A Year of Novembers

Chapter Five

        Five years go down the drain. I spend five years existing in some half- alive state, just working and working and trying to free myself from the binds of owing the world my life.

            Reader, when someone says you owe them something that you don’t, that you owe them because of something they did in the past, please remember that you owe them nothing. Likewise, they owe you nothing. Life consists of a series of exchanges, and keeping track and expecting to get something back will reward you with loneliness and greed. The world owes you nothing, and you owe it nothing. The world was here first. It will exist without you, and it will roll on quietly, smirking in the soft darkness of space when you are a crate full of ash.

            I knew I owed the world nothing, but the world had its talons in deep, locked tight in a grip that said this all belongs to me. I worked for my freedom. I worked agonizingly hard, pressing back the thoughts that begged to be pondered upon, forcing myself into this mold that cut and scratched and chaffed. I will tell you now and forever that it was never- not for one moment- worth it.

            In the sixth year of my education, I am introduced to a professor that teaches theology, and almost every time they enter my thoughts, I am plagued by memories of the days when a religion teacher would whip me bloody to pass the time. The professor is kind and good and lovely as nutmeg, but in their place is always the shadow of abuse.

            I end up being enrolled in their class in the seventh year, and I struggle to remain calm in their class, struggle to not scream and cry for help because the scars on my back begin to ache and burn like a thousand microscopic embers are embedded beneath the healed skin.

            Somehow, he notices, and takes me aside after class.

            “Miss Alcaster,” he begins. “I’ve noticed you’ve been seeming uncomfortable in my class…?”

            “Oh, no, it’s alright, thank you,” I smile, and I scratch at the burning streaks on my back.

            His eyes follow my hands, and he frowns. Shifting to the side, he lowers his voice and says, “Sophia, are you sure you’re okay? You seem so far off and conflicted; I’ve spoken to your other professors and they say that you don’t behave this way during their classes. Is there something going on?”

            “Mr. Gransuer, I assure you I’m absolutely fine.” A look of disappointed disbelief settles on his face, so I add, “I just don’t have the best history with theology teachers.”

             He nods, watching me, but all he says is, “If you ever want to talk about it, you can always come to me.” He places a hand on my shoulder, a hand that curls around the blade and presses against the searing flesh of a scar.

            The next day I approach him, asking if he believes God or man to be superior. He replies that he is an atheist.

            “Why teach religion, then, if you don’t believe in a god?” I ask.

            “There is no shame in understanding what people need to believe in to make it through the day. My strength comes from my wife and my hope for the future, and it helps me to make myself a better man. Where does your strength come from?”

            I think for a moment, and then, quietly:

            “Nowhere.”

            “Ah,” Gransuer smiles, shaking a pointed hand at me. “That cannot be true. Your strength comes from somewhere, or else you wouldn’t be standing here in front of me.” I cock my head to the side, and he continues. “Your strength has a source, Miss Alcaster. Find it, and thank it.” He pushes himself up, standing from behind the desk, and he exits, leaving me dazed and confused.