Save Me From the Dark

Chapter 1: First Week at The University of St. Alexander

Life is like a train hurtling down the track; it is fast, dynamic, full of vim and vigour. But compared to a train, which has the exact final destination, life is not perspicuous — nothing can tell you where or when your final stop is. Life is totally unpredictable. It can toss and turn you in many incomprehensible directions. The only thing that you can do is to try and stay on board. To do so, you need to be open to new knowledge and be as adaptable as possible.

“Coffee, toast, butter, and cheese,” muttered Andrea to herself, rushing all over her half-kitchen-half-living room and mustering the ingredients for her breakfast while listening and chanting to a song called “Symphony” by Clean Bandit. Whilst she was singing the lyrics and swaying with her hips from one side to another, she shoved into the metal toaster two slices of bread and brewed a cup of coffee. The ardent and gratifying smell of the recently brewed hot beverage diffused across the flat, helping her to shake off the drowsiness completely. Andrea sat at the wooden dinner table of dark bronze colour, and turned off the music—she had to concentrate. She sat, holding gingerly a fuming-pipping-hot coffee; the milk looked like a cloud growing in the dark liquid. Andrea was industriously blowing it until it became at a temperature that was tolerable to drink. She began to sip slowly from the mug with a thoughtful expression on her face. Andrea mulled over what she wanted to do when she graduated from university. She always wanted to become a full-time writer, but the issue was that she was never able to finish any of her novels or romances. She would start writing a story, toil over it for a few days, cramming as many details as possible and then fold it and chuck it into the distant corner of a drawer in her desk. The only writings that Andrea succeeded in finishing were her poems that she would scribble down at the best times of inspiration: when she felt despondent, confused, or mysterious. She enjoyed writing poetry; it was the best way to express what she felt as well as to cope with stress and negative emotions. Andrea wrote her first poem at the age of 15 when her grandmother died from a heart stroke. She was devastated; her grandmother meant a lot to her. She was the first person who read her book.

Knowing that being a writer requires consistent writing, Andrea realised that she needed a job. She reasoned, well, having assorted experience, meeting numerous people might also help her to write. That is why she chose to major in International Relations instead of, for instance, Journalism or Literature. It felt safer, and it sounded like a solid plan for her.

Why politics? When she wanted to write stories, exhilarating stories — that would matter, that would stir the reader’s interest. Frankly speaking, she thought of being more of a writer than a politician or one who works in one of the international organisations, such as the United Nations or The International Red Cross. However, she also felt that politics is like playing on the theatrical stage, and she really loved that. It is like playing someone’s role, and it’s like being a book’s character instead of writing it if you know what I mean. Besides, she always wanted to be a part of something significant that could influence and change the lives of others for the better.

Suddenly, Andrea’s timer chimed; it was time to go. She had to pack her things quickly and go to university if she did not want to be late. Her first class was at 11:00 am. It was Creative Writing class (or Advanced Literature 103) — her favourite, and she would hate to come late.

On the subway train:

‘Dang it,’ she muttered to herself as she typed the final lines to complete the first draft:

“Beatrice remembered it as it happened only yesterday, although it took place two years ago. She remembered him. She remembered the Winter Ball. She remembered the waltz and hazy figures twirling and swivelling on the polished Dark Emperador marble floor. Everything that she dreamt of at that moment had become a reality. And then, the real truth was unravelled, bilious, and pungent. The lies that were sweet and scented of flowers and flattery that he so skillfully and cunningly wrapped in beautiful pink packaging with a green ribbon and a beautiful, shiny silver bow.” She gnawed at her French Manicure nail, let it go, and typed finalising sentences that completed her first chapter: “But what was in that box wasn’t that beautiful and appealing. The content of that box turned out to be a dire danger and the lovely box a devious trap.” Andrea sipped from her comforting warm thermos of herbal mint tea with honey. ‘It’s nice,’ she thought, ‘but it might need some editing, and I also have to think about what I am going to write next: like what characters I’ll include.’ She quickly looked on the train stop board, which it said: 6 Av Local.

“I gotta go,” she hastily put her laptop and thermos into her golden poppy tote bag. After 15 minutes, she was running towards the tall marbled building with high ivory colons.

The University of St. Alexander was one of the top-ranked in the country that had terrific faculty on campus and versatile departments. Also, it was quite old, circa 150 years old, from which many successful writers and politicians graduated. Despite being one of the most prestigious universities in the US, few knew that within the walls of that school existed a secret society that had connections all over the world like a cobweb that linked and joined various locales. If you make it into that organisation, you are most likely to succeed and be successful in your field. Of course, in order to become a member, first, you have to be invited; and in order to be invited, you need to be noticed.

Andrea always felt that incessant need to be noticed, to be heard, to be seen, but she was timid. Usually, it was hard for her to speak up her mind all the time or speak in public. She would rather stay in her bubble, the comfort zone that no one could disturb. Despite that, she had a great, unravelled potential to become a part of something that had consequential power and influence. Andrea was not aware that her life would soon be drastically changed; her whole world was about to be shaken, transformed after meeting them, and, most of all, him.

In the Auditorium

“An archetype is a person, animal, object, pattern, in other words, a symbol, found throughout the world,” resounded the distinct voice of Professor Neil Graham. “According to psychologist Carl Jung, archetypes developed from emotional, intellectual, universal, and (he paused for a few seconds) spiritual drives. He believed that we are techniques in a sense born with (he paused) a full variety of archetypes, formed by the culture we are born into and our life observations.” Then he discoursed for about half an hour about different ancient symbols and writing techniques used in different stories.

‘Andrea,’ called, in a low voice, her best friend, Sasha, who sat next to her. ‘Did you know that Leo Acton has a crush on you?’

“Noo,” replied Andrea, who was caught off guard in the same low voice.

“He’s cute. You should talk to him,” said Sasha, smirking.

“Right. Now. I give you 30 minutes to either finish writing your first draft or discuss it with your classmates,” said Professor Graham with an intelligible British accent. Whenever he talked, Andrea could not help but notice a very distinct and keen look in Professor Graham’s eyes. His eyes usually looked either sad, dreamy, or profound; it was hard to say, but intelligent for sure. Andrea Clay adored that class— it inspired her, helping her wake up something that she had yet to explore. Being lucky as she was to attend the lectures of a renowned professor from Oxford University and a fairly successful writer and philosopher, she felt that this opportunity should not be missed. There are so many things to learn. Therefore, she always attended lectures and paid attention to every word he said.

“Andrea,” called Sasha again.

“Have you finished writing your first draft?” she asked in a New Jersey accent—she was from New Jersey.

“If you did, can I read it? I can also share my first draft.”

“That’s actually not a terrible idea. But I haven’t finished it yet,” returned Andrea, with a deep thought suspended in her eyes. “It is not easy. You know… I decided to write the first chapter of my book and submit it as my first draft of my story.”

“Did you talk to Professor about’ it? Cause we need to write a story. With an ending and stuff.”

“Yeahhh. Umm. Professor Graham said he thinks that it might help me to write a book. And he wants to support my endeavours. And he said that he does not care what I write, as long as it’s well written and riveting.”

“That’s awesome, Andre. Did you show him your poems?”

“Nooo, of course not!” hissed Andrea. “That’s a terrible idea! I don’t want anyone to read ‘em cause they are not great. And… he is a professional writer, and I don’t want to feel embarrassed when he reads them….”

“Well, as you wish. But I think they are great,” she winked at her. Then she added, “Although they tend to be a bit corny, I guess everyone has their own taste in literature.”

“It is twelve-thirty. We gotta go. Our class has finished. Let’s go to the cafeteria to grab some lunch,” said Sasha.

“Yeah. Let’s go,” said Andrea, pushing her laptop, notebook with a pen inside the binder, and lecture notes into her tote bag.

They were walking down the hallway towards the Cafeteria when they heard someone calling from behind:

“Waitt!!! Guys, I am coming with you!” shouted Alec, running towards them. When he caught up with Sasha and Andrea, he started to pant, trying to catch his breath.