NOVGO.NET Chapter 72/Fires of the Past
Chapter 72: 72/Fires of the Past
Chapter 72
Stephanie’s Point of View
Alexander was passing his fingers through my hair with exquisite gentleness, the warmth of the dryer caressing my skin softly. But a greater, more agonizing heat was radiating from deep within me. I watched his reflection in the mirror in silence; his gaze focused intensely on my strands, his hands treating me as if I were a rare diamond he feared to mar with even a touch.
At that moment, a slight shiver ran through my limbs, and I realized the bitter truth I had been trying to escape with all my might. Yes, this sincere care meant that my feelings for Alexander were still pulsing and alive, despite Cedric’s overwhelming presence in my life. And although I loved Cedric with all my soul in a way that almost drove me mad I discovered with bitterness that I loved Alexander too... in a different way, but a real one.
I breathed deeply, feeling my chest tighten under the weight of this internal confession that was tearing me in two. My eyes met his blue ones in the mirror; he smiled at me with a calm confidence that made my heart flutter violently beyond my control. I slowly raised my hand and touched his hand which was drying my hair. He suddenly stopped moving and looked at me in silent inquiry, while my racing heartbeat betrayed my bitter struggle between two men who inhabited the same soul in contradictory ways.
Alexander stopped the dryer and asked in a concerned tone: "What is it, Stephanie? Did I hurt you?"
I pulled my hand away quickly, feeling my cheeks flush crimson. I tried to justify my obvious agitation: "It’s nothing... at all. I just felt the heat of the air burning my scalp a little."
Yes, I was lying skillfully; the heat was not emanating from that damned device, but from fires raging in my depths, nearly suffocating me.
He lowered his gaze and spoke with sincere apology: "I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to. I’ll be careful and more gentle, I promise."
I closed my eyes tightly to escape his gaze, which was piercing my mask and reaching my core. But as soon as I did, the train of memories pulled me back... six years into the past, when everything was different and simple.
I remembered the day following that provocative punishment Alexander had given me for the first time. I couldn’t bring myself to tell Kyra what had happened, no matter how hard I tried. It felt completely inappropriate, especially since I hadn’t shown any real objection the shocking part was that I had actually enjoyed those harsh touches! I knew for certain that Kyra would lose her mind if she knew that the dignified high school professor had crossed his boundaries with me in that manner.
In Professor Alexander’s next class, I sat in my seat staring at him like a fool. I watched his hands as they rose to explain the lesson with dignity; the very same hand that had slapped me mercilessly the day before! I felt my body shudder as a cold chill ran down my spine. He shot me mysterious, strange looks throughout the lecture, until suddenly, his deep, sharp voice pierced the quiet of the hall: "Stephanie Miller... stand up, please."
I stood up immediately as if struck by lightning, my body tense as a taut violin string, my heart pounding so violently against my ribs I thought I could hear it. Alexander looked at all the students with the coldness of a master professor who is not to be questioned. Then he turned his piercing gaze toward me and asked the question that made silence descend upon the room:
"Stephanie, in Milton’s famous epic Paradise Lost, how can we analyze the complex dialectic between free will and predestined fate in the Fall of Satan? And do you believe the rhetorical language Milton used was actually intended to justify Lucifer’s rebellion or for his moral condemnation?"
It was an extremely complex and difficult question, both philosophically and intellectually. The usual whispers among the students cut off completely; everyone stared at me, waiting for an answer that might never come from a student my age.
I was frozen in place, feeling the gazes of my classmates piercing my back like needles. I swallowed hard, trying to gather the pieces of my mind, which was more blurred by the image of his strong fingers from the night before than focused on John Milton’s intricate texts. I began to speak with a slightly trembling voice, trying hard to appear confident and informed:
"Well... I think Satan in the poem represented a very strong and attractive character. This strength is what made him take his own decisions without fear. Free will here appears clearly in the fact that he chose his path by his own volition. The language Milton used described his feelings with extreme precision, making him appear to the reader as if he were justifying what he did because he felt an injustice had befallen him. Words always express what goes on in a person’s mind when they try to convince others of the truth of their viewpoint."
I stopped talking, feeling heat flood my entire face. I knew for certain that I hadn’t answered his deep philosophical question; rather, I was fearfully hovering around a basic idea of "freedom of choice," as if explaining a simple lesson to children instead of providing a rigorous literary analysis.
Professor Alexander remained silent for seconds that felt like eons, watching my confusion and the tension in my eyes with hawk-like, unmerciful eyes. Meanwhile, my hand toyed with the hem of my skirt in noticeable agitation, waiting for him to rebuke me for my superficiality or mock my weak answer in front of everyone.
"You haven’t answered the core of my question, Stephanie," he finally said, fixing his gaze on me as if reading the secrets of my chest. "This is not the analysis I asked for."
I felt small before his overwhelming prestige. "I apologize... I don’t know the exact answer, Professor," I said in a faint voice that was barely audible.
"Fine... sit down," he replied with lethal coldness as he flipped through his papers.
Then he continued, moving with dignity and authority before the chalkboard: "I will answer this fundamental question myself, so pay close attention." He began to speak with linguistic brilliance and deep philosophy that made me more fascinated by him than ever before. His words were arranged like chess pieces; his mind seemed like a raging ocean with no end to its depth. When the bell rang at the end of class, he didn’t pack his papers quietly.
Instead, he spoke in a sharp, commanding tone: "Stephanie Miller... come to my office immediately."
He left the hall with his confident steps echoing in the corridor. Kyra approached me and whispered with suppressed resentment: "What is wrong with this arrogant professor? How does he dare to pose such an impossible question to you? No one in this damned class knows the answer!"
"I don’t know, Kyra... I really don’t know," I said in total disorientation as I gathered my notebook.
"And why is he calling you to his office now?" Kyra followed up with confusion and concern. "Because of your answer? It’s just a literature class!"
"Kyra, please, I don’t know the reason either," I replied, feeling a tremor in my hand I couldn’t hide.
Kyra narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "And why are you so tense and pale, as if you’re being led to the guillotine?"
"I have to go now; I don’t want to annoy him further by being late... you go on," I said with slight sharpness from the sheer anxiety gnawing at me.
"I’ll wait for you out here to tell me exactly what happened," Kyra said with stubborn persistence.
"Don’t wait, Kyra. Go home; I’ll tell you everything tomorrow," I told her, moving away quickly as if escaping.
I left before giving her any chance to object. I stood before his heavy wooden door, which smelled of books and fine tobacco. I knocked on the door with a heart pounding as violently as war drums. I heard his voice ordering me to enter. I went in and saw his neatly groomed black hair, his piercing blue eyes that resembled a knife’s blade, and his elegant brown suit that highlighted the bulk of his body... Damn, my heart began to throb with a force that nearly broke my ribs.
"Come in," he said coldly, gesturing with his hand.
The moment I stepped inside, I heard that terrifying sound: the click of the key as he locked the door from the inside. I froze, a sharp shiver running down my spine to the tips of my fingers. I knew immediately that I wasn’t here to discuss "Milton." Was he going to punish me because I was distracted? Or did he want to repeat last night’s madness?
He approached me with deliberate slowness, hands in his pockets, and spoke in a low tone that sent my breath into a total frenzy: "Surely you know very well why I asked you here, Stephanie... don’t you?"