charlie dalton 𝒙 reader

xvii. HOPE IS A THING WITH FEATHERS

CHAPTER SEVENEEN!
( HOPE IS A THING WITH FEATHERS. )

   THE ADMINISTRATION KNEW about the club. They knew names, they knew details, and they wanted more. They wanted all the club members to come speak to Mr. Nolan with their families.

Violet was chewing at her nails, staring nervously at the wooden door. You stared at the ceiling. You were nervous, but anger overtook that. At this point you couldn't find it in yourself to care what your parents thought about the club, and you certainly didn't care what Nolan thought of you. He was desperately trying to pin Neil's death on Keating, and that made you mad.

You had been sitting in the dorm room for what felt like days. The air smelled stale, the bedsheets felt cold and rough. The walls looked more beige than ever, and you found yourself hating the stupid wooden furniture that leaned against the walls.

"I hate this place," you stated. Not really to Violet, not to yourself. Just to the stuffy, grey air. "I hate it."

Violet didn't say a word. She was preoccupied with her own thoughts. You looked over to see her glancing between the clock and the door. Her usually sparkling eyes looked dull and anxious.

"You okay?" you asked.

"It just feels so hopeless. I mean, it wasn't Keating's fault, and now he's gonna have to take the fall for something so terrible. I just wish I could change things but I can't. I'm gonna have to go in there and face my parents and Nolan. I can't stop thinking about what my parents will think. I know I shouldn't worry about that but I can't help it," Violet said softly.

You sighed and stood up. You stepped over to your desk and pulled a purple book out of a stack of textbooks. You leaned against the wall and flipped open to a bookmarked page, one that you had read several times.

"Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me," you paused and looked up at Violet to see her with a small smile. It was the first time you'd seen anyone smile since Neil's death. You missed the warmth in people's eyes. "It's gonna be okay," you said. You tried to smile, but it didn't work, it was more like a tight lipped line than a smile.

You glanced back down at the book. Hope is a Thing With Feathers. The words stood out against the white paper. You ran your fingers along the page before slowly tearing it out of the binding. You placed the book back down on your desk, the gold title looking shinier than ever, The Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson.