CHAPTER TWENTY
Rain chased me up the wide, uneven steps of Dawnridge University, brown locks glued to my forehead. Wet leaves clung to my shoes. Water soaked through my backpack. And, most gratingly, my brown woollen sweater had begun to secrete the distinct, earthy scent of lanolin.
I released a long sigh, gaze drifting up toward Dawnridge's towering spires, grey stone adorned with moss. Deep green vines crawled along the sculpted scholars that lined its walls, small cracks birthing hints of lichen.
A heavy wooden door, framed in a detailed arch, guided me inside. It groaned shut, condemning me to a damp chill that poured from its ancient walls.
Wet footprints coated the marble floor. They darted in all different directions as students and teachers flocked to their respective classes.
It was day one of a three-year bachelor’s degree in Psychological and Behavioural Science.
A two-year post-graduate degree to follow, and then a doctorate—the end goal to be a clinical psychiatrist. It was a long and arduous journey, but I had one goal.
To understand what happened to my mother, and what was happening to me.
I was going to prove to myself that I was good, and that I could achieve good things. I was not the Devil, and he was not me.
Nervous anticipation clawed through my insides, nausea bubbling up the closer I got to the lecture hall. I was early—half an hour, to be exact—so I found an unoccupied bench and sat down, legs bouncing wildly.
Wanting a distraction, I pulled out my phone and logged on to social media.
Ava and I had not unfollowed each other yet, so her post was the first to appear on my screen.
She was standing in front of the Birmingham University entrance.
According to her caption, she was studying Art and Design.
Her smile was wide, joy pouring from her in endless waves.
I debated liking the photo but continued scrolling instead.
We were both too stubborn to apologise, neither one of us willing to be the first to break. Perhaps we meant less to each other than we initially thought. It didn’t matter. I didn’t need her. I didn’t need anyone. I had Auden, and that was enough.
A notification from my manager, Edith Browning, lit up my screen.
I clicked on the message, sighing as she asked whether I could work that afternoon.
Knowing I had a full schedule of classes, I replied apologetically, explaining that my semester had begun and my availability had changed.
When she didn’t respond, my stomach cramped with guilt.
Two weeks prior, when Auden and I first moved to Guildford, I applied for a job at Browning Books, a small family-owned business selling second-hand books donated or sold by members of the community.
It was only a ten-minute walk from the unit I rented, convenient since I had not gotten my driver’s licence and did not want to spend what little money I had on public transport more than necessary.
Aunt Vera made it clear she would not be a bank.
Mr Browning, an elderly man dressed in suspenders over a white collared shirt and brown trousers, wanted to retire. His daughter, Edith, worked at the bookstore six days a week and required some part-time work now that her father would no longer be working alongside her.
She was a cheerful woman, with mid-length strawberry blonde hair that she often wore in a loose ponytail, her bright blue eyes always scouring for things that needed tending to in store.
A high school student named Penny could only work weekends and school holidays, so I was hired to offer Edith extra support.
It was a good job. On most days, it was just Edith and me in the store, sorting through recent donations and choosing which books to prioritise on the shelves.
The store was not a large one. It had a small wooden counter near the entrance with a cash register as old as Mr Browning and a grandfather clock from the early nineteenth century.
There were four aisles, with tall dark oak bookshelves on either side.
General fiction, romance and literary classics were in aisle one, fantasy and science fiction in aisle two, young adult and children’s fiction in aisle three, and non-fiction in aisle four.
Books that did not fit into these categories were scattered throughout.
Auden loved the bookstore. He visited often when I worked, not wanting to be in our new unit alone.
Edith didn’t seem to mind when he took a book off the shelf and read it quietly at the counter while I served customers and repriced stock.
He hadn’t been thrilled about the move, so having somewhere he grew to love like Browning Books was a good start to getting him adjusted.
Prior to the start of university, I was working every day from Wednesday to Sunday, but with university starting, my work hours were limited.
I could only work Mondays, Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays.
This was made clear to Edith prior to my being hired, but still, guilt ate away at me the longer I went without a reply.
I hated the idea of disappointing someone, especially with my history of doing so.
I wanted Guildford to be a fresh start. A new beginning.
As it neared nine am, I rose from the bench and approached the lecture hall, teeth chattering, though not from the cold.
The outdoor gothic architecture had creeped inside, grotesque sculptures of bats and the undead hung above images of saints on the smooth, stone pillars holding up the arched ceiling.
Dawnridge University had not always been a school.
In the early sixteenth century, it had been a Cathedral and home to hundreds of monks, priests and important Christian figures.
The campus had of course expanded since then, with many modern buildings adjoining the original architecture, but its religious history was evident everywhere in the lecture hall.
It was a reminder that God was watching me from the stained-glass windows.
Rows upon rows of brown pews lined the first floor of the lecture hall, students scattered throughout; some in groups, some seated alone.
I debated heading upstairs to the second floor but stopped when I heard laughter from above.
I didn't want to risk distraction. Deciding to take the last row on the first floor, I sat at the very end with my laptop open, fingers drumming against the flimsily attached desk with my knee bobbing to the same rhythm.
Students flooded in the closer it got to 9am. At 8:55, the projector on stage flickered on and the words An Introduction to Psychological Studies lit the screen.
There were dozens of students in the hall by the time a tall, slim man with short white hair and a trimmed white beard stepped up onto the stage, a book under his arm and a takeaway coffee cup in his hand.
He wore brown trousers and a brown, grey and black plaid jacket over a tan collared shirt.
His glasses slipped down his narrow nose, thin lips tugged up into a polite smile as he looked out at the students flooding the hall.
“Ah, so many fresh, young faces,” he said, book and coffee cup discarded onto his lectern. “Many of you still have light in your eyes. Welcome to Dawnridge! And to those of you without that light in your eye, welcome back to Hell!”
He laughed at his own attempt at humour while everyone else shifted uncomfortably in their seats, my legs bouncing more wildly than ever. If anyone had sat in my pew, they would have certainly felt it. Thankfully, no one even looked my way.
“My name is Doctor Elijah Graham, and I was a practicing psychiatrist for…” he stroked his chin in thought, “...nearly fifty years. I went into academia to further my research on trauma and the brain. My research days are nearing an end, but I am thrilled to be here with you all, passing my knowledge down to every brilliant mind here.”
He went through some introductory slides with definitions of terms that would be used throughout our course.
Biopsychology, behavioural neuroscience, empirical evidence, cognitive perspectives, nature versus nurture.
I noted everything, determined to memorise every word in order to secure a scholarship for my second year.
According to email correspondence with the university's student advisory team, I required a High Distinction in all eight subjects that I completed over the first two semesters.
One slip up would mean I would have to beg Aunt Vera for financial aid or apply for government assistance—an undesirable debt either way. My only option—succeed.
“Since it is only your first day,” Professor Graham said as he switched off the projector, “I don’t want to spend the whole hour lecturing you. I want to engage you all in a…friendly competition.”
I closed my laptop wearily as whispers echoed through the hall.
“I want you all to divide into two groups,” Professor Graham went on, “one group form a line to my left…and the other my right.”
No one moved.
“Come on,” Graham waved his hands enthusiastically, “get up! get up!”
I reluctantly approached the left side of the room since it was closer, many students doing the same.
No one quite knew what was going on, but there was a hum of anticipation in the air.
“Now,” Graham smiled, “one by one in the order you’ve lined up in, you will come on stage and compete in a simple game of trivia.
The winner of each round will remain on the stage and compete against the next person until there is only one person standing in the end.
One student could win every round and make it to the end or lose to their final opponent who is the last to compete, stealing the victory. It is all about luck and intelligence.”