Hunger For Knowledge

If I had known each answer I carved into the paper with the brittle lead was inching me closer and closer to my death; I would have skipped the exam. My tardiness certainly would’ve saved me from the smokey graphite smeared along my left palm, resembling the gray shadow I have now become.

The suspect to my murder is no secret to me. I saw him on schedule, three times a week, enter through the corridor while white knuckling his leather briefcase. His salt and pepper birds nest always rested upon his head, accompanied with outdated silver spectacles. He would stand between the podium and chalkboard the majority of his lectures. It was often an attempt to hide his gut that peered through the draped curtains that I’m convinced he thought was an in-fashion cardigan.

Mr. Jefferson was known for the permanent wrinkle between his eyebrows, the spray of saliva when he puked the historical unit to the class but never referred to as a killer. How could he ever have been presumed a murderer? The school would never allow him on campus even if he had shackles around his frail ankles. Imagine his title if the University of Virginia board members had a slight inclination of his torturous side hobby…. “Dr. Timothy Jefferson, Ph.D., Killer.”

If you walk around the academical village or commons area, you will begin to see my face plastered on posts and bulletin boards. If I could strangle the student in the Mediterranean Art program who created missing person flyers on my behalf, I would do so with such pleasure. I, myself, can’t look past the monstrous renaissance theatrical play on Melpomene -who is ironically the Greek muse of tragedy-, so I won’t beg you to try. I also won’t waste my time in the Dean’s pristine office to demand an expulsion for utter defamation, because as I am sure you are aware, the living can’t hear the dead.

Let me give you a little perspective on what the afterlife (specifically limbo) is like. Us hollow spirits walk amongst each other and no longer wear physical features. We are now colorless voids that flicker with the slightest movement. We remain stuck this way until we discover what is refraining us from our light.

So, the gorgeous blonde hair that once dangled to my booty has vanished and there’s a giant blur where the dried blood on my abdomen should be a shade of pomegranate molasses. Someone will soon stumble across my body amongst the living. Whomever gets the honor will see my frayed dress, a ruptured stomach, and intestines slipped out of an open flesh wound. It sounds atrocious, because it is! I can almost feel the remaining acid in my core, bubbling from the indigestible trauma my body endured during its final moments. With each burst, the questionable intent anchors me further down here. A place I don’t want to remain in.

As for our senses, those have vastly dwindled. You would think we would all have our panties in a twist, but that isn’t entirely the case. I mean, who’s to say we even have any attire on? All we know, we are just dark and tainted with fear. Some more than others. Most of us hear soft cries from the cheerleader who no longer illuminates her gorgeous physique in the slim uniform she wore when toppling her way down into the alternative world. It is when we hear an echo, we know one of us is nearing our personal “death location.” The closer proximity, the louder the emptiness within us projects out. Once one of us successfully sheds the darkness like a snakeskin, a bell will ring.

No hypothesis is needed to decipher what is hindering me from the bell sounding. To clone my flawless characteristics from my decaying vessel, I need to pinpoint Mr. Jefferson’s ulterior motive, one heavy step at a time.

Any detective would begin by compiling a list of questions. Some common ones may consist of:

1. What was the victim’s timeline?

2. What was the suspect’s timeline?

3. What is the suspect’s background history?

4. How often did the victim and suspect cross paths? Any possible connections?

I have answered a significant portion of these questions. Yet, I remain baffled by one in particular. Who truly is Dr. Timothy Jefferson? There must be an excerpt of his story that influenced a psychological outburst. Unfortunately, I can’t use databases to dig up intensive research. The only resource within my reach is an open agenda left on the podium. I notice Rotunda penciled in shortly after night fall.

A stakeout is the oldest detective surveillance tactic in the book. Also, my only hope.

I flicker my way into the building and observe the surrounding. A few hours pass until the distinctive vision aid enters the vicinity, signifying the criminal amongst the minuscule crowd. He passes by a handful of faculties until he is in a secluded room. Floor to ceiling bookshelves outline every wall. Mr. Jefferson touches a bind and a hidden latch unlocks. A secret passage opens to a time-worn stone stairwell. Below is a morbid dungeon with trails of gunpower to ignite for luminescence. Which he seem to know all too well. A pocket lighter immediately visible after he closes himself in.

As I descend behind him, flashes of his hand charging towards me with a rusty knife become vivid like the last movie I watched in a theater. I remember being the last student remaining in his U.S. American History class to finish the final exam. I took my time, remained confident, though was eager for the end of the trimester to start spring break festivities. We were alone, one-on-one, for a short while. He insisted I could wait five minutes for my assessment to be graded. I obliged, thinking I’d have splendid news to share with my family as the first-generation college student. Though, I still do not know what my results were.

The footage dissolves and I am abruptly face-to-face with my tormentor. Objects outline the dark dirt floor like trim on interior walls. Teddy bears, 70’s playboy magazines, rotary phones, a bicycle, photographs, early 1900 vintage books, etc. A serial killer’s collection of tokens from each sorrowful victim. In his palm, my charmed bracelet.

A sinister smile is across his face like a freshly painted canvas. The salt flaked out of his hair, and a smooth complexion shown amongst his bare skin. He has become youthful and is unusually staring directly at me.

“Allow me to explain,” he says with his pearly white teeth visible as his lips part. “Since you are much different than the others, you must understand by now that you can’t do anything but listen anyway.” The devious smile returns.

“I am from the year of 1777. I was presumed dead at birth, but that was partially inaccurate.” He spun the bracelet around his finger. “A nurse wrongfully took me from my parents. In search for my father, I discovered he was the founder and designer of this campus. He intricately selected the curriculum for future scholars to study.”

I distance myself from him. Though, what more can he harm?

“I live on amongst my father’s legacy and feed off knowledge. I gain youth through every victim I kill and retain their academic intelligence. It is like inhaling cocaine.” He chuckles, “You! I just had to. No one had a score like you. 99% is a feast I had to consume.”

His smile widens from cheek to cheek like Heath Ledger on his exceptional role as the Joker.

I rub sleek strands between my fingertips, as I always have with nerves. My sun kissed legs trembling.

The loud sound of DING ruptures my ears.

He fulfilled his hunger. I was his meal, and he released me.