Chapter One - Gone with the wind
Part One
"All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others," he reads as his eyes dart around the last few pages of Orwell's famous novel.
"All humans are equal, but some humans are more equal than others," he thinks as he replaces "animals" with what the author was most likely referring to.
"Allusion," he thinks to himself. "To call something into mind without stating it explicitly," he writes down in the open pages of his oratory journal which is already sprawled from one page to another in a bountiful array of speaking techniques that few people ever take the time to think of.
"Or is it an analogy?," he asks himself. "No. Analogies are explicit by nature. They're different from allusions. Though there's little difference between humans and pigs, I would say. However, humans do tend to smell better for the most part; but at the end of the day, you could argue that, for as much as one smells better than the other, they're both equally full of shit. Although humans don't eat it. Well, not in the literal sense, anyway. And no one respective pig really seems to force its own shit down any other pig's throat… I think. There's a difference, I guess. Pigs are nobler in that sense."
His eyes widen in a moment of illumination.
"Now there's a thought. Of Swine and Men. Or perhaps, The nobler pig. The story of a farm animal who is one day blessed with the faculties of human thought and expression, but lacking the form, seeking to integrate itself into human society by adopting its ethics and values. Along the way, it discovers that humanity is nowhere near as virtuous as it once thought, but by then it's too late. The pig has walked too far forward, it can't find the road back to simpler, happier times. Unwilling to be engulfed by the madness of mankind's desires, it takes its life in a final attempt to preserve the happy, humble swine it once was. Tragic, yes; but beautiful nonetheless. The story of innocence plagued by consciousness. Dead in life, yet by death made undying."
A solemn tear rolls down his left cheek, trickling down to the point of his chin, and falling down onto the long tiles of the academy roof.
"Not unlike your own life. Right, Issei? That's why you're nothing but a hopeless romantic too cowardly to speak to any real women so you seclude your thoughts between the pages of an old notebook. That's why you've been an insomniac for as long as you can remember," he says to himself.
"That's why…"
He pauses. He looks back at his notebook and opens it to the very front page. He finds an old drawing of a cartoonish stick figure standing on a stage, spouting words to a thundering applause.
"That's why you owe it to yourself to make something of your life before…"
"Look!," he hears someone shout. "It's Rias Gremory and President Sitri!"
He looks down from the other side of the roof, and finds two girls making their way down the courtyard, followed by the applause of a crowd of students. His eyes immediately fall upon Rias, her crimson hair radiating in the morning light in such a way that, if one didn't know better, they'd think it were lined in shards of crystal.
From the courtyard, Rias and Sitri are having a conversation.
"You're quite the school idol. Wouldn't you say, Rias?"
"You're not too unpopular yourself," she replies.
Suddenly, feeling as though she's being watched, she looks up to the roof of the school, idly inspecting all the windows; but finds nothing.
"What is it, Rias?"
"Hm? Oh, nothing. For a moment, I thought I saw someone looking at me from the rooftop."
"I think the fame's starting to get to your head," Sitri says jokingly.
Back on the roof, Issei holds himself against the roof, hiding himself, in astonishment.
"Did she see me?," he asks himself. "Maybe I should check," he says. He drags himself forward and, "No, you moron. Check and she really will see you. The last thing you need is the most popular girl in school labelling you as some sort of stalker. You've yet to get a reputation. Don't ruin it by staring at her like some sort of pervert."
He slides down the tiles a bit and covers his face with his hands. He brings his head back while taking a deep breath, and lets his hands slide down.
"A hopeless romantic, indeed. Still, with a beauty like her looking at you, any man would be."
Inspired once more, he opens to a blank page in his notebook and begins to draw. He makes a circle for the head and skillfully begins to lay out the rest of the shapes that'll form the base.
"Her eyes resemble aquamarines. Her smile is dazzling and confident. She walks in graceful strides and an aura of elegance seems to emanate from her very being. Her body is," he blushes for a moment, but his determination pushes him forward, "inviting, to say the least. Finally, her hair resembles a curling cascade of flames."
With one last masterful stroke, he draws in the one loose strand of hair that sticks out from the rest. At last, his work is done. He takes a moment to admire it and, in yet another moment of inspiration, begins to write.
Des yeux qui font baisser les miens,
Un rire qui se perd sur sa bouche,
Voilà le portrait sans retouche de la femme à laquelle j'appartiens
But he stops and thinks back on the impossibility of ever getting to talk to her for a straight minute, much less confess to her.
"Like I'd be the first," he says. "No doubt she already has a boyfriend. So why give myself any false hopes?"
With this said, he finishes the verse with an improper negation.
Voilà le portrait sans retouche de la femme à laquelle j'appartiens PAS.
In big, bold letters, he seals his fate in ink. But as the saying goes: If you love something, let it go; and so he carefully rips the portrait sans retouche from out his notebook.
"My apologies, Ms. Piaf," he says, "but I'm afraid I won't ever be seeing la vie en rose. Well, if it's someone like her, I think La vie en rouge would be a more appropriate title."
He raises the paper up into the air, and soon enough, it was, "Gone with the wind," he says chuckling as he watches the paper fly off into the sun.
"Welp, that's enough hopeless romanticism for one day," he says to himself. "Lunch time's almost over, anyway. I ought to get back to class."
Now, dear reader, it should be noted that God works in mysterious ways. We, as humans, are, for the most part, unable to comprehend with what wisdom He bends fate and freewill into the forces that influence our world. So it should come as no surprise when I tell you that as this solitary paper, which carries upon it the weight of a young boy's unrequited affections, flies back and forth over the courtyard of Kuoh Academy's high school wing, the wind blows it high, only to bring it straight down, and then whizzing past a certain girl's shoulder as she calmly enters the building. Catching her by surprise, it turns over as it lands on the cold, marble floor in front of her, laying bare the contents thereupon. Noticing this, she steps forward and picks it up. As for the boy, he leaves the roof and heads to class. Totally unaware of the sequence of events that are about to unravel.
Part Two
"So for tomorrow, I expect you all to study pages fourteen through twenty-seven. Have a good day."
The students quickly pack their things and prepare to make their way home. But as this goes on, something pervasive is creeping through the air.
In the classes, down the halls, up the stairs, and through the walls. By the lockers, big or small, janitorial closets and bathroom stalls. It's in their mutterings, their ghost-like whispers, the gallant gossip of tenacious tricksters. Drop everything, stop the press, to the school idol, someone's confessed. Their words in French have sparked an interest in the stately maiden, the stunning mistress. And now they all must know, they must assess, curiosity will grow if left unchecked. Who is the the student that did confess? Le bon élève to this belle maîtresse.
"Did you hear about what happened?"
"Everyone's talking about it."
"I can't believe someone finally mustered up the courage to do so."
"Who do you think it could be?"
"He's probably a first-year who's in way over his head."
"I hear Gremory herself is going to confront him."
"Does she know who it is? How'd she find out?"
"I don't think she knows who it is, per se; but I think she has a way of finding out."
"They say she's going to make an announcement in the main lobby."
"Let's go. I want to see who it is that confessed."
And so, one by one, then in two's and three's, and four's and five's, the students gather in the main lobby to hear what the school idol has to say.
She stands on the second floor balcony overseeing the entrance. The students are huddled together like penguins in the Antarctic winters when they bunch together for warmth. They're silent, attentive to her words. As they wait to listen, a pair of feet goes shuffling behind them as a certain young man tries to navigate through the crowd. A feat which is, for him, much easier than one would imagine.
"Why is everyone here?," he asks. "They're blocking the entrance. Doesn't seem to be a fight. Is President Sitri going to make an announcement?"
But he receives his answer upon seeing the crimson damsel perched upon the balcony with something in her hand. Seeing as he has nothing better to do, he decides to watch from the back of the crowd and enjoy the show.
"As I'm sure you all know," she begins speaking, "I received a letter of confession at approximately 10:55 in the morning. I haven't made public the contents of this letter for the sole reason that I don't want anyone trying to falsely claim ownership of it. I don't want to scandalize nor make a mockery of anyone. I simply want to know to whom the letter belongs."
"It was me!," rings a voice from among the crowd. Out from the students comes a bulky, brutish-looking young man followed by two more unsavory individuals.
"It's Shiina and his gang."
Seiji Shiina, the school bully. It's hard for him not to stand out from among a crowd. He's your typical delinquent, sporting hair that's been dyed blond, shaved eyebrows and earrings. Known to carry around a pair of brass knuckles, the fact that he's yet to be expelled is less a miracle and more a sign of the apocalypse.
With all the confidence in the world, he stands before Rias Gremory, backed by the presence of his two goons.
"Ladies and gentlemen! May we have your attention please!," one of them begins to announce.
"We present to you, for your viewing pleasure! The number one lover boy of Kuoh Academy! He's fought many a good man and laid many a good woman; but now his heart beats for only one!"
"The man!"
"The myth!"
"The le-Get on wit' it, would ya?! We ain't got all day!"
At this interruption, the crowd bursts into laughter. Shiina, however, finds none of it funny. He looks back into the crowd and asks, "Alright, who's da comedian?! Ya fink ya funny, clown?!"
"Who ya callin' clown wit' dem shaved eyebrows o' yours?"
The students laugh once again. From the back of the crowd, Issei ducks behind some students as he feels the adrenaline rush of being able to make a fool out of the school bully in front of everyone without being so much as noticed. He smiles proudly upon hearing the students' laughter.
"Comedy. Not the most esteemed form of entertainment; but without a doubt the most effective," he says to himself.
"Why I oughtta-Seiji Shiina," interjects Rias, stopping Shiina before he can look for whoever's been making fun of him. He looks back at Rias and stands before her with his chest out.
"Did you write the letter?," she asks him.
"Wittout a doubt," he answers. "I methodologically constricted it wit' da most superfluous words in my vocabulary."
"Now that's just wrong," thinks Issei. "That's olympic gold medal stupid if I've ever heard it."
"Truly?," asks Rias. "Then pray tell, lover boy. What superfluous words did you so methodologically use to constrict this letter?"
Shiina, being the crafty young gentleman he is, answers, "That, I'm afraid, must remain a secret. For ya see, I segregated only da most boorish words dat can be found in da Japanese language dat, if I was to say dem here, I'd move everyone to tears of scenty mints."
"I see," says Rias. "Then I'm afraid yours must be a different letter."
"What?!," he shouts, the crowd laughing at him once again. "How can ya be so sure?"
"That's simple," she responds. "It's because the letter I received isn't in Japanese, it's in French; and judging from what I've heard of you so far, you barely know the former, much less the latter."
Issei's eyes widen upon hearing those words. "No," he thinks. "But I saw the wind blow it away! There's no way that...Now, hold on, Issei. Maybe you're just getting a little ahead of yourself. So it's in French. Big whoop. There are plenty of foreign language classes here at the Academy. It could be anyone's letter. Well, anyone's besides Shiina's, but yeah. Just calm down. Everything's fine."
"But what does the writing say?," someone asks from among the crowd.
"Do you all truly wish to know?"
A resounding "yes" rings from the crowd.
Chuckling from the response, she answers them. "It's the lyrics to an old French song from the 1940s."
"An old French song from the 1940s?"
"Now that's a confession that not even Mr. Lover boy could make."
"I wonder who it could be."
The crowd goes wild with the discovery. However, at the very back of said crowd, our poor friend Issei finds the world spinning around him. The adrenaline he felt from making a fool out of the school bully turns into the adrenaline from the fear of being found out.
"My palms are sweaty. Knees weak. Arms are heavy." he begins to think to himself. "I need to leave. I need to get out of here as quickly as I can. But, my legs. I can barely stand. What's going on?"
"Are you okay?," he hears someone ask, but he can't make out who it is. Before long, the scene fades to black and he's fallen unconscious.
"Oh, boy," says a brown-haired girl sporting glasses. "Here we go again," she sighs as she picks Issei up and slowly drags him off to the nurse's office, unbeknownst to the crowd whose mutterings make it impossible for them to be noticed.