Never Forever Read Free

school, then home to my flat and well needed rest. The marathon my body is going through takes everything out of me. But this is my perfect situation, where I need to be right now. No pain, no memories, just living in the middle of life, where nothing on the outside can reach me. I have found my safe spot – until today.
    Walking into my English class a word is written up on the board in large letters, TRAGEDY. A swarm of stinging bees vibrates within my stomach. A tingling sensation races through my hands and feet like fire ants consuming them. What in the hell can we be doing already? We have been studying English writers from the Romanticism period. I know the way they wrote placed a heavy influence on their imagination and emotions. But, I am not ready for this subject just yet. If only I was still feeling sick to my stomach, I could leave, but I haven’t felt sick in days and I lack the nerve to try and sneak out. A boisterous discussion reverberates all around me as to what our lecture is going to entail today.
    A deep boom echoes from the front of the room, “That’s enough! Everyone, take a seat,” our professor yells as he slams one of the books down on his desk.
    I have discovered over the past few weeks our professor is very matter of fact in the way he addresses his lectures. The technique he has mastered matches his appearance. His starched, pressed shirt is tucked into his crisp, clean khakis, while his trim, dark hair is slicked back impeccably. Everything is planned, even down to his flawlessly polished shoes. His middle-aged appearance marries beautifully with his speech. He enunciates every syllable with a posh, crisp British accent. Each lecture he has given has been void of emotions. Perhaps whatever he has planned will not be too bad, considering his flat approach to everything.
    Slouching comfortably into my seat, I gaze around at the classmates rushing feverishly to prepare for the impending discussion. Everyone but Callum Hughes opens their bags for some sort of writing instrument and paper. Callum simply pulls out a pen and folded piece of paper from his blazer pocket. He nonchalantly places them in front of him. There is a lackadaisical attitude in his efforts towards any note-taking in class, yet he has one of the highest grades in our class, so far. It’s not fair how his grades seem to come easy to him while I have to work hard in my classes just to stay afloat. I have been observing his natural charismatic skills on everyone, charming them – including Mr. Bramble. His friends naturally gravitate to him like he’s a superstar. His appearance screams natural good looks, with his thick brown hair and tall, athletic body. Even this building is named after his father. Not to be rude, but what can Callum possibly know of tragedy?
    Professor Bramble pulls a stack of old novels from his briefcase and lays them on the table. These tattered leather books have definitely come from a different era in time. The bindings have seen better days, with deep cracks revealing the mesh beneath the leather. I’m surprised the pages are still hanging in there.
    “Now that I have your attention, can someone explain to me why I have brought these books to my lecture today?” Professor Bramble asks, while stroking the top of the stack of antique books.
    Silence falls over the classroom, and I can almost hear the wheels in everyone’s head spinning. Someone finally raises their hand, “Is it because we are studying writings from that era?”
    “No, but that was an adequate attempt Ms. Locke. Would anyone else like to try at a more developed answer?”
    A pulsating sour taste rises up from my nauseous stomach. My heart pounds against my chest like a sledge-hammer trying to break through. Slowly I raise my hand, not quite sure why I am doing this. I had successfully made myself inconspicuous, but what I am about to do will destroy all of that. I can’t sit here any longer while the answer is completely obvious