Prologue III – October


The Poet.

The poet led his friend across the courtyard-wishing he could only just hold her hand. The emotions of an artist swirled through his head as he longed for the soft, warm touch of her hand in his. He took her past the clock tower, remembering how it had fascinated her upon her arrival.
     He had hated that clock, with its irritating chimes and bells and such, but upon seeing her face light up when stepping into view had taught him to consider things a little differently. He could then see the brilliance of the golden face when the sun reflected off of it. He could listen for the musicality in the hourly chimes that served as the school bells. Because of her, it now reminded him of his poetry.
     Only, on this day, rain was falling and the courtyard was free of students and faculty. The poet had always found rain to be inspirational on days where every other soul would dread and mope. She was another like him, one that enjoyed the company of raindrops over the company of people. They wouldn't disappoint her, insult her, hurt her, or him.
     "Can we talk?" she had been walking slower than he, which he assumed was her way of savoring the feel of the rain on her skin. She grabs onto the poet's hand and pulls him towards the clock tower. She stopped just inside of the rainfall's reach.
     The poet glances down at his hand in hers, heart pounding against the bars of his ribcage. His mouth grew dry and his thoughts swirled. "Um…" he glanced up to check the time, since he no longer wore the Rolex watch his father had given him a few years back. "Sure…" he turned to look at her face, into her eyes, so that he could absorb the emotions that inspired him more than rain or a clock. "What's up?"
     She squeezed his hand, then released it, stepping backwards into the shelter of the clock tower's gait. It shielded her from the rain, but her hair was still pinned against her face with the moisture. She wiped the rainwater from her face.
     The poet took a step closer. When she took one of equal size back, he remained where he was. He said her name quietly, paused, then continued. "What is it? Something's wrong…" He spit rainwater out of his mouth like one would while taking a shower: casually, like an exhaled breath.
     She whispered his name, and that's when he realized that she was crying. It was the first time he had ever seen her shed tears, despite the hard time she had since her arrival. She retreated into her sleeve, sobbing into the fabric. She turned her back on him.
     The poet, a compassionate young man, stepped up the stairs onto the base platform of the clock tower. When she did not recoil, he strode closer to her. He murmured her name like soft singing on a warm spring wind. He was a merciful man; he pitied her and her troubles. "What is it? What's wrong?" he was behind her, whispering in her ear with his cool minty breath, like any other wishful romantic. He wanted her to notice him in that way.
     The chill of winter lingered in the mid-spring air. She appeared cold, shivering insider her skin and coat, while he was out in a tee-shirt, holding a hoodie in one hand, and a stack of books in the other. Slowly and cautiously-as if expecting her to lash out at him-he wrapped the sweatshirt around her torso from behind, and the shivering ceased. She spun around to face him, a look of shock and confusion on her face.
     "It's this!" she threw out her arms in a general gesture, as if to answer his question. "All of this!" there was such hysteria, such sadness, such fury in her tone. "I can't deal with this." She retreated into the comfort of her hands, her sleeves, his sleeves once more and turned away.
     The poet's voice was soft, reasonable. He understood. "Just one more year," he repeated her name as if it were sweet caramel on his tongue. "You can survive one more year, yes?" Tears were in his voice with no hint in his eyes. Tears of betrayal.
     "I… I…" she spun around and buried her face into his shoulder. Her body quaked with sobs, and the poet could feel the hot droplets of salty water seep through his sleeve and into a fresh cut just above his collar bone. When he flinched, she drew back, her face tear-stained and her eyes red. "I can't stay here."
     "What?" It didn't register in his artistic brain. His mind was not accustomed to the harshness of reality. He took several steps back, missing the top step from the base of the tower to the grassy turf below. He toppled backwards into the mud, but made no move to get up. He merely gaped at her, the pain of her betrayal clear in his jade eyes.
     His hair was wet and dripping, his clothes slick and brown with mud, but he didn't care. He could feel the mud beneath him tremor with the tolling of the tower's clock. Class will have just begun, but they weren't going to class-neither of them.
     "What do you mean you can't stay? You have to stay!" He quickly scrambled to his feet-or tried to-and ended up face flat in the same mud puddle he had just attempted to rise from. He spit out the murky semi-liquid and wiped his face and eyes on his arm, letting the rain, which was steadily becoming a downpour, wash it from his skin. "What'll I do without you…?" he was giving into the "grief gland" as he called it-the thing that makes you cry.
     "What do you mean?" she began to descend the stairs, closer to him. "You did just fine without me-better even." She hurled the words at him, and each stung like it were a physical object hitting him.
     "You'd be surprised," he mumbled, chin tucked into his chest, "how people can change for the better in a worse situation…" He spread out his legs for support, then slowly raised his gaze until his stare was fixed upon her mud-caked shoes.
      For a while, all both of them could hear was the sound of rain being hurled against stone and slate and roof material. The poet could hear the sound of his rage boiling in his ears. His heartbeat was erratic and his breathing was ragged. He could feel the same wrath that had lead to the shattering of a fourth-story window.
     "I have to go… My plane leaves in two hours, and I need to pack." She shouldered past him, forgetting to return the sweatshirt, as the sound of her feet sloshing in the mucky ground faded away.
     He sobbed, falling to his knees to the earth, letting the rain dance on his head and back as he cried. "What an idiot I've been!" He sniffed. "I shouldn't have let her leave." He pounded his head with the heel of his hand chanting, "Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!"
     With the raindrops as his only company, the poet moped and cried and sobbed and insulted himself, blaming the whole circumstance on his stupidity under the scrutinizing gaze of the monolithic clock tower.