CHAPTER TWELVE.

*THIS CHAPTER IS DEDICATED TO MY STRONG BROTHERS AND SISTERS FROM THE DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC OF CONGO FOR SURVIVING THE HARDSHIPS THEY'VE HAD TO ENDURE FOR CENTURIES IN SILENCE. MAY THE LORD HEAL YOUR LAND SOONEST, AMEN.*

#CongoIsBleeding

Harold Girard's brown pupils surveyed the thoroughly illuminated aisle—that possessed a cream-coloured filter enhanced by the bulbs that shone a milky radiance—from above, for an hint on who could have dropped the ‘letter’ in his bag. 

He sensed his heart pumping blood more than it ever had, and he felt the red liquid that trickled through his veins and arteries at a frenzied tempo, flow to his knuckles, and palms, and brain as well, as one hand held the crisp, white paper whose contents had spun his life around in mere seconds. 

His other hand weakly gripped his reddish-brown bag as his eyes switched from one student to another for whoever seemed most likely to have played the ‘prank’ on him.&nb