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He stared at ash trickling from the ass of his cigarette, landing like pepper in a dish of salt. Vincent Roul was a nocturnal man, though he rarely slept during the day. Constant bouts of insomnia led to aches and pains in his limbs, causing tension where his hands connected to his wrists. This often sent fear through him, as he needed his fingers to wrap around a pen—he only ever used ink because lead smudged too much under the curse of being left-handed. He was quick to anger, possessed an expansive dictionary of insults, and spent his time waiting for the Alastor Articles press release to print. Alastor Austen University felt as fictional as it sounded, set deep in the red and orange leaves of Michigan, where parental guardians would never see their progeny again. Not because they couldn’t, but because they did not want to.

Copper hair twisted and sprung in different, wild directions as he lowered his back to the floor. His right leg rested over his left, a tapping foot matching the hum of his heater. Papers surrounded him in a natural disaster, thick, black lines marked through sentences at a time. “If Millie James wants a career on the stage …” he said quietly to himself, testing out the sound. “She might as well start sleeping with directors now. Oh, what a terrible oversight. She already does.” He turned over to his stomach, propping himself up on his elbows to put out the cigarette in the ashtray. He reached for his digital Kodak and looked through the hundreds of compromising shots he had taken. “Where are you?” his stubby thumb pushed the control button repeatedly, eyes narrowed in on each frame. 

He paused on one in particular, studying it carefully. An attractive director with salt and pepper hair talking with the starlet, a clammy hand caressing her waist. Though his face could not be seen, his suede jacket gave away his position as a professor. Millie wore her hair in a touseled bun and wore what most women found suitable at Alastor—a low-cut jean skirt and a hardly solid white cami. No bra. It was detestable and, fortunately, politically delicious. Vincent rather enjoyed thespians because they made his job easy. He used his palms to push himself up, taking a cluster of papers and the Kodak with him. The alarm clock on his bedside table, along with an arsenal of sleeping pills that consistently failed him, read three in the morning. He had two hours before some staff would trickle into the academic buildings. That also meant he had two hours to walk fifteen minutes to the academic buildings, upload his SD card, recolor the photo, drop everything into Dr. Oritz’s mounted mailbox, and wipe the security footage of him walking in. If he could fit it into his schedule, he would swing by a frat and get wickedly wasted. 

His therapist thought his ability to function on no sleep and a bottle of Jack Daniels, while impressive, was disruptive to his genius. He, on the other hand, thought it further fueled his desire to hurt his peers and that his therapist didn’t know Plato from Socrates. He thought of her often, though she was disillusioned and usually had coffee on her breath. She was also unqualified, seeing she was in the year below him and grew up with two parents. Still, he found her beautiful even though she was no more than a counselor. Psych majors needed reassurance and, for that reason, he referred to her as his therapist. 

He had bundled up before heading out, his chin buried deep in a scarf and fists shoved into his jacket pockets. His stuffed folder was being crushed under his arm, held together only by a paper clip two sizes too small. Fortunately, by the time he reached the right building, the wind had calmed down significantly. His brown boots stomped their way up concrete steps, leading him to a golden and weaved doorway. It was then that second nature took over and Vincent moved through the motions. Dr. Oritz’s office was on one of the lower levels. He took a sharp left through the front door and pattered down two flights of stairs, almost sashaying he was so used to the movement. Then he walked through a cramped corridor that smelled like mold disguised as academia, counted eleven doors, and stopped in front of the twelfth. 

There was a metal mailbox hung to the wall with a flimsy nail and, when he lifted the lid, it squeaked in pain on its hinges. As gently as possible, he slipped the folder into the space and closed it again just as quietly. 

“I know you wrote that about me,” a trained, vocally correct voice said. 

He turned with a start, never having run into anyone during a delivery before, especially not the person he just submitted to humiliation. Millie James was a blonde with caramel eyes and a row of teeth so large, they had to be fake. She stood before him in a long sweater, the sleeves ending past her wrists and her crossed arms wrapping both sides together. She had on sweats easily detectable as borrowed from a man and a loose bun that may have been tousled by the wind. 

“It’s cold outside, you should have a jacket on,” Vincent said, passing by her without a second thought. He could feel her turn in pursuit. 

“You think I don’t know what people say about me?” she proposed. “I am an artist. I subject myself to scrutiny every day.”

He faced her once more, reaffirming his grip on the camera in his pocket. “Can I quote you on that?”

There was something about the way that she stood that exuded confidence, a good quality for the stage. Though, as many knew, security could easily cover insecurity, which was why she had snuck up on him that night. The things that were said about her did bother her and she was worried it would follow her into a professional career. 

“We aren’t so different. I want to succeed in a field that is dependent on the failure of others, just like you,” she attempted to sway him from a different angle. “If you have to publish that story about me, a condemning one, I’m sure … I understand. We both have to do whatever it takes.”

“Good,” he was coming off flippant. 

“Though you would be missing out on a much better story,” she said just before walking away. “You should swing by the art studio before heading back to that grimy dorm of yours.”

He stayed there until she was out of his line of sight, contemplating what she had told him. Theatre students had their fair share of scandal, yet the art students seemed to outweigh in spades. He had yet to recolor and print the photo, which was what brought the article from fascinating to believable. If he rushed, it would take him an hour on a computer as slow as the ones he had access to. He thought it might be better to come back after checking out the possible art department avenue. 

It was out into the bitter cold for his sleep-deprived brain and body again. The studio was at the edge of campus, near the security station. Both were afterthoughts regarding Alastor University, having no respect for the arts or the safety of the student body. It would be another ten-minute walk until he arrived. He sunk back into his mind, where a world of ink scribbles and bursts of shutter speed permanently resided. It was also where he stored all the many things on his schedule, between writing, classwork in which he excelled, his daily counseling session, and the cat nap he forced himself to take. Sometimes he wondered if he would make it through his four years without completely cracking. He thought of simpler days, working at a video store, feet kicked up on the counter as he read whichever book he was on. Since then, he and everyone else had become consumed with pleasing a flawed system. 

There was jazz coming from the studio. He came to a halt right outside of it, its magnificence a lot more understated than other campus buildings. Plumes escaped his lips from the frosty air, traveling upward as he craned his neck back to look at the third floor. There was a single light left on which created a rather gloomy, haunted feel. He was unsure what to expect as his shoes brought him closer, moving in a daze as they escorted him into the front hall. It was easier to hear the instrumental from outside than it was on the bottom floor. In fact, he couldn’t hear a thing at all. He reached into his pant pocket and pulled out a lighter, igniting it for minutes at a time until his thumb felt raw. 

The art building was one of the oldest and the one with the least maintenance, with many classrooms unable to be used. It was covered in its original floors, a dark wood that squealed under the weight of a full-grown man. It was artsy, as one might expect. Students had even been allowed to do their projects on the previously white walls, murals of all kinds of mediums stretching as far as each hall. He analyzed a few, noting that depictions of Greek mythology were a common theme. They were simply horrifying under the flicker of a tiny flame. 

He took the stairwell to the second floor and then the third, keeping his eyes trained in front and his ears on high alert. The sound of the saxophone had since turned into a melancholic violin, and he could hear light chatter coming from the door with light peeking through the gap. To keep himself discreet, he returned the lighter to its place and approached the door. He leaned his palms as though they might break against the surface, resting the side of his head in hopes of hearing what was being discussed. It was too broken to make out full sentences, just complaints about wives or an inappropriate remark about the perkiness in the classroom. It was clear he was listening to professors from the department. 

“Alright, turn around,” one of them said, piquing Vincent’s interest to the point of putting him on his hands and knees. He crouched down, pressing his chest to the floor, elbows jetting out at either side, and his left eye peering under the tiny slit. He stared in disbelief as the scene came into focus, on a slant and warped. Six to eight male professors sat in a line with easels set up in front of them, all smoking a stick of choice. They were using charcoals sporadically, taking more time to look at their reference. 

On the other side were young women he recognized. Some lived in his residency, while others were in his early morning psych class. They were nude and still as statues. 

“What the hell …,” he said a little louder than intended, worried when one of the middle-aged men scooted off his stool. 

His heart rate picked up when black loafers came closer to his hiding place, casting a shadow over his vision. The man did a lap around the room just before taking a step onto the platform where the girls were positioned. He went up to one, a redhead who used to date Vincent’s first and last roommate. The professor reached around her and moved her head in the direction he wanted it in. Then, he knelt beside her and whispered something no one else would have been able to hear. She turned a bright shade of pink and, for a moment, appeared stricken. He moved on from her and switched his gaze to a beautiful Latin girl Vincent had only seen once or twice. Her English was still quite broken from what he knew. 

“Very nice, very … sophisticated,” he moved her arm across her chest and after a few more sudden grabs, Vincent couldn’t bear to watch any longer. 

He got back to his feet and burst through, having grabbed his Kodak faster than he could say it. “What is going on?” he shouted as everyone scrambled around, trying to keep their identities a secret. The most guilty professor was unashamed, fists shoved into his suede jacket where everyone felt they were safer. 

“Nothing that concerns you, son,” he said too calmly as his students frantically covered themselves. They tripped over one another as they rummaged for their articles of clothing in the smoky room. 

Vincent lifted the lens finder to his eye and took a shot of the man, with distinctly naked bodies behind him. Then he took off as fast as possible, racing through the cold and splitting whack of the wind until he was safe in his dorm. He had forgotten all about the Millie James article and all about the next day. 

He got right to work and wrote the most damning piece he ever had, burning through two packs of cigarettes and a box of Twinkies. It was what every journalism professor had wanted from one of their writers. The perfect blend of brutal honesty and dramatics. There was mention of the true meaning of art and whether or not one had to lose oneself in order to create something actually beautiful. He pondered the corruption of power and how that impacts modern academia. Lastly, he brought in the feminist perspective, just to give the audience what they really wanted. 

When it was finished he slept. 

He woke refreshed, something he had never felt, and he rushed out the door to Dr. Oritz’s office. All he wanted was to drop it by the mailbox and go about his week in a much more orderly fashion. Instead, before he could even open the lid, the door swung open. The president of the school stepped out and asked to speak with him. He was guided into the office where Dr. Oritz, his pretty counselor, his parents, and the guilty professor were all waiting for his arrival. They questioned Vincent for over an hour, in which he eventually realized … he was powerless. 

“I know what I saw,” he argued, swallowing tears from the anxiety of being attacked. “They were naked! Young women were being exploited right here on campus and nobody is listening!”

“Aren’t you the young man who takes exploitative photographs of students and faculty?” this came from the president. He was a stiff-looking man, with a sturdy jaw and sharp eyes—slightly too young for his rank. “How can we know your view on this isn’t skewed?” 

“Have you been sleeping?” the pretty counselor asked. 

“No,” he admitted. 

“Are you still taking your antidepressants?” his fairly distant mother inquired. 

“No,” he admitted. 

“Do you feel … cornered, at all?” his father joined in. 

He did feel cornered right then, the group of them jumping down his throat when he was trying to do the right thing. 

“I’ve always known him to be a good boy and an excellent writer,” Dr. Oritz came to his defense and was immediately shut down by a look from his employer. 

“Maybe we should have done that year gap you mentioned,” his mother softly suggested, welling with tears. 

“No, you’re trying to confuse me to cover your asses! I know what I saw and … I know what I saw. I swear,” he was shaking, worried about the outcome this would all lead to. For all the beautiful words he managed to string together when writing, he could not properly defend himself. He felt foolish and looked like half a man, out of control of his own free will. 

“Why did you attack Professor Lyon?” the Alistor President was the last person to ask anything of him. After a slow silence, he stood and adjusted his tie. “We have to take your silence as confirmation.”

The article Vincent had called Artistry After Hours was never published and he was asked to leave the university. In less than a day, they had made him unsure of what it was that he had seen. They said it was a psychotic break from the stress of his academics. They claimed they had footage of him putting his hands on Professor Lyon, an innocent bystander in what must have been an episode. He was an insomniac and that meant he was more likely to forget than the average person. They confiscated his camera before he got a chance to see the evidence of what he thought he saw. 

The immorality would be swept under the rug along with his career. It wasn’t until years later that he fully understood what had taken place. He thought back to something Millie James had said, “We both have to do whatever it takes.” 

There was a certain air of familiarity between Professor Lyon and the back of the director’s head. He thought he had never seen him before, but he had. 

Vincent Roul is a nocturnal man, though he rarely sleeps during the day. He is quick to anger, possesses an expansive dictionary of insults, and spends his time waiting for the Alastor Articles press release to print.