The Frequent Visitor (Terrence)
May 29, 2014 23:46:41 GMT -5
Post by Harvel Calais on May 29, 2014 23:46:41 GMT -5
There are half a hundred reasons why he shouldn't be doing this, and most of them have names. He can feel the weight of their stares during his lessons, and hear them sniggering behind their hands when he misjudges the distance between Skitter's eyes and one of the many beakers that sit upon his desk. And, of course, the sound it makes when it shatters isn't all that pleasant either. Not for the first time in his not so illustrious career, Harvel finds himself wishing that plastic beakers were a viable option and, after class, it's all he can do to force a smile and wish his class a good rest of the day before retiring to the library.
Retiring...it's more like retreating, really, and it's been happening day after day like clockwork. He teaches his lessons for the day, and then make a beeline for the library, a stack of books tucked neatly under one arm, their raised titles familiar, comforting even.
It's a relief when he finally has one of them out on the table before him, and he lets out a little sigh of genuine pleasure as he runs his fingers over the first line: “On the 24th of February, 1810, the look-out at Notre-Dame de la Garde signalled the three-master, the Pharaon from Smyrna, Trieste, and Naples."
He allows himself to be transported, to imagine the Fort Saint-Jean, crammed with spectators, to imagine a life of danger and excitement without fear and, for a time, he is content. The lines on his forehead soften, nearly vanishing in their entirety as his eyes stare blankly at the pages, seeing open sea instead of open book. Sight has little chance of getting in the way of his imagination. It's one of the few charms of blindness.
Letting the world slip away as his fingers glide over the pages is a simple feat, letting the time pass until the light outside is all but gone and the library is fixing to close, missing the steady trickle of students making their way back to their dorms (or wherever it is they went when the library shut its doors for the night). Soon, he is alone. No, not alone. Someone is staring at him. He can feel the weight of their gaze drawing him back, breaking the spell that the novel, with all it's pomp and daring, has cast upon him.
Retiring...it's more like retreating, really, and it's been happening day after day like clockwork. He teaches his lessons for the day, and then make a beeline for the library, a stack of books tucked neatly under one arm, their raised titles familiar, comforting even.
It's a relief when he finally has one of them out on the table before him, and he lets out a little sigh of genuine pleasure as he runs his fingers over the first line: “On the 24th of February, 1810, the look-out at Notre-Dame de la Garde signalled the three-master, the Pharaon from Smyrna, Trieste, and Naples."
He allows himself to be transported, to imagine the Fort Saint-Jean, crammed with spectators, to imagine a life of danger and excitement without fear and, for a time, he is content. The lines on his forehead soften, nearly vanishing in their entirety as his eyes stare blankly at the pages, seeing open sea instead of open book. Sight has little chance of getting in the way of his imagination. It's one of the few charms of blindness.
Letting the world slip away as his fingers glide over the pages is a simple feat, letting the time pass until the light outside is all but gone and the library is fixing to close, missing the steady trickle of students making their way back to their dorms (or wherever it is they went when the library shut its doors for the night). Soon, he is alone. No, not alone. Someone is staring at him. He can feel the weight of their gaze drawing him back, breaking the spell that the novel, with all it's pomp and daring, has cast upon him.
