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Chapter One - Elise
March bit with all its teeth. It was midterm season here on campus, the air rife with a cocktail of pre-celebration elation and existential dread. Snow clung to my Docs as I trudged to class, breath hanging in the air like a phantom.
Echoing halls led to a deserted classroom, the door creaking like a haunted house as I gained entry. I liked to be early in every sense. Gave me some time to myself.
Although even I occasionally succumbed to the comforts of my mattress, and so I’d debated whether I should just stay in bed and rush over at the last minute. I’d finally ended up deciding it was best to arrive early, so I would already be where I was needed.
I liked to sit in the back. A habit I picked up in high school. Short and overweight, with thick glasses and a passion for learning, I was a prime target for bullying, by both boys and girls. The jocks and cheerleaders were the worst. They always stuck together and moved in packs like a pride of lions, instilling fear in all they encountered.
The only ones they left alone were the small gaggle of metalheads on the fringes of most groups. Only about ten strong with their full numbers, their reputation preceded them, and not even the linebackers wanted to take the risk.
Checking the orange plastic seat for subtle threats, primarily rogue thumbtacks, I settled in and waited for the fun to begin.
“Foucault was a nut,” Amber objected as she sat down beside me.
“That’s what they always say about people who are right,” countered Thorne, AKA Hawthorne Gray, flanking my right.
“Elise, what do you think?” Amber said, dragging me into the fray.
“Yeah, Vaughn, you’re smart, educate this philistine on the Post-Modern truth.”
It was the first time I’d hear my name in the same sentence as ‘post-modern truth’ and I wasn’t sure how much I liked the association.
“Truth, my ass,” Amber laughed, “had you read post-modernism past your darling Foucault, you would know that there is not set truth, and we live in a meaningless universe.”
“Can’t argue with that,” I agreed.
“Oh, you’re with Camus are, ya,” Thorne accused.
“More than Foucault? Yeah, I am, mostly because Camus is less likely to cause a dark, echoing void of despair. The entire idea behind The Myth of Sisyphus was to argue against suicide. Foucault almost seems to encourage it with his froth and blather about power structures.”
Thorne honestly looked like he was going to cry. Foucault had long been a hero of his, almost a father figure. His books and philosophy the main way he coped after his father left. All three of us had lost a parent in one way or another, it was part of how we became friends.
“What do you know anyway? You’re an English major, you know nothing of philosophy.”
“Right, the fact that most of the most famous philosophy books were written as novels makes no difference at all,” Amber snarked.
Thorne just crossed his arms and silently fumed as he always did when he knew he had been beaten, particularly by Amber. I’d have thought he would be used to it by now, though, honestly. And considering the way he felt about her, I’d almost started to wonder if he just liked it.
The class trickled in, filling each of the seats until none remained, like a reverse game of musical chairs. When the last butt was in the final seat, the professor came in as though they had rehearsed. Though, it had more to do with Dr. Palahniuk’s near military regimentation. You could literally set your watch by him.
Our discussion more or less continued, only through the mouth of the good doctor, who mostly seemed to agree with my way of thinking.
It was a simple but powerful idea, at its heart inherently optimistic. I tried to take it onboard. Maybe then I might be able to relax a bit. What a wonderful day that would be.
Classroom to dorm room made for very little change, except on the odd occasions when I managed to sleep. My record to that point was five hours at once. It could have just been stress, but was more likely the caffeine pills. Basically a requirement to hold an A average with a full course load. Particularly with the reading involved.
The only mercy to be found was that my grades were basically my job, thanks to my scholarship, and I didn’t have to hold down a job as well. Amber and Thorne weren’t so lucky.
The camera came on, showing an image of myself like a digital mirror. Even as a ‘child of the digital age’ it felt a bit odd.
The vlog was part of my screenwriting class project. The idea was to document the entire process from beginning to end, while also writing the script. Getting some nuts-and-bolts experience of filmmaking while trying to create the basis for one. The professor had been a bit iffy about letting an English major into the course, but I convinced her to let me do a preliminary knowledge exam, in which she basically fired questions at me in her office for an hour.
