Willow Way Manor: Henry's Gift

"I never know what they mean- these fractured dreams haunting my seemingly endless nights. I have tried piecing together as much I could, but yet I fear I have the pieces of different puzzles. Every day feels like a painless temptation and through positive attitude nothing has changed. I started this journal to clarify and organize my hauntings, and yet it seems to be the ramblings of a drunk with no direction. I have dreamt of him every night since I was 14. Who is he? And why do I run as if he truly is the devil?" I finish writing in my journal, reminding myself that even though it feels like a chore, it does help with my mental health. Or it will, as Dr. Linda Taylor keeps reassuring. I never thought of myself as a 'therapy' person. I had no objections or prejudice against those who felt open enough to freely discuss their weakest moments with a complete stranger- and that without the support of a great bottle of wine. I just never expected that something could break me to the point of no return, or in better terms- the lack thereof. I stare at the pale white cover of my journal filled with petite flowers, accentuating the bold golden cursive "Life is Beautiful" heading. When I close my eyes and slowly drag my fingers over the indentations, I can almost feel the soft petals beneath my fingertips gripping onto my skin. Exhaling slowly, I open my eyes and stare into the eggshell colored wall boasting small cracks. The landlord had just smeared unevenly matched paint on-top. I slip my journal into the top drawer of my light oak desk and kick my chair back. I stand tugging on my clothes and quickly do a scan of my outfit before heading to class. A light blue denim, white T-shirt, and a mustard yellow button-up jacket with combat boots never fails me. I pull my hair into a high pony tail before grabbing my laptop and heading out to marketing class. Marketing isn't exactly my strong suit as I tend to be more introverted, but to become a publisher, all bases need covering. I have always loved reading and the chance to represent a new author who might be the next J.K. Rowling, Charles Dickens, Stephen King, or Jane Austen is a thought that excites every nerve. Walking to school has never been a problem. I don't live in the campus dorms, but I only live about a mile away in my apartment shared with my brother, Ares. Besides, walking tends to clear my head, and for a little bit, I forget the truly horrific images that flash through my dreams. The beginning of spring has always been a highlight for me. The small white and pink blossoms forming on the branches of trees, leaving a destinct aroma of new life, have always left a pleasant taste in my mouth. Breathing the fresh spring air deeply is a small pleasure I'm sure not many appreciate. Seattle streets always seem so noisy, but not like the type of noise that has you pulling at your hair. No, it's more of a background noise you filter out with the occasional interruption of a man assuring his wife he's 5 minutes away, or a new mother strolling with her baby and the nervousness jumps out at you. That has always been an odd exception to me. The feelings of those around me are louder than the actual noise. I finally reach my class in record time despite my late departure, and grab a seat in the back. For the most part, I like to think I am a very involved student who actually pays attention to my classes, but marketing has never been an 'easy' one. I'm barely passing, but no matter how hard I try, I just can't seem to get the hang of things. Professor Wartz comes rushing in, papers scattered and dropping to the floor, his grey cardigan and red tie looking all disheveled despite him wearing the biggest pair of glasses I have ever seen. Our almost balding professor has worn the same pair of brown trousers for the past 2 years following the loss of his wife and has been a hot mess ever since. I feel bad for the old man. He had such passion for teaching, and in my first year of marketing, he had been the most influential teacher I had the pleasure of knowing. Since his wife's passing, our classes have become brown. That's it, just how you imagine brown would feel, that's how class felt. Our lesson begins, and try as hard as I might, I just can't stay focused past the 5 minute mark. Before long I catch myself doodling the darkened eyes of a mysterious man I have been dreaming about since my 18th birthday. It has been 6 years of endless yearning for those piercing blue eyes that have felt so familiar to me. I dream of him often, his face never quite revealed, but the memory of his eyes etched into my brain. It was only about a year ago that I realized how much I've been searching for him, rejecting every man because his eyes felt wrong. I giggle at the thought. I must be a hopeless romantic to believe that the man in my dreams, could be the man I must spend forever with. "Uhm... Miss Delacroix?" Sounds of a hesitant voice echoes from a distance, startling me back into reality. Mt eyes dart forward as Dr Wartz is staring at me from the front of the classroom. "Uh, y-yes, Mr. Wartz, pardon?" I stumble over my words quickly scattering papers over my mediocre drawing. "Would you please see me after class?" His voice carries a tone of ernestness and I just nod quickly in agreement. After class ends I quickly pack up my things, worried about what I may have missed with Professor Wartz. I quickly make my way down to his desk and stand in angst in front of him. Standing beside his desk, rummaging through a clump of papers his demeanor seems tense with subtle hints of anger. I can only imagine the amount of pain he must feel, the anger boiling inside of him, and the grief that must be eating at him. He clears his throat before finally dropping a stack of papers on his desk, leaving him with the single sheet in his hand. He glares over the paper, then looks at me with an unamused expression. "Miss Delacroix, I've asked y-". "Uh, just Iris is fine." I interrupt quickly. Professor Wartzs' expression hardens before continuing. "Miss Delacroix, as I way saying, I have some concerns regarding your progress in my class." His one toned voice makes it incredibly hard to focus. "I know I've been slipping, Professor. I have been trying, but I can do better. PleSe don't fail me. I only have one more semester before I can finally graduate from your class and I can start my internship. I promise I will do better." I plead with him, a sense of desperation seen in my eyes. "Miss Delacroix, if you would let me finish please." His eyes narrow as he glares through the top of his glasses. I nod readily. Taking a deep breath, I prepare myself for bad news. "I find your ethic admirable, despite having trouble connecting with my class, I can hardly be surprised. The past 2 years have reflected my teaching poorly, and I am ashamed, to say the least. That being said, I have noticed your incredible determination in my class and that shows me that you are the perfect candidate." His words shake me to my core. Of everything I expected from this moment, Professor Wartz complimenting me was never one of the scenarios. Visibly surprised, I quickly close my mouth after the jaw-dropping revelation and only manage to nod. "The perfect candidate for?" I nervously ask. A small, approving smile creeps from his wrinkled lips. "The perfect candidate for an entry-level part-time internship at A.P Publishing House." His words echo through my ears as a wall of emotions hit. A.P Publishing has always been a fantasy I have been making up in my head. They are a cut-throat organization, but they are definitely the best of the best! "It's only a starter position, so the money won't -" Professor Wartz gets quiet as I throw my arms around him, squeezing him tightly. "Thank you, so much." I softly say as I try to hold the tears back that are now visibly welling up in my eyes. I feel his tense composure soften as he lets out a deep breath, and softly pats my back. I let go after a few seconds and pull back, squeezing his upper arms a last time before wiping my eyes. Professor Wartz has a soft smile on his face, and I know that the hug meant for gratitude had done much more. He quickly turns back to his papers and excuses me. I shoot him a grateful smile, and mouth the words "thank you" before heading out the door.