Noology (21 page)

Eventually, we trek back through the dry
winter air with dutiful resilience. A somber shadow follows in our wake,
lurking in the woods just beyond the beaten path.

My mind frantically scrutinizes the
events of the past day, attempting to reconcile my memories of Cerebrus with
the side of him that emerged in the structured and dignified environment. How
much have things changed? Can I still trust him to take pride in me? In
becoming a member of my family? Despite his assurances, does he really disagree
with his brother’s actions? Can I live with myself if I decide to join a family
willing to disparage others for personal gains? Can I deny my parents the
opportunity to salvage our family name through such a prestigious union?

By the time I finally slither into my
humble bed in Crusty Hall, I am more confused and troubled than when I left the
magnificent mansion this morning. Perhaps sleep will unravel the tangled web of
concerns rooted in my mind. Only time will tell.

I am just as conflicted as I was days
ago. I haven’t seen Cerebrus in almost a week, and I think he has decided I
need time to overcome my hesitation to continue a relationship with him. Maybe
I do, but as hours turn to days, I continue to delve deeper into my emotional
self, unable to rectify the dissolution of my idyllic image of Cerebrus as a
lifelong partner.

As I stroll along the stubby wall marking
the perimeter of the campus after a morning slaving in the library over my
SMART’s, a dark figure creeps up behind me, placing a warm palm along the small
of my back. I start, whipping around to confront the intruder.

“Don’t touch me!” I yelp before realizing
it’s merely Tate.

“Someone is a little jumpy today,” he
replies. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever.”

“Well, we aren’t taking classes together
anymore. But I saw you last night. At dinner.”

“An eternity ago, my muse,” he coos.
“Every moment spent away from you is like waiting for rain in the fires of
hell.”

“Shut up, you poetic wannabe.”

“Do you have time to talk?” he blurts,
his expression laden with seriousness.

“Sure. Where do you want to go?”

“Let’s go to the rooftop.” We wander back
to the dormitory in relative silence until Tate shuts the metal door firmly
behind us. Perched on the splintered bench beneath the stars, I anxiously await
a cue from him detailing how to proceed in this tense situation.

“Beautiful night,” I blurt, unable to
contain myself any longer. Perhaps a little superficial small talk will
alleviate the oppressive apprehension suffocating us both.

“Yeah,” he mumbles. His emerald eyes flit
anxiously across the shrubs and trees smothering us within their arching tangle
of vines and roots, never resting long enough on any one object to fully
catalogue its distinctive form. The crisp air hums with anticipation like a
frenzied hummingbird fluttering from nectar-rich bloom to bloom on a quest for
succulent juices as its plumage vibrates in an orchestra of movement.
 

Tate settles beside me, capturing one
huge breath before beginning his dialogue.

 
          
“I
tried to visit my parents the other day. I walked in the door, and he was
arguing with my mom. About something stupid; something trivial. The next thing
I know, they are pushing against each other on the stairs: my mother trying to
keep him from going up, my father trying to force his way through her.” Tate’s
voice begins to tremble, thick with tortured anguish. His bloodshot olive eyes
brim with shimmering tears, and he fights to contain the imminent waterfall.
“It takes me a moment, standing in the doorway, to process what I am
witnessing.

           
“I
come to the base of the stairs, snatching the concealed kitchen knife from
under the banister as I walk. He’s screaming: ‘Get out of the way! You have ten
seconds before I throw you down the stairs and you will die!” My mother refuses
to move, her body set in defiance trying to prevent his passage.” Tate pauses,
trying desperately to regain his composure, but the dam has ruptured and rivers
of hot tears streak down his flushed face. He chokes back an involuntary sob, and
I am powerless to ease his inner turmoil. Throwing my arms around his neck, I
try to soften the emotional blow, but he is a leaden weight in my embrace,
crumbling under the strain of his sorrow. Eventually, he plasters a numb mask
across his face and resumes his chilling account.

           
“You
have no idea what it is like to watch your father in horror as he threatens
your mother. To be thinking, will he actually do it? And if he does, can I do
anything to save her? Am I about to witness the murder of my own mother? Things
continued to escalate, until I finally brandished my secret weapon at him. All
of a sudden, the angry drug-induced rampage stopped and he made his way back
downstairs. I was shaking with the trauma of having produced the knife in front
of my own father.

           
“A
few minutes later, he asked ‘What’s for dinner?’ As if nothing ever happened.
Everything returned to normal, and he began slumbering on the couch. I had to
escape this madness. I ran outside, and began walking without knowing where I
was headed. Eventually, I found an old rusted car and pried the door open. I
slid into the driver’s seat, shut the door, and let it all out: my
frustrations, my torment, my feeling of imprisonment.”

           
A
suffocating silence suppresses us, and I patiently wait for him to continue
with his disclosure. He doesn’t. He just stares straight ahead, a blank
emptiness etched into his features and his dead eyes.

           
“I’m
so sor…”

           
“And
there is nothing I can do,” he interrupts, ignoring my incomplete apology as it
hangs on my lips. “I can’t tell anyone. Not the hospital, not the government,
no one. Or he would lose everything: his job, the house, my mother. They would
mentally stun him and ship him off to a production facility. It would destroy
our family. We would lose all respect and honor. My mother would be crushed,
and I would be a tier two doctor with a highly troubled past. I just can’t do
that to her. Or him. He was so fun and brilliant before the addiction really
took root. It kidnapped the father I loved, and part of me still hopes that he
is just being held hostage. That someday, everything will return to the way it
was.”

           
After
gazing longingly into space for a moment, he snaps back to reality.

“I am just being delusional. I have to
stop kidding myself.” As if realizing for the first time that I am seated
beside him, he turns and starts a little at my presence. “I am sorry I have
burdened you with this deluge of personal tragedy and information, Avelyn. It
is not your responsibility and I can’t be offloading my problems on the person
that means the most to me in this entire world.”

I fold his frigid hands within my own,
and look up at his exhausted face.

“I want to help you. You mean so much to
me, Tate. No one should have to endure this hardship alone, and I want to
support you through it.” By the light of the vibrant and flawless moon, I lean
forward and kiss him gently but with an assertive air of conviction. Through
this small gesture, I convey the extent of my devotion and the truth of my
words.

Tate looks at me in utter confusion, his
brows knit together in puzzlement. I give his palm one last firm squeeze before
rising from our bench and heading back inside the dormitory to my room.
 

It’s all come down to this. Every class I
have taken; all the sleepless nights spent immersed in worry as fabricated
scenarios of disaster scrolled through my restless mind. For the past few
weeks, I have lost all contact with the outside world and completely neglected my
social needs in favor of preparing for these examinations. Tomorrow, I will
take my SMART’s and life as I know it could change forever.

It is impossible to feel totally
prepared. There is always one more fact or useless detail that I could have
learned given more time, but it’s part of the game. Not only does one have to
review the enormous cornucopia of information from each and every class ever
taken, but one must also sift through this mountain of technical explanations
and definitions to decide which facts are pertinent and which are irrelevant.
The human mind has a limited capacity for absorbing information and storing
said data for further use, thus studying becomes a sick game where students
must make educated guesses as to what information shall take up residence
within their exhausted and weary minds for the time being.

Professors could enlighten their pupils
about the specific details they will be tested upon, but that removes some of
the suspense. We are not only being evaluated based on our understanding, but
rather our correct assignment of value to the information presented in classes.
Students must also be skilled in the art of filtration to excel in the SMART’s.

The brutal curve instills terror in the
hearts of each and every student subjected to its impartial judgment. We are no
longer a sentient being with aspirations and dreams, but rather a number to be
analyzed and plotted along a purely mathematical graph. This objective
assignment of rank and title based purely on numerical statistics and
evaluations dehumanizes us all and is responsible for the savage competition
that devours friendships, leaving bitter rivals in its wake. In this cutthroat
arena, it is not enough to demonstrate a firm grasp on and thorough
comprehension of the material, but one must understand the coursework better
than all of his or her peers. Performance is stratified, thus each time I
attend class, I can’t help but quiver when another student answers a question
correctly. It just means I must work that much harder to outcompete.

In the face of such devastating pressure,
is it any wonder that suicide rates have never been higher?

 
As dawn approaches, the scorching sun stabs my desolate room with shards
of vibrant amber rays. I tossed and turned all night, unable to silence my
frantic anxiety long enough to drift to sleep. Waves of panic crescendo and
wash over my feeble body as I attempt to overcome my internal distress. Happy
twenty-first birthday, Avelyn. Your present? The most difficult examination you
have yet to endure.

Trembling in fear, I emerge from my
cocoon and stumble down the hall to grab some water for my parched throat. I
don’t trust myself to eat; nausea is cycling through my system, bile
threatening to expose itself.

The SMART’s will commence at noon in the
unforgiving confines of the examination hall. I debate beginning my walk to
campus; the journey may distract me from my impending doom. Just as I am about
to leave, Tate staggers into the dim kitchen, rubbing the mask of slumber from
his eyes.

“Hey,” he whispers. “I knew you might
sneak out early, and I wanted to make sure I wish you luck. Good luck.”

I smile weakly. “Thanks. I’m really
freaking out, Tate.”

He arrests my shoulders squarely with his
grasp, leveling a calm gaze on me.

“Listen,” he asserts. “You are going to
be fine. This is just a right of passage. We all have to endure it and it will
be over before you know it. Just don’t outshine me and end up a tier one,” he
smirks. “I want to keep living near you.”

“I’ll try,” I grin. “But I am soooo
brilliant, it may be hard. We’ll see if I can disguise my masterful intellect
on paper.”

“Sarcasm. Good. That means you are going
to be all right. For a second I thought you might pass out right here.”

“I still have time,” I joke. “Seriously
though, thanks Tate.”

“I will be with you in spirit. Kill it,
Avelyn. We’ll do something special to celebrate tonight. Just you and me.”

With these last words of encouragement,
he hugs me gruffly to him and heads back to bed.

Bracing myself against the blistery
winter winds, I prop open the front door of the dormitory and begin trudging
dutifully towards the central campus.

Along the way, I convince myself the
twittering birds are sending positive waves of support through their songs. The
lush undergrowth offers a guiding hand along the way, preventing me from
deviating from my destined path as I focus on settling my fitful mind. At one
with Mother Nature, cradled within her loving embrace, I concede that
regardless of the outcome today, I will be fine. She will care for me as one of
her precious children until the day I die. Of course, this philosophical
epiphany does little to assuage my practical concerns, but it’s a start.

I almost crash into a figure as I reach
the outer boundary of the main campus. In my emotional disquiet, I fail to spot
the veiled stranger until I am upon him.

“Sorry, sir,” I rapidly mutter.

“Avelyn, it’s me.” I recognize the voice,
but it is not until he uncloaks his face that I realize it’s Cerebrus.

“Cerebrus, what are you doing here?” I
fight to keep the hostility from my voice, but a hint bubbles through.