Chapter One

 

Catharsis, The journal of Professor Sebastian James Bainbridge

 

Friday, August 5th

 

Today is the kind of day that slowly eats me alive. One of those where irritations gnaw at my nerves like parasites, with vicious smiles and blinking, glittering eyes that peer straight into my soul and see every sin I have ever committed. The kind of day where I am once again reminded of the circle of nothingness I tread in, living the same day over and over without respite, without change, without fail. On days like this, I get stuck in my own head, trapped in the morbidity that breeds there, like some stinking, rotting macabre thing, repulsive and yet endlessly fascinating. Thoughts spin and twirl and dance in the shadows of my consciousness, flitting about as if trying to dart out of my direct line of sight, teasing me with flailing limbs and gnashing teeth that sit in mouths speaking words I can’t even begin to fathom. Thoughts that lure me in, daring me to dance with them, to become lost in their world and partake of things which would stain me inextricably, should I be so haphazard in my judgment. I have seen where these dances lead; to the corners of my sanity. These morbid, hateful thoughts lick the gashes inflicted by this morose mental ballet, and then reopen the lips of my wounds, for no other reason than to see the blood run again.

Today, I am reminded again that I am not like others and never will be. Not that I would want to be so dense, so lost in my own flesh that I could never see the spirit and sparks of divinity, both dark and light, which dwell within. Yet, some days I wish I did not know such things; that I was not privy to my own past and the things I’ve learned, most by outright suffering. There are days when I wish I could be bathed clean of the darkness that hides inside me, allowing me to forget the things I’ve done, things I’ve been forced to do, before finally walking away. No, that’s not entirely correct. I can’t walk away from this thing, any more than I could outrun my own shadow. It is part of me, though I hide it well. Not that I have to hide the darkness from these silly, flesh beasts that call themselves human. They tend to reason away what they don’t understand, as if logic alone, however unlikely, is some sort of sacred balm to the inexplicable. I could make my eyes burn in their sockets and melt down my cheeks, and they would shake their heads and clear their throats nervously and say, “It’s the heat you know; what I saw simply cannot be.” Turning back to me they would smile uncertainly, silently begging me to agree with them, and then that would be that, the whole thing never to be thought of again. How easy, how simple, to think in such a way. Self-delusion, I suppose, is preferable to opening the mind and pontificating upon such things.

I digress. Suffice to say it was one of those days I am not fond of, when the dark, inky questions that reside in my secret places rear themselves for contemplation. I am not given to deep wells of emotion, but the anger that ignited in my chest today was slow to burn out and haunted me quite thoroughly. Not that anyone noticed and not that I was about to share this fact. What would be the point? Those that don’t already outright fear me, regard me as something of an anomaly anyway, so why give them more fodder for gossip and self-indulgent, meaningless ruminations? That I even walk among them is something I’ve been questioning, more and more, as of late. I am not ready to get into that, however; not just yet.

I am not altogether certain why I am even penning this, other than for some form of catharsis to exercise this demon of anger burning in me. I have kept this inside me for far too long. Everyone, even those like me (and I am not the only one, oh no, not by far!), need some form of release, and so here I am, black and gold Waterman pen pressed to parchment, trying to get the ghosts out of my head.

My name is Professor Sebastian James Bainbridge. At least it has been my name for long enough that it doesn’t sound foreign to me any longer. As to my name before that, well, we’ll get to that, won’t we?

I work at the University of Doltree, Georgia, teaching World Religions and philosophical musings to undergraduate students who, more often than not, are wayward souls that don’t seem to care about or understand anything I am trying to teach them. It is far more likely that they’re more concerned with sex, parties, and other irrelevant drivel that, ten years from now, won’t matter one iota. Ah, youth. Perhaps I only envy them, yes? I wonder what it’s like to be so carefree; to just simply not know. Sometimes I want to shake them; to burn sense into them with the sheer force of my will alone. It has been many years since I have had a remarkable pupil. Someone with the courage to question me, to argue some sort of point or another, or to care, even remotely about the polytheistic principals of Hinduism or the Five Pillars of Islam. I am resigned to this fact, realizing that most students see my course as some form of extracurricular escape and not something to be taken seriously.

Though previously I bemoaned my life’s redundancy, I did not mean my teachings and my classroom. I was speaking more of the way I live my life among these…people. Trying to be like them, or at least convince them (or myself) that I am more like them. It is tiring. I do find comfort in my classroom, in the feel and smell of ink on old pages, of words written long ago from the voices of men and women that were the finest minds of their time, of any time. I find peace in my routine, in the padded arms of knowledge, in the questions of the soul, in ancient rites and prayers and stories. It is the one thing I do enjoy, despite the dewy eyed uncaring youths.

I did not expect the administration to upend my peaceful routine. Beginning next week, when classes start for the year once more, I will no longer be teaching my classes alone. I am to have a young woman as an assistant, and a barely post pubescent one at that! An “expert in occultism”, I am told. Mrs. Tanner, the Chancellor, put it this way: “Your students are not engaged in your teaching, Sebastian, and attendance and enrollment are suffering. This is an attempt to garner more interest in the subject, and for your class.” I fought the urge to curse the brown wiry hair off of her head right then; to grab the silly rainbow glasses she wore on the thin perch of her nose and toss them across the room, for no other reason than to see the shock on her face, and to release the anger that had kindled itself in my chest, the same anger that, like a phantom, had been clinging to me tenaciously throughout the day. Instead, I composed myself and folded my hands in my lap.

“I assure you, I am more than capable of introducing occultism into the curriculum,” I told her, in a way I hoped was both calm and convincing. “There is no need to force upon me another person who will most likely end up in my way. It would be unfair to this new teacher, to put him in such a position.”

There was a brief twinkle in Mrs. Tanner’s eyes, then, “You mean to put her in such a position.” She paused to let this sink in before she continued. “I am afraid it has already been done, Sebastian. She starts next week. Her name is Annaleah Grace, and she will be here tomorrow to meet you and take a tour of her new campus. I expect you to be gracious.”

I closed my mouth at this. Gracious indeed! “Of course, Mrs. Tanner,” I said. What else could I have said? The outrage was there, like a hot coal, but I refused to lose my dignity. It seemed I had little choice in the matter, so what would be the point of showing her the enormity of my displeasure? I am not in the habit of making myself into an ass.

I’m glad I that I took up my pen. Writing seems to have calmed my nerves considerably, though I’m no happier with the situation. Perhaps, going forward, it would suit me to keep this journal of sorts, lest I uncharacteristically, in my infernal fury, hex the tongue out of someone’s mouth.

I wonder about this Annaleah Grace. I was told she is young, a mere baby of twenty-three. What could she know? How could she possibly add anything of use or interest to my classes that I myself could not, were I given a chance? Ah, such speculation is futile. There is nothing to be done about it now. Tomorrow I meet her.

I am not entirely sure that I will not give her a hard time.

 

~SJB