Methis’s POV
The morning sun painted a soft glow across the walls of my apartment, a gentle reminder of a new day that, for some reason, felt heavy with the weight of recent events. As I rose from my bed, the sense of normalcy I sought eluded me, replaced by a nagging unease that lingered beneath the surface of my consciousness. Today marked a departure from the usual routine of work, offering the semblance of a regular school day, though the shadows of the extraordinary still clung to the edges of my thoughts.
I made my way through the familiar streets to school, the city around me bustling with activity that now felt distant and detached. The vibrant chatter of students, once a comforting symphony, now seemed like an echo of a time when my life wasn't overshadowed by the complexities of my new reality.
Entering the classroom, I attempted to engage Sophia, my best friend, in conversation, seeking a connection that could bridge the growing gap between us.
“Hi, Sophia,” I greeted.
Sophia turned around to stare blankly at me. “What, Methis?” she replied me coldly.
On a normal day, that was supposed to be the biggest surprise ever but surprisingly, or perhaps unsparingly, it did not shock me in the least. Rather, it struck me as something that I ought to have seen coming. Regardless, the sting of rejection still hurts all the same. Like a knife poking then piercing deep into your heart. It felt like what betrayal was supposed to feel like but maybe it was just her mood. Maybe I just needed to make her comfortable.
“How are things going?” I asked.
“Fine,” Sophia replied.
There was silence as we walked down the street of the school.
“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” I said causally.
Sophia stopped and turned to look me in the eye. “What is it that you want?”
“Come on, Sophia. Aren’t we friends?” I asked.
“Friends? Is that what you call sending your lover after my brother?”
“What? What are you talking about? I had nothing to do with their fight.”
“I don’t want to hear anything about it, alright?”
“Sophia. You need to let me explain what I have to say.”
“What do you have to say?”
“More than just ‘it was not my fault.’” I try to make her understand.
Sophia rolled her eyes. “Of course. It’s always the Methis way. Blaming everyone but yourself is a classic strategy. It has worked on me for years. Save it.”
She walked away. Sophia's curt response left me standing there, feeling a sudden chill in the warmth of our shared history.
The English Literature classroom exuded the familiar scent of well-worn books, and the soft rustling of pages created a comforting symphony. Mrs. Thompson, an ardent enthusiast of classic literature, embarked on a passionate exploration of Shakespearean sonnets.
As she delved into the intricate beauty of iambic pentameter, my gaze drifted beyond the classroom's walls. The words spoken were mere echoes, drowned out by the cacophony of my own thoughts. The window framed a world I felt increasingly detached from—the world where everyday worries were confined to the pages of textbooks.
Mrs. Thompson's voice became a distant murmur as I sank into contemplation. The beauty of the verses intertwined with the chaotic threads of my own narrative. I found myself caught in a dance between the lyrical elegance of Shakespeare's words and the harsh reality that had become my existence.
Unbeknownst to me, Mrs. Thompson posed a question, her eyes fixed on the horizon of my distant gaze. The sudden silence in the room pulled me back to the present. The question hung in the air, a challenge that demanded a response. My classmates turned their expectant eyes toward me, awaiting insight into a realm I had momentarily abandoned.
“Is there something we are thinking about Miss Delis?” the teacher asked.
“No, ma,” I said.
“So why the blanking out?”
“I’m so sorry, ma.”
“You have better behave yourself. This new attitude of yours should not let you fall short of your achievements when you are just a few months away from it. Now do us a favour and attempt the question.”
Stammering through a feeble attempt at an answer, I struggled to bridge the chasm between the realms of Shakespearean sonnets and the supernatural tapestry that now defined my life. Mrs. Thompson's gaze lingered, a mixture of curiosity and concern etched on her features. The classroom, once a sanctuary of literary exploration, had become a battleground where the clash of worlds left me questioning my place in both.
The day unfolded with a heavy heart as I navigated through classes, the weight of recent events pulling at the seams of my composure. The once-familiar subjects became a blur, lost in the labyrinth of my thoughts. I mechanically took notes and participated in discussions, but my mind was elsewhere, trapped in the maze of contemplation.
The drone of lectures became a distant hum, drowned out by the cacophony of unanswered questions and unspoken turmoil. As the teacher's voice melded into background noise, I found myself retracing the events that led to this disorienting moment in my life. The disconnection from my peers, the unravelling of friendships, and the unfamiliar territory of the supernatural world—all danced through my mind, eclipsing the academic rigors that once demanded my full attention.
The laughter and camaraderie that once filled the corridors now seemed like distant echoes, drowned out by the silence of solitude. Each classroom change marked another step into an uncertain future, the hallways echoing with footsteps that felt out of sync with the rhythm of the life I once knew.
“METHIS!” one of my lecturers boomed my name from down the corridor.
I turned and walked over to her.
“I know sometimes life is tough,” she began. “You really don’t have to tell me everything that is going on but you don’t have to face it alone either.” I stared at her, wondering where she was going. “That’s why I have written you up for the counselor today.”
My eyes bulged open. It was a policy in the university that staff could write someone up for a mandatory counselor session if they found that they were not OK and did not want to accept it, or just did not know they were unwell. I wonder which category I fell under.
I walked over to the counselor’s office and took my seat.
The counselor walked in soon after. “Someone was being naughty, weren’t they?” he glanced at me. “Miss Delis, I had not expected you to be here.”
“Me too,” I replied him.
“So what’s the problem?”
“You tell me; I have no idea what I am being called up for.”
“Alright, let’s do it like this. What is bothering you eh?”
“Nothing is bothering me.”