Wilkes and Trisha sat on the ground of their cell, listening to Prof. Ericson and Harold's conversation as the fetor from the pee which was just a few metres from them sank into their nostrils.
Trisha heaved a sigh of relief and Wilkes whose body was cramped, relaxed when Harold replied his professor's question of how he had heard of Francis; that is, from his Geography class.
Good! He hadn't mentioned Francis’ Journal.
“I don't see any way out of here,” Trisha announced and her voice echoed softly as she swung her wand which served as a flashlight, left and right, up to the cell's roof which was just as black as soot and down, to the cold, dark ground.
“But the driller,” Wilkes replied, standing up and looking for a door knob or something of help, “he was able to leave here when he was done talking to us. How...” He paused when he noticed something
Harold Girard surveyed the room again, this time, in a quest for whatever he could use to drill the wall. Books at that point in time were useless. The wall clock which was hung above him only served as a reminder that his time was running up and his lecturer could come in at any moment. The window showed him as morning transformed to early afternoon with the blistering heat that attenuated every second. There was nothing he could see that was of help. Then his eyesight landed on something. The flower vase which was a few metres from him.“Wilkes, are you there?” he whispered, with his sight fully fixed on the broken vase. A plan was formulating in his head. It wasn't much but it was something. He had to break down the wall although his professor will sooner or later, be aware of it.“Yeah, yea—” Wilkes let out a dry, hearty cough. “Have you found a way to get us out of... Here?” He coughed again and
For a few magical seconds, the stinging pain in Harold's finger stopped and even the warm, red blood that streamed down his face like tears stopped as he took a lasting look at the small jar in Professor Ericson's drawer.'He was the one that sent the letter to me?', Harold thought as he picked up the jar with his healthy hand and held it with two fingers a few metres from his face with wide eyes like an old sailor examining a treasure box to know if the fortune he'd found was authentic. There was almost no difference between the squid's ink and a normal one used in writing and if he hadn't seen what was written on the clean, transparent jar, he wouldn't have guessed in a thousand years that it was what it was. 'But why did he write that to me as a warning if he will later capture my friends?' he quizzed himself.It made no sense that his professor was being the good and bad guy at the same time. What exactly was wrong?
Harold Girard and Wilkes Milton stood, watching their lecturer, Prof. Ericson, not knowing what to do and he, their professor, exchanged their stares with a deathly glare as his line of vision shifted from Harold to Wilkes then back to Harold, then Trisha who was still unconscious. The tick-tock of the wall clock above them was the only sound that was to be heard from the room that was being raided more and more as each second passed by the brilliance of the sunlight that flooded in from the open world.“You will pay for the damages done to that wall—and flower vase, too,” Prof. Ericson commanded as he folded his arms into each other like a priest. Harold couldn't believe what he had just heard. This was a man who was very emotional minutes ago; close to tears. A man who had warned Harold about the contest a week ago through a letter. A man who was in a forbidden affair with his student. A man who had tried to
Harold and Wilkes carefully guided Trisha's body towards their dormitory which was on the next floor. They slowly but steadily climbed up the poorly illuminated staircase; one foot before the other, until they were finally safe in the confines of their room which they locked when they were in. JustWhilst on their way, Harold had kept on staring back at the empty hallway for Professor Ericson because without doubt, he was up to no good and if not paid much attention to, he could drive a knife through their spinal cords to annihilate them when they weren't looking or something like that."What do we do?" Harold queried as his brows knitted together instinctively. He flicked on the pale bulb of him and Wilkes room after he had sealed the door shut for their safety then carefully walked over Trisha's still numb frame and parted the drapery for ventilation."Get water from the sink. Get a mild cloth, too, and pray to the Moon
Harold's fingers dug into the cartons of the two large pepperoni pizzas he had in his hands as he jogged past a sky blue Sienna that was parked in front of an old but very tall building which looked like an ancient watchtower. He moved on and got to a small grassland that had a couple of lofty and very leafy firs sprouting out of the earth here and there, and Harold walked on, towards the fountain. A part of him wanted him to go back to his dormitory—with the pizza. That is, run away from the abnormalities that seemed to be everywhere in the school, and pretend everything is just as it should be; normal, but another part of him wanted to see what was going on, find out the exact cause of it all and if possible, provide solutions, and as Harold walked along side a bunch of nosy jocks all dressed in oversized maroon attires, the part of him which was winning was very evident. Harold's fingers instinctively dug into the pizza boxes he ha
Harold sighed and from the bed he was on; next to the window that revealed the sun which was sinking into the clouds and letting out a bright orange hue; the one found on dying embers of coal, he shifted his butt uncomfortably like a patient in a wait room who is about to see a doctor on a personal subject. “I need to get going, guys,” he said morosely as he took a long look at what the time said from his phone which was placed on his lap before shifting his gaze to the outside world where a flock of small, black birds were migrating northwards with noisy coos and chirrups.“Where?” Trisha shot back. Ever since the ‘fountain incident’ happened and they had come up with a bizarre theory to explain why Harold had found himself in a fountain gushing blood, she had been edgy and very uptight. But that theory was their last resort. Harold had said it was possible a student pushed him into it and didn't own up to doing so.
‘Why did he tell me this?’ Harold asked himself as he systematically swept the ceramics of the broken vase into a lump and shoved them into a tray dish then emptied it into the trashcan beside him.He was aware that Prof. Ericson was no longer paying attention to the book which was still in his palms but rather, he was watching all of his moves which made him feel uncomfortable; like a bug under a microscope.“Bring down all those books,” Prof. Ericson ordered, pointing to a very tall stockpile of books that were on a moth infested shelf. “Wipe those books of the dust and restack them neatly. The cleaners will be so pleased with you,” he added sarcastically which made Harold angrier than before.If only he could get hold of Trisha's phone and delete the video then Prof Ericson won't have the upper hand, he thought. Harold leaned the broom against the wall neatly the same way he had picked it and sighed tiredly, wiping hi
Harold stared hard at the phone as his heart thumped and released blood in a similar rhythm to the wall clock's tick-tocks. From Prof. Ericson's phone which he had in his hands, it was as if Francis, whoever he was, was manipulating Prof. Ericson into...Harold heard the shuffles of feet and in an hasty scuffle, he put the phone back into the drawer and slammed it shut. He hurried to the nearest shelf and as he picked a book, the hinges whined again, the door opened wide and Prof. Ericson stood at the door, surveying the perimeter and watching Harold work for a few seconds.Harold who pretended he was oblivious of his lecturer's presence continued working until his professor spoke.“You've barely done a thing since I left,” he said disappointedly with a tint of anger as he strolled in, holding a folded document in his hands.“I'm very sorry, sir,” Harold started. “It's just that I got tired and decided t