As the clock chimed three and the school bell echoed throughout the main hallway, a scorching summer day was slowly drawing to an end. The students were working their way towards the exit; some of them appeared to be bushes that were awaiting to be exonerated by the forest proprietors, while others were squad captains escorting the rest of their crew on an ice cream excursion.
The classroom was undoubtedly a battleground in the perspective of one skipper of such a unit, who, after rejoicing in her triumph, led the rest of her forces for a parade while screaming her national anthem loud enough to be heard by everyone as they left.
And, while she seemed to be in good humor, the same could not be true for her squad, who felt like impalas encircled by lions.
However, when the students at the school left for their respective expeditions, Mr. Wooler laments as he opens the door to Grade 10.
It does take some time to get to know a man like Mr. Wooler, but you should at least be aware of his ardour and good disposition. He is, in fact, also restless, inquisitive, and gifted in arithmetic, but how he uses these traits often sullies them.
To put it most succinctly, from the standpoint of his pupils.
In his four years as a teacher at the Ashcroft Academy, he has never skipped a solitary session due to tardiness; if he is ill, he schedules an online lecture; and if he has a social engagement, he just plain won't go.
At first, it was bearable, but once word got out about the additional, obligatory weekly tests for the program, he discovered himself being alluded to as the devil of the Ashcroft Academy.
Yet, even a devil like Mr. Wooler has given up on this youngster, who consistently paints depictions of divine beings in his art book only after school is out.
On first glance, this lad with red, short, dark hair that pretty much wholly wraps around his chiselled, rugged face would appear to be like other boys his age who embrace the marvels the world has to offer, but in essence, he has hidden closets that perhaps only his professor can smell.
"You're painting them again, and from what I can tell, you've been doing this for a long time."
"I think they'll stop by to meet me."
"They operate from shadows, kid. The boundary dividing the realms you can walk in from those you cannot is very broad."
"But they have provided me with a response,"
"Yes, would you like to see it?"
"I mean, yeah..."
"Just a moment, please."
In within the enclosure of a school, a teacher's daily responsibilities transcend beyond simply delivering; they also entail overseeing students' intellectual development, physical well-being, and behavioural tendencies.
And among their myriad fears, just as with many others who have come before them, rests the fear of white noise.
When overly loud, it won't be sharp and will cause agony and aches, but when it's the contrary, it often reveals some latent threats.
Pacing around the corridors with dark granite flooring and white walls, Mr. Wooler is attempting to determine the source of the sound that has compelled him to abandon his conversation. A part of his mind is whirling, causing sweat to pour down from his brows, whilst the other is riveted on the shimmery black doors, digesting every angle to pick up a hint.
But just as he had desired, there was naught around outside, not even the professors who were apparently supposed to be in their department or the security personnel who were expected to sweep the floors before swapping shifts.
Yes, dreams can occasionally turn quite unnerving.
"Excuse me, sir, Mr. Wooler."
"Mark, I apologise for being late, but I was on my way; you didn't have to search for me. Also, consider the mess you have made; what is all this paint doing on your hand? Oh, wait—is that blood? Did you incur any injury? "
"Sir, please follow me."
"Where? What's the matter? "
"There is an emergency, sir; please accompany me."
Under the bricks, and between the walkway that connects the upper and lower levels, Mr. Wooler reaches for a large wooden door that greets him, his new visitor, with a shaky feeling and low murmurs.
Inside, the panels are encrusted in cobwebs, and any decor that does remain is unintelligible.
The room had certainly been neglected for a really long time; it was perhaps designed to stave off some form of unusual incident, but was later forgotten as he had never heard any tales regarding it.
And yet, he could make out a figure lying on the ground at the opposite spectrum, her breathing laboured, her motions imperceptible.
She is wearing a long shirt topped by a formal jacket, but because the interior is too dark, he must get closer to her to make sure that her uniform is checkered in the same hues as used for the academy.
He takes a step, but it is not green, and another, but it is not blue.
He never imagined that it would turn red or, more precisely, didn't want to.
However, he has not given up hope, nor is he despondent; he has already rung for an ambulance and intends to fetch basic supplies from the school clinic.
But now that Mark seems to have vanished from view, there is only more to make him clench up and more to cause his misery to flare.
Just from how long there was not one, but two lying upon the altar of the doom.
Just how long had he been talking to the one who wasn't walking?
"Mark, Mark Can you hear me? Mark, Mark, Mark... "