the-amour-scientia-series

[the-amour-scientia-series]

Two people were talking in the night. I could hear them from our second-floor bedroom window. It meant that they were outside, where the humid summer finally flipped the coin and sent breezes instead of heat waves. Two men. They must have been discussing politics because they didn't argue, only responding in short sentences that I couldn't make out. Other than that, there seemed to be no evident trace of the conversation's direction. They were probably drinking into the night. The white desk lamp was on, but I wasn't at the desk. I stared at my younger sister's note taped to the underside of our double-decker — her brain got maxed out at the freelance essay I asked her help for, and she couldn't finish it. She did an allnighter. Then I stretched her 600 words into 1,500. The note didn't have a date, but that was months ago. My sheets had been changed twice since. Theyre now a faded blue of clip-art stars and suns and stripes, worn out in places where I begged for rest for so many nights  and afternoons. Even as I lay now — it was 1:35am, and the men have become silent — it still eluded me. It could have been a metaphor in itself, rest. You give nine hours to a job that pays the bills, three or so to show people you care about that you're still alive, and about a remaining three to remind yourself you're human. I imagined how easier it must have been to have open those bars at the business district, where hard-ground and regretful employees could scorn the minimum wage and feed their fantasies of resignation with just a few of those colorful shots. But until then, it must have been nice to join those men.

[the-amour-scientia-series]

The lights go out too suddenly. All you now see is your laptop screen, now blinkingly bright, and its pink-and-orange chic lit keyboard. The melodic dubstep is still playong in your ears. You pull the buds off and steady your breathing, listening hard. The winds continue picking up speed. They gust around the house in bursts. They come in more often now than in the past few hours. You hear the endless sound of trees rustling, toads croaking - and the clatter of leaves on hollow metal. And the whistling, whistling wind. A low hum, like the whirr of a mechanical creature being reanimated. Your chest pounds like you've drank a mug of strong coffee. And it wasn't even an exaggeration - you had one that afternoon. You wanted to stay up and sit this storm out. You wanted to feel one with your country as carnage swept through the metropolis. You didn't expect your own power to go out. And as  you blink in the darkness, your siblings scream for you to pull out your beloved wifi. It's the second major storm that passed your city, but the first power outage in your area. Your father - who had been messaging relatives with your mother in their room - tells all you remaining sisters to go to bed. You remain in your workstation by the staircase for the while. The laptop is forcing itself an update - screw it, just turn off. It does at "30% complete". You steady your senses and pick up your phone. It's above 90% - that should hold up for a few days. Right, you haven't taken your night meds. Flashlight on, you traipse down the steps in your thick freebie jacket (which was notably the warmest you had) and old school jogging pants. You knew where it all was. Flashlight on an upper shelf. Perfect - like a lamp. A glass of cold water, mixed with leftover from the thermos. You take a few long gulps. Then your phone slips from the shelf. Your panic spikes - the glass almost slips, spilling water on the counter. And your phone nosedives right into the puddle. As quick as your nerves could allow, you grab the phone and wrap it in your jacket. It's too dark to see where the vulnerable holes were. You profusely rub it, drying it, praying it didn't get damaged. It seems to still be working fine. The flashlight remained on. Eyes straining, you set it on a lower shelf. You grab the nearest hand towel and daub at the puddle before it could cause any more harm. You finish the glass and take another. A pop and a crinkle of breaking foil, and there goes the little tablet on your tongue, then to your throat. It stops there. It usually never did. You down the glass until the irritating tablet slides back. There was no way you'll let yourself choke with these nerves. You drink a few more glasses to seal the deed. You return upstairs. The rest of your family has retired for the night, but your strained eyes havent adjusted to the dark. You make your bed by flashlight, and perch by the edge, listening to the howling wind. Forecast declares as least 200kmph gustiness of the wind, but that was hours before landfall. A BANG at your window - you jump out of your skin. Your sister rushes into your room. She ties down one of your windows with a curtain tie. You grab the nearest string you can find - some pink knotted yarn, and secure the other window. Round and round the metal handles. You hope it holds up, as you resume your post. And you write. The storm's fury continues. Whether the constant whooshing was rain or wind, you couldn't determine. Flashes of lightning, low rumbles of thunder. Gales sweep outside the house like a slap to be bore for shame, and you pray no rooftops or branches come flying towards your house. Across the wall, your neighbors have switched on their ear-splitting, flood-draining pump - the only familiar noise in this chaos - and you tuck yourself in with attempts to fall asleep.  

[the-amour-scientia-series]

“’Shaelton!” Reganilla had called from across the café, when Pietre stopped by to pick up his breakfast. He usually took it in the Library’s back room, where no one could see him and his sketchbooks. Unfortunately, this wasn’t a good day.

Darius Pietre Mishaelton Midford greeted them. “Sir Kian, Ms. Anj.” Reganilla pulled up a chair beside himself. Moran moved her meal aside with a polite “how are you, Pietre?” Kian Lloyd Tobiah Reganilla was a large man, imposing, with grunt work hands and a sternness as required by Organization and Leadership. Anjelica Moran taught at the local Preville Academy for some of their business subjects. Most of the students feared her because of the subject, but for the others, the other way around.

“Same, same, not much.” Pietre didn’t like to think he was deeply involved with the Polytechnic’s academic affairs. Even though he took shifts with Iris and Angelou-Isidra at the library, he wasn’t one to keep abreast of everything happening in the school. And besides, there wouldn’t be anything happening outside that Cathy’s own Industries counselor wasn’t already aware of.

“The archives are really something, eh?” asked Reganilla. He had resumed his meal.

Pietre nodded. “Nonfics are flying off the shelves as usual. I wonder what’s Ms. Anj discussing these days?” He added with a grin.

“Investments. That’s actually great to hear. Can’t have them learning it from smarmy old tycoons.”

“Mhmm,” Reganilla nodded deeply. “Great work on the musicfest, by the way. You got the student council’s secretary up on stage at the open mic. She performed a spoken word.”

“Which one was her?” Moran asked. “The one who talked about extrajudicial killings?”

“No, that was someone else. The sec did a piece about the People Power.”

“Oh that one,” Pietre unwrapped his meal. “That was notable. But it wasn’t completely original.”

“Really? I was thoroughly impressed, too bad.” Moran said.

“It was in response to one of the less popular poems of the period.”

“I see. It was very moving, though,” she quipped.

“Can’t deny.”

They dug into their breakfast for a few moments. Moran was already halfway through, and was occasionally glancing at the table menu of café desserts. But Reganilla’s silence told Pietre that he was ready for a hefty discussion.

He tried to pull up his resolve. His take was for the setups and booth spaces, while Iris was the caterer. She often went the extra mile of creating specially-made treats for the people they hired at events, in case they were amour-inclined. Pietre had to give her more credit for the musicfest’s success. He usually carried out logistics. But outside the Polytechnic’s events, his head was always in the books.

He could’ve tried more than that, really. He had excused himself from the program, and Eleazar stepped in. Somebody always did.

“The open mic,” Reganilla began. “Whoever thought of it was smart.”

“Or amour-inclined,” Moran quipped.

Pietre raised an eyebrow. It had been Angelou-Isidra’s idea, but it was him who casually mentioned it to Eleazar. He hadn’t even expected the Chancellor to consider ir.

“Oh Professor Anjelica, always on the lookout for the enemy,” Reganilla said. “It’s good on you, though. But what I meant is, an open mic would be a good measurement of what our students are currently boggled about. For us to know what we’ve been dying to say, and let them get away with it like it’s all fun.”

It was hard to talk about fun with a forty-year-old academian professor. “Mhmm,” Pietre replied, his mouth stuffed with food. He didn’t know what else to say.

“Free speech is, of course, most conducive to a healthy governance. Not necessarily full-on transparency,” Reganilla stopped himself, glancing pointedly at Moran. “But in forming one’s thoughts before setting them free to affect others. In choosing the right words – that is, of course, developed by academic vocabulary and experience – we can bring the appropriate amount of attention on things that need to be talked about.”

“Indeed, that’s what protests are for.” Moran said.

Reganilla winced. “That’s true, but you know our history. Protests happen almost every month. The systems never change. Hypocrisy is too deeply rooted in our culture, and we need people up there to believe in the work and work for what they believe in.”

“Isn’t that what we’re already doing?” Pietre asked. Moran had excused herself and was at the front counter. “Though I do agree, five students seem to be too few to include in our scholarship program.”

“I don’t think having more scholars is the right way to go,” Reganilla said. “No, that would overwhelm our funding. Maiandra would throw a fit at the idea. I meant that if we could stimulate intellectual discussions among the youth vote, we could really make a difference.”

“A difference in what, exactly?”

Reganilla gave a knowing look as he speared food between his teeth. A silver glint caught Pietre’s eye. “Well,” the professor said. “The senatorial elections are coming up next year.”

“Huh. I thought the Polytechnic took its time.”

“Rest assured, we do. It’s all just a musing on my end, really. I’d bring it up to the Chancellor if something more substantial shows up.”

“Coffee, boys?” Moran suddenly returned with a tray. Three steaming mugs, and a serving rack of the Felix’s choice blend ingredients. Cinnamon, mint, berry slices, and nutmeg, among others in uncovered stashes. A small jug of milk and a bowl of sugar.

“Ms. Anj, you shouldn’t have!” Pietre cried. He had his own wages.

“Psh,” she said. “Sir Kian’s taking care of yours. I lost a bet to him, after all.”

Reganilla grinned as he helped himself to a tankard. “Anjelica said, ‘our network is stronger than ever. No amour associate will be able to set foot in our music fest.’”

Pietre’s salad spoon froze mid-air.

“Of course, we don’t fully blame, you, Mishaelton,” Moran quickly told him. “Preparing scripts and protocols for the welcoming committee, that was a good move against those sweet-tongued snakes. And so was stationing uniformed personnel at the perimeter.” She hesitated. “But yeah, I guess they couldn’t help but want to know what the fuss is all about.”

“I didn’t… I didn’t detect anything. Maybe my sensor was broken, or…”

“They disguised themselves very well,” Moran sighed. She poured milk into her mug, and a tuft of steam fogged her leopard-print glasses for a moment. “At any consolation for us, the party-crashers were not so much trained as associates, so we were able to stifle any meanderings from the students. They were a bunch of rookies, if you ask me.”

“How many were there?” Pietre demanded.

Moran’s eyes flashed at his rising tone, and he stiffened. He urged his sweating hands to drop a sugar cube in his mug.

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Two,” she relented. “And I believe Eleazar has already set Ms Chloe on the case, so I hope that’ll be the last of your questions on the matter, Mishaelton.”

Pietre nodded. Anjelica Moran was already fearsome as a professor, and her reputation was deep-seated among the students. But Chloe had left in a haste that early morning, all geared up in the Polytechnic’s Private Eye garb. She wouldn’t be back until the case was over. Or if something went haywire.

Pietre remembered her most recent grievance about Paolo, and shuddered.

Reganilla nailed a save by clinking his mug loudly. Moran jumped. “Going back,” he said, shooting a stern look at the Industries counselor, “I was just sharing my thoughts to Pietre here about the upcoming senatorial elections. A more informed youth vote might be just what we need.”

“It’s what we always need at every election,” huffed Moran between sips of her drink. “But I agree, elections are a good place to check where we are.”

“I had a thought,” Reganilla leaned in conspiratorially. Pietre scooped powdered milk into his drink: three white clumps that peeled and dissolved into the sludge. “Let’s have something like that. An open mic for academics. We’ll let the students have intellectual discussions.”

Moran blinked. “The high school won’t bother participating unless there’s – ”

“Competition, yes,” Reganilla finished. “Sure, why not. But the whole point is that we’ll televise it.”

“Televise – ?!”

“We’ll set the example of an informed youth vo–”

“Hold up,” Moran glanced at the equally aghast Pietre. “This program you’re suggesting will be televised live? Do you have any idea of the risks we’re taking by putting up such an influential platform?”

“Alright,” Reganilla said. “It won’t be live, then. But it will be public, just like Lorelei’s debut. That’s what we’ll tell the high school and their families. Of course,” the leadership professor said, “the scholars will lead.”

Pietre thoughtfully stirred his berry-mocha blend. “But the luminaires –”

“I can arrange communication with the student council,” Reganilla said, “so our scholars won’t have to be diverted by travel. I trained the student council. This would be a great leadership test for them. Our scholars would determine the content, and the council can ease the delivery. How’s that?”

“The medium is the message,” Moran said, offhand. “Isn’t that one of the DesTech theories?” She looked to Pietre, who nodded deeply. “We can’t separate content from delivery, Sir Kian.”

“Well, we can come to an arrangement,” Reganilla said quickly. “But my suggestion stands. Our scholars are model intellectuals for their age. We should set them as such in the eyes of our students, so we can get a more informed vote by next May.”

He let a silence hang like garnish to his statements. After several beats, Moran gave a sly smile. “Such grandiose projections, Professor Kian. If you weren’t one of our most loyal instructors here at the Polytechnic, I could assume you were amour-inclined.”

Pietre chilled at her tone. Moran continued arranging the stashes, confident in her accusation.

But Reganilla didn’t back down from the young woman. “If I was an amour associate,” he said sternly, “then they would have gained an uneasy ally. Because I was thinking that your pet –” he jabbed a dripping teaspoon in her direction “– would make a fine committee chairperson.”

Moran didn’t flinch. “Really? Her grades in Industries have been… quite sustainably average.”

“Your standards are always too high,” Reganilla waived. “Eleazar knows how stellar she is in mine. She and Eric.”

“How about Hailey?” Pietre asked. “Nick and Lorelei?” He added, as Moran raised a dubious eyebrow.

“I’m sure we can find roles for them,” said Reganilla. “Anyway, these are still all speculative, so let’s just move forward as if we hadn’t had such enlightening conversation. Shall we?” He beamed at them, and started cleaning up their plates. He hipped his chair to move around Pietre, while humming to himself.

“Shaelton?” Moran asked over her mug, which was no longer steaming. “Can I ask you something, while he’s gone?”

“Sure, Ms Anj. What is it?”

“Can you please ignore age when you’re talking serious with us? Or with anyone you’re having an intellectual discussion with, actually. You can’t keep letting yourself get stepped on by adults and their sweeping summarizations, no matter how reasonable or benevolent they might seem.”

“I don’t think I was – I didn’t honestly have any objections –”

“Well keep your eyes and ears open, archiver,” Moran glared. “Because we can’t have ourselves another slip-up with the amour.”

Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash  

[the-amour-scientia-series]

The school was a single building, and compared to the corporatism of the street and its city, was made of brick and stone. A modest cafe that faced the world at its ground floor contributed to its homely vintage aesthetic, and one would think it was nothing but that: a meeting-spot for tired professionals — until you'd notice an occasional blazered belle who, after picking up three cranberry cookies, two large espressos, and the Friday special at the front bar, exchanges a few quiet words with the sharp-eyed young hostess before disappearing into the windowless side office. A gentle breeze — or as many patrons had come to believe, a cold gust from the five-year-old airconditioning unit — would then sweep through the small cafe, weaving in and out of lunchtime conversations, listening for the belle's purported stalker. Upon finding such man by the bar stools, the breeze would whisper back his own malicious imaginations, until the cafe's ambient jazz would be drowned by his second ex-wife's parting words — Amour can't feed our daughter, you fucking prisma bootlicker! — and the burly man would remember, with a tumultous panic that chilled him right through his heart, how he had awoken beside her semi-automatic revolver five years after she disappeared. For amour associates, nothing was more terrifying than an unpaid life debt.

By the time the bells had tinkled at his exit, the blazered woman had already gone up a neatly-hidden spiral staircase. She made a mental note to compliment Ms. Estelle's maintenance of their narra wall panels and needle-punched carpet tiles, and Ms. Natasha's quick response to the bespectacled man who had pursued her since the midmorning catch-up downtown. Officer Bradley and Senior Inspector Adrias had caught the scent of ten regalian pistols shipped into the city, and the Chancellor needed to be warned.

The woman strode the corridors carefully, not wanting to disturb the academians in their classes. On the second-floor meeting rooms, she could hear their star student Catheryn debating with Professor Moran about the ethics of advertising in rural areas. In the room opposite, Professor Maugerin monologued on the blue-collar commuter's use of polynomials — the woman hoped Niccolo was awake enough to digest the lecture. On the third floor, the plucking of an acoustic guitar echoed tentatively across the dormitory hallway: Lorelei was finding new chords to a song she would be releasing next month. The woman spotted Hailey in their sparse fourth-floor library, with her nose in a copy of The Social Cancer. Judging from the amount of Orwells, Austens, and Kafkas that had spilled over the table and pooled around her feet, there was no doubt that Eric had taken a trip to the Midford library next door to find local reads for their newcomer.

Mr. Simon was descending when she passed him. Their property custodian offered to carry her satchel and cafe treats, and the woman declined—inquiring instead if any unscrupulous events had occurred in her absence. There was none, Mr. Simon assured, save for Eric's potted patch of oregano, the scent of which Ms. Raveluna had taken the liberty of sprinkling throughout the students' bedrooms whenever they were at their classes. While Cathy had dispelled such "choking aroma" that distracted her from nighttime studies, Eric had insisted how oregano leaves lowered carbon dioxide in the air, making for a healthier learning space right in their rooms. Eric had denied making such request of Ms. Raveluna, but the young help had always been charmed by their salutatorian — all he needed to do was open his mouth and muse about his most recent fascinations from Professor Stone's lectures, and anyone within earshot would be obliged to listen.

The woman laughed heartily, and commented about making Professor Mercer's Personal Development class more scrupulous in the topics of intellectual sobriety. Mr. Simon agreed, and opened the door for her at the top floor of the school.

Photo by Tomas Jasovsky on Unsplash  

[the-amour-scientia-series]

Olivia Rachel Suarez had used 'notably' a bit too often on the paper, but that was completely fine — there were many thoughts she wanted to point out, and 'notable' was the most conversational she could go in formal writing. She only occasionally interchanged it with 'significantly', since significance of the study was technically a header and not a body term. Which meant that something 'significant' was of higher value than something 'notable'. Notably, that boy from Preville Academy defeated every other school in a national debate. Significantly, he was three years their junior.

A loud clink on the table. Mark Mackersey placed two tall mugs on the table and slid onto the bench across her. Amber Jameson, whom Olivia Rachel had been conveniently ignoring as usual, gave him room and silently took a steaming mug. Ginger tea with lemon and oregano.

She looked up from her notebook, line of thought broken.

Mark, her research partner, peeked over where his mug covered his spectacles in steam. Slowly sipping sugary black coffee, all innocent to the library books that they brought to the café in canvas bags and boxes. Innocent to the yawning gaps in their literature review. Innocent to the sections she assigned him to write — and he said he'd finish them today.

He stared at her for a long moment.

"Screw that Preville guy, huh?" Mark finally said, deflecting her dagger stare. "Surprising how he won with all those statements. Stabbed every sore spot that the schools stood for. Like he was pitting us against each other. Sure it's a nationwide competition, but he didn't have to go that far!"

Olivia Rachel exhaled deeply. She'd deal with his delays later.

[the-amour-scientia-series]

I don’t know what sent me to the meeting-place that day, because for once my visit was unannounced even to Eleazar. A pounding in my ears roared over the loading trucks' engines at the wharf, and the workmen who greeted my familiar figure were ignored. I couldn’t be blamed; the knots in my stomach had completely constricted my capacity for coherent thoughts, let alone coherent sentences. I walked past the industrial complex and was compelled to hurry. The crumbling Sillante outhouse, still dipping two of its posts into the water, seemed to be leaning closer to the edge than usual. The sight made me more breathless as if I’d been running. 

He gave a start as I almost fell through the doorway. A kind, heart-shaped face on a stocky body, Eleazar, for once, regarded me with silence. His wide, smiling eyes were intense with emotion; they burned across the small room. We stood there, transfixed—his back to the open water and my back to the open door.

I couldn't imagine what he saw through the doorway—a manic, desperate lover? A best friend needing comfort for the uncertain future? Whatever shock that must have registered on my face made him say nothing, smile sadly, and bite his lips. His posture was grave—defeated—but the glint in his eye made him seem more regretful than bitter. Like he had almost given up chasing a cat who kept jumping out of reach.

Except that, the cat had slunk back to him.

And yet he turned his back to me, back to the water, and sat cross-legged on the shed's narrow wraparound balcony. His light-caramel chopped hair was pulled back in a low tail—a notion that, I realized, was the mark of preparing boys for amour. The knot tightened in my chest; when did he finally accept this fate?

I took the unspoken invitation to join his solitude. Each step across the shed was loud in my ears, but it was a welcome distraction from that gilded red envelope bringing the dreaded news: an invitation that I crumpled immediately upon reading, and a love letter—a love letter from a stranger.

A part of me was already expecting it. To be sent to amour scientia with a familiar face was unheard of—if not discouraged. It would ruin the courtship process of firsts: love at first sight, first kiss, all that. Yet with a sinking feeling that labored my breathing even further, I never imagined having those firsts with anyone else but Eleazar Sillante.

Could this possibly be the amour without scientia?

I looked to his silent profile: eyes closed behind rectangular glasses, thick brows furrowed,  the same summer suit from yesterday. He was resting his chin on his knuckles like a child, too deep in thought to remain unremarkable. 

He spoke as I got settled beside him. "He's really smart, isn't he?"

The love letter sank deeper in my pocket. It was our partner's self-introduction, written in our own hands to feature whatever qualities we deemed attractive about ourselves. It didn't really matter what we wrote; the school could already find compatibilities based on every student's family background and disciplinary records. I penned mine in the most despicable way possible by talking about anything but myself: the slow country life, the inaccuracy of penmanship, the sheer incredulity that even a school for amour scientia could keep marriages together and unturbulent.

Unfortunately, Angelo Raphael Sorrell's letter was just as contemptuous. 

"Well," I told Eleazar, "if you think saying things like 'I'm sorry if this ends up in your hands' or 'not gonna lie, I don't know myself either' is a smart move, I guess it's better to call him an idiot."

He smirked, the tiny pull of a muscle on his cheek. "It sounds like something you would say."

"Really," I shot numbly, momentarily ripping my gaze from him. Words spilled out before I could stop them. "And I guess your match already knows you just as well?"

"She's a Monterizobel," he replied quietly. "Iris Felicity."

The dread just kept coming. Eleazar's favorite nonfiction had been locally distributed by the Monterizobels, being a family of book publishers and literary agents. His anti-academe parents had burned his secret collections in a bout of near-disownment, yet his high regard for the Monterizobels' journalism was never one I found the need to contest. 

"Ir—" her name stuck a lump in my throat. I couldn't even say it. "How is she?"

He leaned back, gazing out at the water. He might have been imagining her then, as he spoke with a hint of longing in his voice. "She used to dress up as a boy to avoid the scandal of being seen with her brother and his friends. She got away with a lot of troubles thanks to that," he chuckled dryly. "Reminds me of someone I know."

I looked at him. Andrew was my self-proclaimed pet name. It was a common childhood phase of disobedience, yet ultimately the last. Eleazar and I had shared those years in this slow tropical town. My American father, a politician, chose money and mistresses over my mother and my upbringing, and Eleazar was too antisocial to flirt as well as his amour-inclined family. The Sillante outhouse—our hideaway—was our true home.

For the last time.

Tomorrow, Angelo Raphael Sorrell will present himself to my family as a courtesy, afterward, I'll join his ride to meet his parents. Eleazar will do the same to his much-admired family of literary aficionados. The injustice of drawing the shorter straw curled my fingers into a fist—maybe if I took my love letter more seriously, I wouldn't be matched with someone as obviously unstable as myself. Nineteen years of growing up with this boy had changed me into someone I already loved—a Maiandra Michaelis that no classroom could ever mold. But Eleazar was a man now—Iris Monterizobel's man. 

Heat rose behind my eyes as I held back tears—of anger at the unquestionable compatibility of the amour matches, at my continued hesitation of believing that Eleazar was ever a perfect match for me. One year in amour scientia was designed to create happy, productive marriages that upheld the traditions of highest moral caliber, and the country's colonizer-ripped culture was desperate for such conservation. Whatever Eleazar and I shared was ancient, backward, and most of all, outdated. 

A tear must have broken through the dam, because Eleazar gently touched my cheek with his thumb. His expression was pained, made more palpable by his staggered breathing.

He placed his arm across my shoulder, and not a single cell in my body resisted his embrace.

By the time I found the courage to hold his hand, dusk had arrived and found us sobbing in the dark.

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

[the-amour-scientia-series]

(cont’d) 

For once, the Preville House of Have-Not Horrors had this melancholy that came with a March summer night. I sat up in bed and kicked clothes off the floor into the corners of our apartment, where hopefully some moonlight would charm them back into importance. None came after a few moments, and I stared at them, stared at myself wearing them, and they stared back. They bore traces of the felony that charmed Lorelei that night, and I cringed, raked my face for a reason why. What ungodly creator had chiseled these cheeks to sleeve such an untrustworthy soul? These brows, these eyes to even dare speak about honesty?

The streetlights outside threw orange onto the ceiling, and the dingy dorm had a slow, almost magical glow to it. I wanted no part in it. I took deep breaths to steady the raging chemicals in me, steeling against clutching myself by clutching at my hair instead.

Never had I felt a more heightened euphoria than during that fateful night walk. So much could’ve happened if I hadn’t chosen my words and actions so carefully, and apparently two years wasn’t enough to silence the speeding crossroads of what-ifs and whatnot. What if I had just let her walk alone, stalking from behind, just to make sure she got home safe? Would that make me any less than honorable? What if my brain had processed that I hadn’t left her out; what if our meetup had gone according to plan? What if—and the thought passed so quickly, so raw, so easily—what if I held her hand right then?

Hormones surged from ungodly pits within me, and I squirmed back into bed, screaming silently into the pillow, rocking, rocking, rocking back and forth. Before long, my fingers were moving of their own accord, tracing invisible lines of stardust on the sheets. I buried my face into the darkness of eyes shut tight; only to have memories pouring out like a dam hole.

Two years ago, Lorelei Marlowe-Monroe disappeared and left nothing but her shoes on the school rooftop.

The school circulated advisories against bullying and whatnot. It was all believable, given that Lorelei had never been one of the overachievers. If the student population had a bell curve she’d be smack in the very middle; if she leaned any closer to the lower tail, it would’ve been because of either her father’s occupation as a door-to-door antiques salesman, or her introverted inclination to dark trap music and even darker stories about fates and philosophy.

But being her closest friend and lover, I was quick to be blamed and investigated.

Some were more sympathetic to this school’s salutatorian. What could he possibly do to twist that girl’s mind, they would ask, being someone of his intellectual and moral caliber? Of course, they knew nothing of my near-nightly sneaking into her place, where on nights like these, I would hold her as her absent parents went on work trips and made the best of their careers. Apparently loneliness had no moral grounds. It was just loneliness, a big block of grayness that could as easily fill any room as an elephant would. It was choking and dark, and not everyone had enough skill to turn that darkness into ink. Lorelei had, and she wielded it in her fake purple highlights, and chunky headphones that she repainted herself to match the purple and silver Preville uniform.

But loneliness had its way of crawling back in; regardless of what I wrote, regardless of what she did. For almost a year, her place became my home; we only had to dash back to our docile lives whenever my parents or sisters called to check up on me. Hers rarely did.

Any regular gentleman would have scorned such acts, and I was no exception even then. We were fourteen, fifteen; young and in amour. For all those years I never touched her, and neither did she.

But as my body screamed and surged, I clutched my pillow in the dark, wondering, wondering, wondering. 

What if I had? Would she had done the same?

And if we did, would it change the loneliness that clawed at me tonight?

Photo by Alexander Possingham on Unsplash

[the-amour-scientia-series]

My rust-brown hair still hadn't changed by the time we moved to the out-house. It was nearer to the street, and in the afternoons before my tutors came I would watch the other families' kids in their streaked pinks, deep blues, and ebony blacks. Locals always get it any time from twelve to thirty: at the prime of their youth, they said. It had been almost a year since my thirteenth. All I had so far were a few pale strands that could have easily passed off as caused by hair thickness.

Midfords always had gold, a mark of the Estate's favor upon our ancestry. That was a fact I found out only upon discovering a room in our Estate-given manor, during a bout of adventuring with then-ten-year-old Rachel Bree Suarez. It was a room of family records, old pictures and faded-out letters, all dating back to the first Hispano-British War. There were centuries of Midford politicians, landlords, nobles, and agents - then there was flame-haired Rachel, marveling at my history more than I did.

It had been one of our last adventures. Not long after, some grownups claiming to be relatives began showing up at the manor with their black sedans and white-suit security. They called for tea at the randomest hours; they strolled the upper floors so often that even my eleven-year-old self, a bonafide Midford, couldn't even set foot in any room without being questioned of my intentions.

The servants talked about Mr. and Mrs. Suarez' midnight fights that they could hear from the out-house. The neighbors talked about Mr. and Mrs. Suarez' forthcoming divorce. And relatives talked about Midford honor tainted by the Suarez filth. In those tumultuous, mind-numbing weeks and beyond, Rachel and her younger sister, Hailey Ann, were forbidden to see me.

My tutors talked nothing of the matter. Instead, they doubled my reading lists and arrived earlier in the mornings. They were preparing me for regular high school, they said. Where I could learn to be on my own around kids my age.

And now two years after the 5’6” summer-coated twink arrived in Preville Senior High, my grime-hair still hadn't returned any strand of gold. I set down the sewing shears and smoothed back the remaining locks. The trademark Midford ponytail was gone, and a curl had cropped up from behind my ears. I fluffed up the back - no, too girly. I combed it down and sought out the parting, attempted a wry smile, and cleaned up.

Among the aristocratic families appraised by the Vistulan regime, the Midfords were the most reclusive. They talked about anybody and anything except themselves, and always chose the extreme situations to do otherwise. One of my grandmother's sisters - I forgot her name - ran away at fifteen to break off an engagement. My father himself, at the top of his peers in engineering college, married a cleric and lived off his paintings until his friendship with the Suarezes got us kicked out of the Manor. Thus the rust-brown, hulking ten-room manor ended up close to abandoned, after every other son and daughter chose instead their secret lover's dormitories and apartments, eventually, the studio-sized condos near their newest passion project was. The house itself was a hermit, an alienated world, whispering dreams and desires that sent its inhabitants up in frenzies of soul-searching.

And nothing, not even moving to the manor's out-house, had made living as a Midford any easier.

[the-amour-scientia-series]

What drives a story to continue? Is it the unanswered question, the unfinished quest? The long-awaited grand destiny that you have no idea when will start?

One of life’s greatest tragedies is when one misses out on life. It’s when you sign away your childhood to the attic after the split-second decision to protect the ones you love. It’s when you realize you were actually better off with the rebound than without. The hurt you brought on others in pursuit of your own healing. The common tragedy is that everyone’s gotta lose something right? So what happens if you lost everything?

What the fast-paced world usually doesn’t realize is that stories get told not because of the grand destiny, the dragon’s challenges, nor even the dame to be delivered from danger. They’re told simply because they were written. Someone took a step, fell, and flew. Someone set out to find the truth. The underdog rose when best fell short of greatness. It’s these stories of suffering that keep the bookmarks flitting, the mind wandering, the heart a-thumping. The fact that it was written is that it was meant to be read by someone, somewhere. Maybe not by you. Maybe not at this moment. But it never means the story is a waste.

The stories themselves are rarely all tragedies, regardless of how much planning is invested into them. But throughout my limited yet extensive existence in the stories of so many, I can admit my story cuts the closest to a rollercoaster ride.

As you can probably see, I always had a knack to think bigger than myself. Such even goes as far as jumping into (and winning) any academic competition or student election. Name it, I most likely got a medal for it, but I likely can’t show it to you without digging through drawers in our Awards Room back at home. Parents were never really much for displaying my or my sisters’ achievements. A simple abode is a treasure to behold, they always said. Besides, my then six-year-old prodigious brain had concluded, if they had been into framing our achievements, the certificates alone would quite literally wallpaper the whole house.

My apartment's wallpaper was a shade of powder-blue now, though, and was marked by newspaper imprints from where the painters too hurriedly abandoned their job. I haven't seen my parents for almost a year, after my still-prodigious yet sixteen-year-old brain had landed me a full scholarship in the reputable Preville Senior High. In a few months I’ll graduate and train to be a lawmaker in Central City, or an amour scientist in Allibourne Hall. I’ll be anywhere but here, and that was the plan.

What wasn’t the plan was to get dragged to the school’s annual music festival by my turbulent roommate and his fraternity friends. What wasn’t the plan was to stay there until late 10pm, and miss a long-awaited call from my older sister Desirée in Canada. What definitely wasn’t the plan was to bribe Nick with what remained of this month’s allowance, just so his friends would take their fraternity racket somewhere else.

And so that summer night found me, Deric Preminger, the black-haired immigrant and long-standing salutatorian, clenching fists in my pockets as I walked home alone, away from the noise of the musicfest.

I hadn’t even been able to gel my hair properly. Strands were already getting into my eyes so I held them against my head, exasperated.

Then I saw her.

Lorelei Marlowe-Monroe was marching on the sidewalk ahead of me—or was she skipping? Heel, flat, step; heel, flat, step; she was rhythmically gesturing as she bounced to a beat. I mentally kicked myself in the gut when I remembered how much we chatted last week about attending the musicfest together. I assumed she wasn’t as serious about it when we both went silent afterwards. Plunging into the noise of the musicfest hadn’t been part of any plan, but I definitely needed to apologize to her.

I called out her nickname. She didn’t stop. I tried her name but to no avail. I tried again, as loudly as the night would allow. She turned at a corner, and I saw why.

She was blasting music through earphones, just like what we do whenever we wanted to drown out our thoughts.

An uncalled-for realization surfaced from some regretful part within me. Was Lor also having thoughts she wanted to drown out?

Don’t think, I told myself, and broke into a run. She didn’t even hear the sound of my old sneakers slapping against the sidewalk. She didn’t even scream when my hand landed a little too heavily on her shoulder, in the process, pulling out an earbud by its cord. “Hey!”

What she did, however, was to stumble back when she turned and found our faces a few  inches too close.

“Eric, hi!” she gasped. “Since when were you here?”

Seriously, this girl was hopeless against the world. Her purple-streaked long hair was pulled pretty into a low side-ponytail, barely obscuring the DON’T HATE, DON’T RAPE typography on her lousy shirt. But it didn’t mean she was street-safe in her dark jeans and doll flats, and everybody knew that.

She blurted when I said nothing. “Did you actually run after me?” Her green eyes showed no nighttime exhaustion, instead they posed the question like a challenge. I may have been caught with ungelled hair and cargo shorts, but I was never one to back down from a bluff.

“Don’t I look like I just did? I was calling for you before you even turned the corner! You should really stop wearing those earphones too much, you’re growing more deaf than you already are.”

She didn’t seem surprised by the sudden sermon. “Riiight. Say it again once you’ve done the same, you vile hypocrite, and we’ll see who’s even more deaf after a year.”

This girl was definitely in love with me. I felt an urge to smirk, and mentally kicked myself again. That was egoistic thinking. Battles of the brain shouldn't be fought by the heart, and Lorelei almost never let her guard down.

“Look,” I began, suddenly unable to meet her eyes. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to join you at the musicfest. Nick’s troupe got the best of me when then they swung by the dorm to pick him up. I didn’t trust him with that kind of company, and I… well, I couldn’t leave him to go off in the night, could I?”

Then I found myself unable to stop. “I actually saw you again at the student council’s refreshments stand and wanted to join you instead. But you know Nick…”

“Do you honestly think I'm leaving this early because of you?”

“Uhhh…”

She scoffed. I had to give her the win, though, for calling out my ego with so bluntly a retort. Petty arguments had always been part of our online and everyday exchanges, but rarely do we cut close to asking about how we affected each other's aspects. Maybe neither of us were ready to see past the other's facades. Maybe neither of us actually knew what lay behind all the bluffing, or why we always chose to bicker with one another. It rarely ever mattered until now, so…

“Whatever,” I spat, defeated.

A contagious smile stretched across her eyes and she laughed, punching me lightly on the shoulder as she did. “Anyway, now that I’m here, is there anything I can help you with?”

Lorelei was really reveling in the attention, wasn’t she? Just because I wanted to apologize for leaving her out when we’d made plans about going to the musicfest together —wait.

We made plans to go together. Did I just set up a date with her? And did I—did I just stand up on her on that?!

Disregard ego, that was not how a Preminger kept his word. I kicked myself again, as hard as I mentally could. Words spilled out before I could stop them. “D-do you want to go back to the musicfest with me?”

I saw myself standing before her, the expression of one with twisted intentions.

Then I woke up to my body screaming down there.

(to be continued) Photo by Luca Severin on Unsplash

[the-amour-scientia-series]

A jumble of retorts appeared in my head, one by one, forming chains of reactions and setbacks that would have probably made our conversation last the whole night. And I'm still not convinced that either of us would end it unhurt. Well, the scene was all too familiar. I grabbed the first thing my hand could reach for --- a broken fan, one with sticks and cloth --- and turned it over in my palm, while resting my cheek against the other. I let my hands clutch my heavy head. My hard head. I kept my eyes on the now-blank screen. There was movement in my peripheral vision, and the person gave a final disgruntled sigh before closing the door. All at once, the retorts began to scream all at once. Why I kept disobeying everyone. Why I hadn't explained myself. Why I always replied with a mechanical "Yes". Why I still confined myself to this --- This . . . This . . . . . . life. I kept my eyes open to prevent the tears from forming up. I've passed by this scene already, and I always got out pretty fine. Right. This is just another day. Just another night.

some character

[the-amour-scientia-series]

*Of course there was something wrong. But that doesn't mean they care enough to check, right?* Amber huffed, glancing from the lone-standing streetlight in the middle of the intersection, as if something would suddenly appear. It was an old habit, but it never failed to set me on edge. I squeezed her hand and met her eyes briefly. "Well, Garrison. If you think it's wrong, why did you buy so much pirated DVDs?" I shook her canvas bag I carried and the thin plastic sleeves rustled inside. She smiled, adjusted her sweater, and tossed her long purple hair over her shoulder. *Don't ask me for movies, Mackersey.* "You know you can't resist me." We walked on beneath the growing dusk, watching The old gray stoplights greet each other good evening. Most of the village kids were still at the musicfest; their parents wouldn't scold them to go home until they arrived first from their work. My parents were professors of politics in the neighboring Allibourne City, and her mother was one of the local councilors. Two ends of the criticism, like how we both lived on opposite ends of the same street. Some unholy finger had dipped into the cosmos and stirred its filigree strings, knitting the streets until two sanctuaries aligned their doors for each other. "New poem idea." Amber started, and turned her full attention on me. She smelled lightly of floral shampoo. *What, distance? You've written too much about it.* "Never enough," I said, "for me. Some distances are just too great." *I guess that's what happens when you keep your poems to yourself, Mark.* I had to grin. Amber's insistence was palpable at every mention of my writings but she had nothing to gain from guessing who the subject always was, other than potential blackmail and awkwardness. "You'll read them some day," I said, and it seemed enough of an assurance. Our little shared bubble of existence expanded to include an automated gate with a remarkably tall hedge; beyond that, the Garrison family mansion lighted with opulent sconces. *Thanks for the walk,* Amber said, holding out her hand for her bags. I took her by the fingers and pulled her in for a brief hug, finally closing the distance between us. ==== Photo by JP Valery on Unsplash

[the-amour-scientia-series]

Underneath the dust and scratches, her mom's old Subaru was blue. Her dad barely used it; covert operations couldn't allow him to be traced. But as Kylie settled into shotgun and connected her phone to the stereo, she smelled something familiar, like women's perfume. Sharp, and fresh. "Dad, are you still working alone?" she asked as he got in and gunned the engine. He glanced at her incredulously. "Why, you don't want me to?" "No, I just think that someone's been here..." "Smart girl," he replied, reversing. "It must've been your mom, wishing us good luck." Kylie wasn't so sure if he understood, or if he knew something that he clearly won't explain. The things he knew were neatly shelved and classified in his balding head, and only a number were tagged "For my daughter's knowledge". So she scrolled and selected a playlist tagged "For my father's missions". Outside, the frosted glass walls of Preville East High reflected sunset flares into her eyes. The building resembled a cuboidal stalagmite, the beautiful types that were  better hidden for the sake of its own preservation. Kylie stared for a moment longer, wondering what occurred behind those tall crystalline windows that deserved to be hushed. The month-long schoolfest seemed to be just the tip of the iceberg. Her father drove on. =======

Photo by Clem Onojeghuo on Unsplash

[the-amour-scientia-series]

Stark-white, Cathy noted, glancing over the unfinished paint job of the Premingers' old picket fence. The former pale yellow was still peeking out from under the the few hasty coats, like a lookout being caught before detention. It made their white-and gray mini-manor look like a hospital lab complex. Even the small front lawn was trimmed and dotted with new patches of grass. It was still early afternoon. Mr and Mrs Preminger were both on separate work trips, but Desiree's senior semester wasn't starting until a few weeks from now, and Andrea was busy helping her with her art thesis. But when she rapped on the door upon reaching the final step, she was surprised that it hadn't been either sister. Eric mirrored her shock, his new glasses sliding slightly off his nose. There was the mark of the frame on his temple, as he fell asleep on a table. The crumple on the sleeves of his pastel button-down confirmed it. For a moment he just stood there blinking, as if he just stepped out of the closet and into the morning. Cathy regarded his half-combed ebony hair, no long enough to sweep past his ears and brows. Like curtains coming to a close after a show. She resisted the urge to touch it. Eric never left home with ungelled hair. Over the weeks of her coming over to the Premingers', Eric had always been strangely asleep. Whether in the morning, or lunchtime, or even when she took a chance one 2 am. Andrea would find him crashed on the couch, or a kitchen stool, even after he'd just finished his coffee, minutes before Cathy would arrive. And Cathy would stay nonetheless, watching him dream of things she would never know of. Was he having nightmares too? Regaining composure, he cleared his throat. "Cathy. It's great to see you." "Great to see you too, Eric," she smiled, and without realizing it she had reached out a free hand and touched his arm. It felt desperate, needy, as if he might collapse again at the mere sight of her. It was meant to be a handshake, after all. Catherine Imogen and Deric Preminger always meant business. Eric gave a confused start, but didn't resist. "Just making sure you're really awake," she joked, trying to lighten the mood. "Were you expecting me?" He still hadn't moved. "I was . . .  reading a book. I was getting sleepy but your knocking startled me . . . " Cathy's heart lept, and her hand eased off his elbow. Had it worked? "Care to come inside? I think there's still some pesto bread from lunch. I could toast us a few." "Don't---" she quickly ran through decisions in her head. Stay, and she would have to risk answering his questions. Leave, and she might not see him awake again for months. He noticed her delay, and added, "Des and Dea are on a shopping trip til tomorrow. I was hoping we could . . . talk." Of course, the questions. Eric may have slept for months, but he was still the Eric she knew. Charming enough to satisfy his inquisitive curiosity, yet too headstrong to realize his vulnerabilities. She pushed towards him the novel she was holding the whole time, fingertips slightly brushing as he took it and regarded the cover with a strange look on his face. "I actually just came by to give you this," she finally said, folding her hands behind her back and playing with a lock of long hair. "It's a good fantasy-romance. But it's still realism anyway." He leafed through the pages, thumbing a few occasionally. The long-ish black locks stubbornly made him look like a different person. "Have you been the one returning books to me these past weeks?" She sighed. Leave it to Eric to piece everything together. "What have your sisters been telling you?" "An old friend was returning the books she borrowed from me since she was starting to pack for college. But given the amount of fantasy-mystery hybrids I've been getting, I figured there was something going on." "I thought you liked fantasy-mystery hybrids." He crossed his arms. "I'm not so sure. I've been reading them for a connection, and so far there's been none." "None at all?" Cathy felt her smile fade. "Barely anything to keep me keeping volumes of it on my shelf, that is. Listen, if you don't wanna stay inside, at least have a snack while I change. Let's go for a walk." With five simple words, Eric was already alive and inviting. Cathy had spent so much time seeing him curled up so vulnerably, free from the regrets and consequences of the waking world. She wondered if she had preferred he stay that way, rather than his energy, his enthusiasm, set the unpredictabilities of her formerly routinary days. "You're not gonna read the book yet?" she asked, testing the waters. "I can still do it later. Besides, the house is getting stuffy." ========= Eric immediately led her to the kitchen, as if it were the only place she could remain in the house. But Eric's sisters had taken her to the family room, library, and even in Eric's room where he would sometimes sleep through morning and noon. She'd kept vigil over his sleep, stroking his soft hair and wishing for the calm that had stolen him away. That was all she could ask for comfort. Their kitchen was all polished metal-gray and white tile, but the Premingers rarely made their own meals. Andrea was still learning, but she was learning fast. The garlic pesto bread was as good as gourmet. Cathy was on her second roll when she heard the bedsprings give a sudden loud creak. Panic rising into her chest, she shoved the rest of it into her mouth and ran up to his room, crossing the dining hall where Desiree's eccentric paintings hung. She could feel the stuffiness rising from the canvases, an odd sickly heated scent. But Cathy shoved it away as she reached the top of the stairs, breathlessly, where she could see the half-open door, her former rival passed out. He had managed to get into socks and cargo shorts. But the buttons on his polo hadn't been buttoned, and his half-fetal position told her he was doing that just then. He even still had his glasses on. She deliberately avoided creeping. No, she let her heavy footfalls shake the trophies on his shelves, and dropped herself by his knees when he didn't even stir. He was breathing quietly, a hint of frown on his thick brows. And he was warm, so warm. She straightened out his legs and leaned towards his face, shaking his shoulders and calling out his name. He was murmuring and groaning, but didn't wake up. Disappointed, Cathy crumpled to a heap on his arm. His blue shirt-sleeved polo was crisply-clean, but slight perspiration had built up on his skin and formed a scented atmosphere on him, chasing the nausea out his open door. Cathy looked up at him, startled. "Mmmm...hmm..." he was murmuring indulgently. Did he enjoy this...escape? Cathy's nights had been filled with visions: strong ones that left her in cold sweat as she forgot about it in the morning. For the rest of the day, she would be walking on eggshells. Eric's sisters had confirmed his melancholic distance over the past weeks, but whether it was also because of nightmares, she never knew. But he was sleeping like a babe, oblivious to the past the shared and the consequences they had to deal with. It wasn't fair. Cathy cupped his cheek and ran her thumb under his eyes; weeks of oversleeping had erased nearly all his dark shadows. She carefully removed his glasses and set them on the bedside table. Then she saw it. A small stack of portrait sketches, all done in messy but scary-accurate black ink. She recognized every one of them. How did Eric get his hands on these police evidence? Eric shifted position until his arm fell on top of her waist. Cathy dropped the papers in surprise. His breath was warm on her neck, despite the collared cotton shirt she wore all the time. He was embracing her --- in bed, for goodness' sake. Hot and embarrassed, she made to got up. But as if sensing her intention, Eric gave a sudden jerk. He clutched her, burying into her skin. She gasped. She could feel the strangeness of everything, as if she was wearing a new uniform for the first time. Her skin was receiving signals from everywhere: the crumpling of their clothes, the shoulder under her cheek, the coarseness of his legs. Why the hell did she choose to wear shorts today? She felt herself falling off the side of the bed and thought that the noise would wake him up. But she caught sight of the fallen sketches on the floor, and Lorelei half-turned to her with her usual pensive, yet sad expression. She was the one who wanted this. Lorelei had been so madly in love with Eric that she bet on her life just to keep Cathy and him from rivaling. A wave of nausea hit again, this time carrying with it the metallic scent of blood. Cathy turned and buried her face into his chest, where his scent and sweat were so strong thoughts of the past flew from her. Was this how he forgot? Almost in reply, he gave a slight nuzzle on the nose. Yes, it was. Cathy looked at him in awe, imagining how his big brown eyes would open to find her here, exhausted and escaping, just as he did. And when that happens, he'll be a new person, and so would she. ========== (Photo by Matheus Vinicius on Unsplash)