The Secrets Within Pages

"For never was a story of more woe"

"There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see of the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms my belief of the inconsistency of all human characters, and of the little dependence that can be placed on the appearance of merit or sense."

Elizabeth Bennet never ceased to paint a smile on my face with her colourful observations. 

The more I read the more I understand that people will never make me feel the way ink on paper did. The intimacy of reading the thoughts and the craft of a completely different person, delivering it through a figment of their imagination. I felt complete, understood, and for the longest time I thought that's all I wanted, for people to understand me. But I soon realised, I didn't want people to understand me. I wanted to understand myself. I much preferred the feeling of reading such a perfectly written character whom I resonated with than interacting with people who drained the very life put of me. I don't think I want anyone to have the privilege of truly knowing me-

They don't deserve to.

From Hermione Granger to Elizabeth Bennet and Jo March, they felt more real to me than most humans. Hating Mr.Darcy then falling for him with Elizabeth, growing with them as they realised their faults, changing for the better, for each other. Hermione's wit and cleverness paving the way for her greatness along with her bravery and courage. Full of spirit and vibrancy, it was in Jo March and her passion for writing that I felt a soulbinding connection. 

I wanted more. I yearned for it. Every inch of me longed for something. Something far from here, perhaps unattainable... and thus, dissatisfaction tainted my lens.

Books were the armour I used to protect myself from those who "look like the innocent flower,/But be the serpent under't". They were the only things that I could trust to stay constant in my life, to not leave or betray.

Maybe that was pathetic but I didn't care.

~~~

Vivienne, torn and heartbroken, resigned as our professor. This meant that until Humphries found another replacement, classes have stopped. 

Perfect timing, I thought.

I couldn't focus on work with this still looming atop my head, like ruinous storm clouds above.

Pacing in front of my bathroom, two things battled for space in my mind. 

One, to spy on Karvish Dalal. 

And two, what if something happened?

I ignored the latter, more rational voice. It seemed like I was doing that a lot lately.

Without a second thought, I flung open the bathroom door and scrambled to the ground in search of the gun I hid under the broken tile when the police visited. Carefully I reach in, pulling out the weapon. One I never thought I would hold or own or even contemplate keeping it on me. But the more I dug myself into this mess, the smarter I had to be.

"You're going to get yourself killed."

Silas' words echoed in my brain.

I place a voice recorder and the gun in the inner pocket of my trenchcoat, still unsure of who gave it to me but time was my enemy and I couldn't afford defeat.

~~~

Studying his stolen work schedule, I stealthily walk in the quieter, more sheltered corners outside the museum, awaiting Dalal's exit. Promptly, he marches out the doors and heads down the street with haste, shoulders up and eyes focused ahead. 

I follow him almost immediately. Pass shops and banks, through swarming crowds in the streets, my sight fixed on him. Slowly, the crowds of people became smaller and smaller as we reached the darker side of town. The sounds of water dripping from broken pipes was eerily loud, the wind howls here, not an elegant musical whistle but a threatening howl. With no web of pedestrians to hide in, I resulted to light steps and hiding behind walls. 

A look right and left, then he treds into an alley and I, not too far behind him. A sick feeling churns in my stomach, yelling at my stubborn mind to turn and leave!

I swallow down the warning and peer at him, ears hungry for information.

Concealing myself behind a large rubbish bin, he knocks on a door.

One, two, two. A coded message.

The bastard was slick.

"What're ya doing 'ere?!" A gruff voice yelled in a heavy Irish accent.

"Shut up! Do you have any idea the mess I'm in?!" Dalal scolded, his nervousness poorly hidden. "Did you do it or not?"

Silence. 

Ruffling my coat, I claw at the voice recorder vigorously. 

"I did and I'll tell you this Mr.Dally, whoever you're dealing with. Stop. This is a matter of grave concern." The Irish man spoke, an air of warning lacing his words.

"I'm not paying you for your sickening sentiments. I want to know if the police can find it." Dalal retorts harshly.

The man huffs, "Thallium is the most difficult poison to detect. And with the lack of diligence in our police, I doubt they'll find it."

Poison. 

Vincent was poisoned.

My breathing halts. I put a hand over my heart in a helpless attempt to quiet it's thunderous beating.

Dalal sighs a breath of relief, "They better not." He laughs. 

Sick pig.

"Don't look at me like that, Tadhg, you old git! It was inevitable." He says sternly. 

"For never was a story of more woe." Laughter fills the walls before he strolls out the other end of the alleyway. 

That was odd. 

"For never was a story of more woe." 

I repeat the line in my head several times.

The last line in Romeo and Juliet. Why would he-

No, it couldn't be.

The realisation slapped me in the face, paralysing me. A rude awakening.

Vincent was poisoned... like Romeo.

Dominic was decapitated... like Macbeth.

And Osbourne was slain like Othello-

He was killing them according to the tragedies we were studying.

Gooseflesh floods all over me and I become acutely aware of the dryness in my mouth. I stuff the voice recorder in my coat and run, trying to escape everything.