The Dead Poets

36

"You coming tonight?" Knox questions, tapping his knuckles gently on my door.

Tonight marked our weekly-scheduled Dead Poets Society meeting. Where, like clockwork, we would sneak through the dark, empty halls of Welton, trudging through the snow, and into the forest. Where concealed amongst the tall, snow-clad trees, sat the cave in which we conduct our gatherings.

Up until tonight, the prospect of attending our meetings had been so enchanting. The cave was dark, all but the flickering of a few lit candles. The breeze would blow in, but wrapped in Charlie's arms, it always felt warm.

"I'm not feeling too well— might be the flu," I lie, burying myself deeper under the covers for dramatic effect.

Knox's bare feet pad along the old hardwood floor, and towards my bed. He places the back of his hand against my forehead, before placing them contemplatively on his hips.

"You do feel a little warm," he concludes, taking a seat on the edge of my bed.

"But it is Christmas break soon, we might not have another meeting 'till next month."

Although I hate to admit it— he's right. The only enjoyable thing about boarding school, besides Mr. Keating's English class, was The Dead Poet's Society.

"Alright, I'll go," I conclude quickly, before I can change my mind.

Besides, I have to speak to Charlie at some point, and frankly I can't think of a better place to do so than the old cave.

The rest of the night went by rather quickly.
The on-duty teacher, or as Charlie likes to call, prison warden, sauntered up and down the halls, indicating it was lights out.

Which was our cue to sneak out the back exits.

Pitts, Todd, Neil, Knox and Meeks, all tiptoed gently from their rooms, and down the dark, silent corridor.

I follow closely behind, my eyes scanning up and down the dark hall, with no sign of Charlie.

Oddly, I was relieved when the frigid, night air hit my skin. I tend to think better in the cold. Besides, sweater-weather is my favourite time of year.

We duck between trees and under branches, before we reach the cave.

As usual, Neil spreads out his old suit jacket on the hard ground beneath us, as we all begin emptying our pockets for whatever food we managed to sneak from dinner.

Unsurprisingly so, the assortment is limited. A box of raisins, a few dinner rolls, and some apples.

Appetizing.

The meeting commences— without any sight of Charlie. We read Shakespeare, Frost, Whitman, and a dozen others. If their dead and talented, their work has graced our meetings.

I stood, my favourite poem crumpled in hand, as I began to read the words scribbled across the page.

"Gather ye rosebuds while ye may
Old time is still a flying;
And this same flower that smiles today,
Tomorrow will be dying."

Just as I begin to read the latter part of mine and Mr. Keating's favourite piece of literature, Charlie stumbles into the cave.

His cheeks are flushed, his coat half done up, and his hair completely disheveled. A pang of sorrow hits my chest, as I glance at his appearance. I quickly push away the thought that alluded to any kind of unfaithfulness on Charlie's behalf.

While he seemed angry enough last night, he certainly wouldn't do any such thing.

Though, the thought wasn't pushed away for long.