PhD Candidate Faustus

3: affords this art no greater miracle

Faustus

"They called the police again."
"Go to hell," I mutter, my head down on the dining room table. My father is being disappointed in me. Which is painful, but not unusual. He has never recognized what I am.
"Again! This has to stop! You have to stop going into that coffee shop and harassing people and—insulting their grammar."
"It's correcting—correcting their grammar," I say, raising a finger.
"We agreed to let you take University classes because we thought it would be good for you, not so you could give yourself a mid-life crisis," my father sighs.
"I'm not having a crisis," I'm having a panic attack and have been for forty five minutes.
"You took off your leg and threw it at someone, Jesus, Johan, what is it gonna be next with you?"
"Just because your paper, thing, didn't go well," my mother comes in, carrying a laptop.
"Thesis. Dissertation—is it really—really that hard to remember what's important to me?" I gasp, looking up.
"He took off his leg and threw it at someone."
"Johan, we've talked about this."
I put my head back down on the smooth oak table. Everything in my parents house. So nice. So neat. So orderly. No books on the table. No reading at dinner. I'm a mess. I don't fit in here. My grey sweater is three sizes too big it's comfortable that way. I'm wearing a one size too big black trench coat. My glasses are crooked and I never clean them when I ought to. I broke one of my nails on an experiment last night and it's currently bleeding. My foot hurts, this is significant as I only have the one. I am a mess. I'm dripping rain water. I don't belong here. I don't know where I do belong.
"Johan, look at me," my father snaps his fingers.
I glare at him, slowly raising my head as tears slip down my face.
"Get a grip."
I slump back down.
"Go, just—give me a minute," my mother sighs.
"He needs to grow up."
"Yes, yes he does, that's the problem. He's done nothing but school his whole life—,"
"No," I sit bolt up right, "I'll be good I swear I swear it I swear, let me, let me go back to Wittenberg please, please , please please this fall I'll redo my thesis this is a set back, just a—just a setback nothing more just a set back—,"
"Johan. We've let you pursue college courses because that was what you wanted but look at you," she sighs, "You're a mess."
"Don't you think I know that!" I cry.
"You need to grow up," my father grunts.
"Can't you see I'm trying?" I ask, my voice breaking half way through, but I get it out anyway.
"That's the thing. You can't go on like this. You've gone to University and now look at you. You're up all hours, you nearly broke your leg you have broken your glasses again—,"
"I fixed them, I fixed them, I welded them back together—,"
"Was that how you set off the smoke alarm last night?" My father, dryly, going to fix himself a drink.
"Maybe," I say, very quietly. A lot of my experiments slightly involve fire so I've forgotten now just what did it.
"When did you last sleep?" My mother sighs.
"I'm not a child," I growl.
"Well you're about to be treated like one. That's it. I've decided. You are going to have a normal school year. You're going to attend Junior year—,"
"I've got three degrees!" I cry, angrily.
"And yet you still don't know how to act like a person."
"I hate, I hate you," I say, digging my fingers into the fine tendons of my wrist. "You can't—can't do this."
"I think you'll discover that as your mother, yes I can enroll you in high school. I tried to let you be different and look how that ended up. You're caffeine addicted, insomniac, pyromaniac—,"
"Alchemy is a noble study!"
"Mess! Johan look at yourself. You're falling apart at the seams."
"Please, please, no, I'll lose my mind if I have to go to school every day you know how much I completely detest, detest all people, I'll go mad, I shall, I need rest is all. Rest and my books. I need to study more that's it—,"
"I agree. Maybe school with kids his age would do him good," my father says.
"Well look at him! This clearly isn't," my mother says, "He's on the verge of losing his mind have you even looked in his room?"
"No, not if I can help it. You're right, we'll find a good program, advanced there are other clever teenagers he can talk to," my father says, patting my head. I hiss at him. "Cheer up, Johan. You might even make a friend or two."
"I don't need anyone."