Damnatio memoriae

i. the bottom

I can feel my blood pressure thrumming in my veins, pulsing so hard that the leg I have thrown over the other jumping slightly with each heartbeat. I reach up to press at the growing ache between my eyes, shutting out the screen and the text marching across it.

Dear Doctor Faust, we regret to inform you--

The rage, which has been at a slow simmering point, suddenly boils, and I smack the edge of my desk with a resounding crack. I look back to the email, just to squash the last bit of hope that lingers.

--we will not be extending you tenure this year.

I fight the urge to sweep my laptop off my desk. Years after its initial purchase, it is still too expensive to risk such impetuous damage. I am not successful in fighting the urge to hammer my head with my fists, the animal urge to punish myself, to replace this intolerable inner anguish with a fraction of its intensity on my body, a strange and sad way to lessen this hurt. I am reminded of the flagellants. --Pie iesu domine--

I am about to crack my forehead against the sharp edge of my desk when I hear a short rap at the door. I jump and almost swear, fighting to right myself. Can I just ignore it? Surely if I don't say anything, the student will just leave.

My phone dings. I look down at the face, automatically, and see it's Carl Wagner. He's the undergrad TA for my Religion in Medieval Western Europe course, and has been my TA for the past few years. He's starting grad school next year, and has put in the request for me to be his advisor. I have an almost painful fondness for him. He is relentlessly optimistic in a way that I recognize from myself when I was his age. He is strangely gentle with me in a way that unbalances me.

His text only says, "I have the tests from the 310 finals."

I don't think I can face him, but I can't let him leave the tests outside. I don't need a nosy colleague remarking that I left them outside, when they snipe that god knows what students will do to change their grades. So I compromise. I text back, "Door open, you can leave them on the table." If I'm lucky, he'll have end of semester plans, and want to rush off to them. If I'm even luckier, he won't even see me at my desk. The light is off, granted, but the laptop is still open, still throwing it's glaring light and its darkly impersonal rejection across my face.

The doorknob jiggles, and Carl edges in through the door, balancing a stack of tests in manilla envelopes, some of his own books, and a water bottle. I watch, befuddled, as he totters across the room to dump the tests, which slide across the already cluttered desk. He straightens, clocks me instantly behind the desk, and treats me with his usual lopsided smile. It almost instantly vanishes off his face when he asks, sounding worried, "Are you bleeding?"

I start back slightly, then reach up to palm my face, trying to find the blood, when I realize Carl is shoving a wad of dusty tissues against my hairline. "What happened," he asks, aggrieved, and I feel a pang of affection for the boy. I reach up to clamp the tissues, and then bring them down to look, and yes, it does appear I have accidentally split my scalp with the heavy ring on my hand. The ring is a bit of uncustomary pride on my part, a commemorative ring when I graduated with my doctorate. I thought at the time that if indeed I couldn't justify the cost, I could always pawn it later. A flush of shame blooms in my stomach for my childish outburst against myself, and I try to cover for Carl's benefit, not wanting to burden him with the struggles of his mentor. "I must have nicked my head against the desk when I was going through old tests," I say lightly, pressing the clump of tissues to my head. It's getting soggy. I forgot how much head wounds bleed.

It's a bad lie, because the boxes under the table are untouched, but I don't think Carl notices. He has gone over to flick the overhead lights on, and I wince against the sudden glare of light around me. He is quiet for a few seconds before he hazards, "You look awful."