressive. Looking somewhat like a huge Catholic Church, my dainty, baby pink nail colored, fingers, push open the door.
