Nevermore

I don't think any other word but- crazy, truly encapsulates how memories feel. How safe yet painful it is to remember the past, how much you love the little puzzle pieces of your life that hide in your subconscious, only revealing themselves after being triggered by a certain smell or place or person and just when you least expect it.

It was exactly how I hoped it would be, exactly how it is every year. I climb up the stairs to the higher level of the library and lean against the rail as I listen to each performer. My favorite part of the whole night was looking at people's faces when the poetry was recited. You could tell from the furrow of their brow, their slight smile, the angle of their body as they lean into the words- the melody of the syllables. They were no longer here, they were in between the stanzas, folded in the letters. As I search their faces, my eye catches an older gentleman on a wheelchair, outside the crowd of the audience- somewhat lurking in the shadows of the bookshelves, yet listening in.

My brows stitched in confusion, eyes squinting in skepticism.

What was he doing here?

I don't know who was performing, for all my attention was stolen by the man in the wheelchair but I heard the poem of choice, 'The Raven'.

"Once upon a midnight dreary,"

Slowly, the warm lamps began to distinguish of their flame, only the candles offering light.

My head whips to the ceiling as my eyes scan the building.

The sound of oohs and ahhs pull me back- it must be part of the performance, many enjoyed going the extra mile and manipulating the elements of drama.

I look to the man in the wheelchair, head lifted and permanently tattooed frown on full display as he listens, completely unfazed by the dramatics.

"While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door."

A ripple of knocks vibrated through the walls, under the floor.

I grasp the rail as books tumble from their shelves, heightening the chaos of the knocking sounds, a tumultuous symphony.

"Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;— This it is and nothing more."

Boomed the voice of the performer, echoing throughout the library.

Again, laughs and awe inspired praises entwine together but are overpowered by the raucous.

"Darkness there and nothing more."

Black.

Lights out.

Nothing but murmurs, whispers- intrigue.

Worry cradled me, the claws of fear daring to slash me.

"Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;— 'Tis the wind and nothing more!"

The windows fling open.

Cold, bitter tendrils of wind slice through the warmth of the room.

Howling and whistling, a haunting lullaby.

Desperately, I scramble to the staircase but not before-

"Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,"

A blinding, bright, spotlight shines on me- I halt.

"In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore"

All at once, all eyes on me.

Eager faces, engaged smiles.

Squinting, I raise my arm to shield from the harsh rays.

I snap my head to the man in the wheelchair-

A tall, dark, slender figure stands near him.

I peer closer to see his face but its no use when the fate of this night lay in the hands of the unknown.

The light ceases.

"Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore".

I block out the crowd, forcing my ears to discern the conversation of the two men.

"See to it, what I say is done." One commands.

"Sir, they'll never believe-" The other counters.

"Hide it. That is all I ask."

I rush down the stairs, though the bookshelves.

"Bravo!" Yells a woman.

"Well done!" Congratulates a man.

The audiences descends into applause, praising the performer as the lights turn back on.

I rush down the stairs.

And they're gone.

Vanished.

I sprint outside-

Nothing.

~~~

Never believe a story unless you have all perspectives.

A group of friends turned family.

Now only two remain while the other two lay underground, with what I suspect are untold secrets that took them.

It occurs to me the gravity of the situation. What was he doing there? Where did he go? Who was that man with him and what were they speaking about?

He was an impossible man to speak with but I was just as stubborn. Secrets, lies, death- A nauseous feeling settles in my stomach, one that I thought was leaving. My brain, a muddle of uncertainty as I plunk myself on a chair and scramble to search for anything I don't already know about the class of 89', specifically Waylen Chamberlain.

I shuffle the mouse and click away but nothing other than articles upon articles of his achievements appear.

"Ah Waylen Chamberlain. Impressive fella he was." Sounds the croaky voice of Madam Rosebury.

"Yes. Yes, he was Madam." I reply, meeting her gaze. She was wrapped in a cosy cardigan, large spectacles grazing the tip of her nose. "Did you know him?"

"Know him? I fancied the lot of those literature boys when I was a student here." She chuckles.

I blink away my surprise. "You studied here too?!"

"Ofcourse I did! Only you would know that if you asked." She replies with mock offense.

"Oh you know I wouldn't be where I am without your expert help in this library." I say, buttering her up.

"Oh hush." She smiles. "Yes, I studied history here and graduated the very year Osbourne and his gang did. God, I remember how jealous I was of that Vivian Wu, she had that Vincent and Gael on their toes."

I cease my use of the computer, shifting my body to face her completely.

"But that Waylen had me irrevocably in love. He never noticed me ofcourse, but nonetheless I fell for him. He was the epitome of intellect. You could imagine my grief when I found out what happened to him."

"Yes, his accident." I reiterate, solemnly.

"Accident? Sure." She raises her brows, unconvinced.

I shoot her a look of curiosity. "What do you mean?"

She looks at me, almost regretting what she said. I cock my brows, urging her to respond. "Oh its nothing, just my silly conspiracies. I was lovestruck, what do I know?"

I shake my head, "No, Madam. Please, what do you know?"

She bites her lip, "Oh alright." She pulls a chair and sits down, "That day, I had plucked up the courage to visit Waylen and congratulate him on valedictorian and confess my love. Since we graduated, it was unlikely I'd ever see him again. But when I reached his dorm, the door was open and he wasn't there. I go inside to see his suitcase half-packed. I had heard he was going abroad on a highly prestigious apprenticeship but I didn't anticipate his departure so quickly. Nevertheless, I leave, upset that I didn't catch him. On my out, I hear yelling and shouting atop the Radcliffe."

My brows stitch in anticipation, in worry. She continues, "It was Waylen. Arguing with Gael as Vincent tried to mediate between them. I was too far to hear what was happening. But one thing led to another and they got into a brawl."

I hold her hands tight. "What happened then, Madam?"

Tears glazed her eyes.

"He didn't fall. Did he, Rosebury?"

She shakes her head slowly.

"Gael pushed him."

I inhale deeply. The revelation lingering in the air, heavy and thick.

I don't ask why she didn't say anything for all these years. I don't say anything.

No. Professor Osbourne could never.

"I'll never forget him wailing in pain, paralysed on the ground. It was a lament. A lament for all he lost because even in that moment of physical pain, he knew what the rest of his life would look like. He was a realist never an optimist." She remembered, sniffling.

And now he's a cynic- And I didn't blame him.

I see the pain and the regret swirling in her eyes. Despite never knowing him properly, she cared for him deeply.

Wordlessly, I embrace her.

"Thank you, Madam." I say, gratefully.

I didn't care how much he didn't want to see me.

There was only one person I was visiting tonight.