The Secrets Within Pages

Reminiscing

Rain had glazed the windows, its melodious tapping waking me, its beauty preparing me for the later discomfort and perhaps grief. Peeling myself from the bed, my legs lug my body to the bathroom forcing myself to get ready for Osbourne's funeral. Considering I didn't anticipate many funerals, I hadn't packed a variety of choices when moving. Sweeping my hair into an updo, I dress in the only appropriate piece I owned- a small black dress that I paired with sheer stockings. I'd attended very few funerals in my life, let alone one I wasn't even sure I should be attending. Osbourne was a good man. He was a phenomenal teacher, who grasped the interest of any who were priveleged enough to interact with him. He took the ignorance of many as a catalyst for creation. He created art where others saw nothing. I admired him immensely- longed to impress him, to acquire his approval when none did. As much as he was brilliant he was just as critical, but I suppose that is a universal trait in English teachers. He undoubtedly transformed me as a student. When I met him I was merely metal that he wielded into a blade. And in that process, he took a particularly liking to another student whom was a dangerous weapon threatening my position.

Silas Golding.

"And so I propose a profound question to you all, were Romeo and Juliet truly in love?" Professor's gravelly voice asked, scanning the room only to look at myself and... him.

I thought for a moment. If I were asked this a couple years ago in Year 10 English class, I would've said no. And just as I was in the midst of preparing an articulate answer, he interrupts.

"They were in love with freedom. With the idea that loving each other would perhaps allow them to escape the shackles of their families. That, with the convenience and lust they felt, as they were only teenagers, meant that they were not truly in love." He expressed with ease as he toyed with a pen in his hand and that smirk that never seemed to leave his face, the one I'd imagined slapping off him. Professor nodded his head knowingly.

Without missing a beat I opened my mouth, not thinking or having prepared a proper answer.

"Although all the aforementioned are true to an extent. It goes deeper than that, I believe. Because yes, in the beginning it may have been just the heat of the moment and the rebellion that enticed them. However, as the play progressed, it was explicit in their language. In the way they expressed themselves and most of all their actions. Going to the lengths of poisoning oneself for another, is not what I'd call 'lusting for them or searching for escapism'. They did it because they did truly, consumingly love each other. In a way that destroyed them, yes, but it was real and true." I finished, looking at Silas with a challenging expression.

At that, a small smile crept up Osbourne's face and a proud nod. I couldn't stop the whispered sigh of relief that escaped me nor the flush that dared paint my cheeks.

"Before you leave, I'll give you back the papers you submitted." Osbourne announces.

Packing my bag, I brush away any nervousness and walk down to his desk to receive my results. Professor hands me the paper. I grip it too eagerly, too anxiously.

95%

A wide, ear to ear grin appears on my face.

"Perhaps if you applied the same level of analysis you exhibited today, you would've received a better mark, Burroughs." A deep voice from behind advised.

"What's happened, Golding? Didn't appreciate me contradicting you? Careful, your turning green and I'm afraid jealousy isn't your colour." I mocked, fluttering my eyelashes to irk him some more.

"Well, if you say so, love." He affirmed, giving me his paper that I snatch from his hand.

98%

If I spoke of my murderous tendencies I dream of fulfilling on him aloud, prison would be a mercy. He fills me with a rage I don't know how to exact other than by pushing myself to the brim of exhaustion and beat him in the next assignment.

With a swift movement he takes his paper back and quips, "Careful, darling. Jealousy isn't your colour."

Frustration isn't a powerful enough word to encompass the gravity of what I feel.

I spent the rest of that evening, questioning Osbourne to the point of exhaustion- for him not me. Asking how to better my marks and if my selection of quotes was substantial, writing and rewriting sentences, and urging him to explain in excruciating detail how to refine my skills. Until he fashioned a poor excuse to, no doubt, break free of my grip. Despite that, I went to the library and worked well into the night.

Maybe I did have to go to the funeral, to apologise for all the headaches I must've given him in his lifetime.