luke hailsham / d4 / (fin)

l u k e.

Beneath the moonlight’s silver, every corridor sparkled and gave the false illusion of a lost paradise to Hailsham. An islet shrouded in mist, a plethora of secrets waiting to be unfolded. Rebel teens would loan boats and paddle around the vicinity on a hunt for the unknown.

But, to you who had spent your whole breathing moments inside these leaden walls, it was merely dark passageways escorting one towards the second floor. You wouldn’t assume the Hailsham Institute as a labyrinthine structure. It was a fine work of architecture, agreed, but you learnt the whole construction, as well as the shortcuts, at seven years.

And, the years
did add up.

If taunted, you could trace the way, blindfolded, to Juno’s room or the recreation hall with no assistance included.

The journey to the second floor’s bathroom, where Juno utilized their craft, became a daily routine long ago. Barefoot and cladded in orange duck-patterned pajamas, you strode through darkness, past desolate classrooms.

The silence was deafening. Arms crossed and you desperately tried to alter your focus elsewhere when a squeak emerged from below.

Scurrying near, furred white, was Ms. Whiskers. Some lab-rat who stumbled upon you one night. She had bitten once or thrice but, now, was sweeping her sides against the flat of your palm, either in an appreciative fashion for the food crumbs you had left her or deceivingly, because she's mice.

“Hey there, champ’.” You said, a smile in the tone. “How are you today,” Perched on your arm, Ms. Whiskers made an approving noise. “I’m going to make you accompany me to the second floor, like’ it or not.”

Everyone had retreated to their chambers, done for the day, but you’re nocturnal. On sleepless nights, it’s you, the moon and Ms. Whiskers. Occasionally, Wade’s in the fun mix—even though he always falls prey to slumber right in the middle of late-night board game sessions.

So, it’s regularly you and your 3 a.m. shadow, levitating over cold marble like a stranded ghost, ship-wrecked here.

Mother said it’s easier to side with a hurrying current instead of against it. You don’t trust her or the advice. So, you rebel, folding paper planes in class and watching them nosedive on top of Rose’s head. Cracking a joke, indulging in sorts of humor—dark, provocative, suggestive, you name it. It’s your customized way of relating to this counterfeit world.

l u k e.

You haven’t tasted freedom. Barefoot on a manicured lawn, open skies, uncaged seas and a liberty to do whatever. It’s perpetually been lattices and zigzagged fences, trapping you in a promise of gold. Food on plate plus a bed to sleep do count as advantages though your sense of adventure says fuck it. You’re waiting for the golden ticket out. In the meantime, you make amends here, build a reputation, parody Mother’s ridiculous strides—it’s a living for you.

But, soon, you’re smeared in hot reds and yellows, colors of a clown. It does not align well in your eyes—because they see you as someone who’s more than this.

You’re a comedian, yes. You’re a human, also yes. You’re wired to feel other emotions such as sorrow, anger, angst. Comedy is your hobby, not your persona. There’s a wilderness blooming under the pores of your skin, ready to sprout at any given moment. It’s been kept in bondage for years—and, possibly, for years to come—but there’ll be an hour of breakage, when every bottled-up feeling erupt. In such ways, you’re a walking catharsis.

The only vessel worth temporarily holding the hard feelings is a vintage record you borrowed permanently from the library. Inside its yellowed pages, lies maelstroms and turbulence, all of your making.

They authorize supervised expression here which takes shape as handwritten quotes inked in your bedroom’s walls. Roan would congratulate you on them (‘nice scribbles,’) even though you mostly mimic his calligraphic strokes. He even aided you in drawing some stray thoughts that that head of yours often fathom. Rose, you, and Roan. Union of tortured artists. The name isn’t as melodramatic as it sounds on tongues and ears.

On showery days, you push the window open to let the essence of sea and rain in. And, normalcy is almost seen in the skeleton of a drowsy boy draped in blankets, lullabied by a clap of thunder, by a roar of waves outside.

However, there’s no ‘normal’ in an institute crafted out of illusions and ghost flesh. No ‘normal’ for a motley crew, constellated for harvest.