In Memoriam

by Icarus Unbound

A tale of three. A story of the psyche. A tale of three. Of past, present, and future. Of crime, punishment, and redemption. Of sin, justice, and mercy. A tale of three. A psychological drama in three parts.

10. To sleep, perchance to dream (Part II)

To sleep, perchance to dream (Part II)

This was familiar to him. He was standing at the demonstration table of the classroom. The components of the potion lay arranged before him neatly. What was he preparing again? He looked at the components. Organs. He took one, placed it in the preparation basin and began cutting into it. Blood poured out from the organ. Who knew there could so much blood in a human being? He picked up another. He could not stop cutting.

There was so much blood. It was so red it was black. It filled the preparation basin and overflowed onto the demonstration table. His hands were coated to the elbow. His sleeves were soaked. He heard his name. The knife clattered to the ground. Then silence, and a dripping sound. He looked down. Blood was dripping off the table. It dripped onto the ground, onto his shoes, onto the hem of his robes.

He looked up. The classroom had been empty, but now it was filled with students. He looked at them. They looked at him. He recognised their faces, the ones he had taught over the years. They could see him standing in the pool of blood. They knew the truth. They were filled with hatred and contempt for him. He was humiliated, publicly exposed before their scornful gazes. He could not speak. He could not defend himself.

Face burning in shame, he raised his wand to call for water. A stream of blood issued from his wand - no, it was not his wand. With a start, he recognised whose wand it was. It fell from his numb hand into the preparation basin. The basin bubbled and overflowed. Crimson rivulets spread across floor. He looked up again. The students were still there. Somehow he knew that the growing pool must not reach them. He reached into the basin. His hand closed about a cup. He lifted it to his lips.

His gaze fell on her at the door of the classroom, where she had always stood. She was young as she had been the very last time they had spoken. Their eyes met. He was ugly and old and ruined. He closed his eyes to her and began drinking.

It was like water; he was drowning in ice. It was like fire, and burned him like acid from the inside. It was like the grave; it smothered him in oily shadows. It hurt. He was dying. It was, at long last, Justice. He could not stop. As he refilled the cup from the basin, he woke up.