No Pills

The blood on her hands

Trigger warning!
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Charlie's P.O.V

"... new school, new life..."

Sydney's words replay in my head as the secretary beckons me in, again.

And for the second time, I don't bat an eyelash. She cusses about how obnoxious I am, the principal's door slamming shut behind her.

It opens again to reveal Principal Hills herself. She looks quite intimidating, with her boyishly cut blonde hair and suit. I wonder if she's going to chastise me.

"If Mohammed doesn't go to the mountain, the mountain will come to Mohammed," she smiles.

I blink.
I'm not Mohammed, and you are not a mountain.

The silence that settles gets unbearable for her; she sighs and gives me the details concerning my admission. There are fifty prospective students but vacancies for only seven, so I have to write entrance exams. I am told to stick around the school for the exam timetable.

"While you wait, you can walk around but not too far," she adds as an afterthought. I smile at how much faith she has in me not getting lost.

Classes are in session for seniors and juniors, while the other classes are empty. I'll be a sophomore. My soon-to-be classmates are in the cafeteria.

I plug my earphones in for the audio of Quantum physics for dummies to drown out my surroundings. Navigating this unfamiliar terrain, dressed in my neatly pressed white t-shirt and polished oxfords, I feel like a fish out of water. My effort to look like everyone else was disrupted by Sydney's insistence that the weather was too warm for a long-handed shirt, so I will be odd if I try to dissolve into the crowds of students effortlessly roaming the campus with their self-aware gaits.

Hesitant steps carry me, my gaze darting nervously from one class to another.

Each passing moment only intensifies my longing for the scent of polished wood and aged books, the hushed whispers echoing through towered corridors, and the unanimous camaraderie shared during chapel prayers. As I pass by certain places where students are gathered - the closed-off pool area, the spacious cafeteria, and even the classes I glance at through the door windows - a wave of apprehension grips me. I feel like an intruder, an unwelcome presence interrupting their seemingly effortless social dynamics. Laughter and animated conversations fill the air, creating a vibrant tapestry I doubt I can fit into.

In the hushed corners of my mind, memories play like a montage - a spirited game of rugby, the whispered confessions in the dormitory, the whispered Latin phrases uttered during Mass. Sil. Sil, in every expanse of our universe, in every phone call the nuns allow. Sil, telling me to quiet the other desperate boys queued behind me and me, replying that it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter.

So long as I can hear your voice, Sil, it doesn't matter.

The only apparent merits so far are that their field is smaller - hence, a less chance of doing knee-crippling laps -, no extremely buff lads to hurl me into a trash container overnight, and Harry is here. He thrived in St. John's, so I'm expecting to find his face on a poster or two with something along the lines of "superstar extraordinaire " printed underneath.