I Wrote This While You Slept - 1. Chapter 1

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Every death leaves a trail…

Dalton

It was forty minutes before Wednesday's morning Mass when the girl's body had been discovered on the breccia marble floor saturated in an island of blood. It was Curtis Fairhights, one of the many husky and red-faced altar boys in our school's possession, who found her sprawled out. Because Dalton was the first person Curtis encountered when he ran off to notify an adult about what he had discovered, he became the second witness to the girl’s untimely demise. The air hung heavy as they ran back toward the church via the cobbled walkway. Inside, Dalton could smell the stifling baby's breath that grew wild close to the open windows, covering the area like a mist. The emerging already warm morning sun spelled out a beautiful day as it blazed amidst the cypress trees and burst through the open door and onto the white body that lay soulless at his feet. It was as if the day, the sun, or maybe even God himself wanted to intentionally reveal the past night's transgressions.

She lay only a few meters away from the sanctuary, on the other side of the wall, where a sculpted Jesus hung on a wooden cross. When Father John would deliver another one of his uninspiring sermons to a sea of yawns and heavy eyelids, inevitably, that's always where Dalton’s gaze would land. Something about graphic images seemed to put him in a monk state. Maybe it was the fact that death looked so peaceful. Whatever it was, death didn't have the same effect on him that it had on Curtis, who was hyperventilating in a panic.

All he needed to do was take one look at the massive blood loss to know for a fact that the girl was dead. But just to be thorough he went ahead and put his fingers to her neck to check for a pulse. There was none. The blood not only pooled around her head but was also visible on her white cotton pajama pants, which hung loosely from her hips, and most strangely of all on the soles of her feet.

Even though he had interacted with her many times in the past and knew her face well enough, he actually recognized her by the bracelet on her wrist. He didn't have an affinity for jewelry, but that bracelet always stood out. There are things in life that belong to only one person, not a custom-made pair of shoes but things that may be intangible, like a phrase or a thought. Or they can be physical objects—even the ones that have been mass-produced—like a bracelet or a pair of jeans. Others might wear it, but it's not truly theirs, because it already belongs to someone else. It becomes so much an intimate part of them that you start associating it with them. That was Noelle with her white gold bracelet that featured a chalcedony cloverleaf, handcrafted and bought in Italy during one of many family vacations. She frequently talked with her hands, and Dalton would catch himself staring at that bracelet. It would dance on her wrist, subtle and delicate, but now it lay perfectly still. Its owner extinguished.

He scanned his brain for memories of Noelle. At their school she was French Vanilla, a universally liked flavor. She held a pleasant spot in his brain, but not a hugely memorable one. They’d say a quick 'hello' in group settings, exchange a few laughs, she might have even liked Dalton at some point. But it had been a tough year for him, and he was too self-involved with all of his problems to chase after Noelle, even in all her sweetness.

"Wait here, I'm going to go get someone," Dalton announced.

"You can't leave me here alone!" Curtis protested in outrage.

"Relax, she's dead," the blonde boy replied.

He headed straight for Professor Hearst’s room, knowing that was the only person who would know just the right thing to do in this situation. Professor Hearst was an enigmatic presence beloved by both students and faculty alike. His calm demeanor paired with a soft, yet masculine voice gave him an aura of sophistication. He taught English by day, and conducted a film club on Wednesday nights, and his charisma attracted even the students that had no interest in learning to his afterhours just for a quick chat. His office housed a sapphire slub velvet sofa, which students sunk into as they cried about a breakup, got advice on how to deal with an overzealous parent, or simply learned how to play chess. Dalton too was a frequent visitor on the sofa, especially lately. Sometime in April, and to his knowledge absolutely out of nowhere, he stopped sleeping. He survived on a few hazy two to three hours squeezed randomly in throughout the night. But mostly he would lay in bed, wide-awake and staring at the ceiling, with a brain that he could only compare to a Pomeranian suffering from separation anxiety. It whined incessantly, and eventually he was ready to give it a swift kick, just to make it shut up.

His mind had never been a safe place for him. Other people were able to retreat into their heads to make sense of things. His mind was something he had to wrangle with, and soothe, and yell at, and cajole and bargain with. His mind was a badly built house, whose walls hid mold. Good enough to the outside eye, but not a house that would pass an inspection.

He began to feel like he had to try hard, day after day, just to keep his head above water while others would easily swim laps around him. He didn't know what to do, so he went to see Professor Hearst, who luckily was quite fond of him. He hogged his office hours for days, until other students began complaining, wanting their own turn on the famous sofa. Finally, after a few days of beating around the bush, Dalton said, "The thing I feel, I can't describe it." It was a vague statement. But while another teacher might have stared blankly or worse yet, uncomfortably, Professor Hearst simply smiled. And not that placating smile that grownups like to give teenagers when they think they're being dramatic. No, it was a smile of camaraderie.

"Happiness in intelligent people is the rarest thing I know.”

"Hemingway," Dalton replied right away. Professor Hearst smiled again.

"Bingo. If you wake up expecting to feel happy every day, you're going to be in for a big disappointment. Happiness is fleeting. It's here, it's there, it's back, it's gone. Getting up and being productive is something you have control over. Getting work done, getting exercise done...speaking of which, I heard you quit the water polo team?"

Dalton nodded, "I just couldn't make myself do it anymore."

"I understand, but you have to find something that makes life worth getting up for, and it's not 'to be happy'. That's an illusion."

"But Hemingway killed himself," the blonde boy replied.

"Don't worry, you're nowhere near that intelligent," Professor Hearst said and winked, and Dalton laughed for the first time in a long time.

He was the man with all the answers, and now Dalton hurried to let him know before the rest of the student body awoke and made their way over to church. He rapidly knocked on the door, and the man answered right away, almost as if he was expecting someone.

"What are you doing here?" he asked Dalton.

"We found a dead body in the back of the church," Dalton conveyed as quickly as possible. The professor stared at the boy without comprehension for a few moments, then asked, "A body? Who's 'we'?"

"Fairhights. Curtis Fairhights. He found Noelle. She's dead," he said clumsily. He waited for another beat.

"Are you sure she's dead?"

"I checked her pulse."

Professor Hearst nodded.

"Alright, let me get dressed. Come on in." He was already dressed, but Dalton wasn't going to argue with him. He was surprised at the invitation, and the pace at which he was handling the situation. Shouldn't he be calling the police? But then again, she was already dead, what did ten minutes matter.

"Have a seat," he told Dalton when he noticed the boy awkwardly idling by the door. He had never been in the professor’s private room before, and it felt like an invasion of privacy. Like seeing something he shouldn't have seen. The room was immaculately clean and spotless, almost sterile. Crisp white bed sheets, a dark mahogany wardrobe that sprawled and took up a good portion of it, and a small table and chair by the window. The only thing out of place was a large tome with a dark red cover laying on the floor at an awkward angle, as if someone had thrown it. Before Dalton had a chance to pick it up, Professor Hearst returned from the bathroom in a blue dress shirt, a tie, and a vest. “Let's go," he said to Dalton, and the boy followed obediently.

When they arrived at Principal Archie Jones’ room, there was no answer.

"He must be in his office already," Professor Hearst mused, more to himself than to Dalton. Again, he followed behind the man, and admired how calmly he was handling the entire situation. This is why students were so drawn to him. He had this unique and subtle authority, and he wielded it like a secret weapon.

As Professor Hearst predicted, Archie Jones was already in his office. After he heard the news, his face turned two shades paler. He was known for being somewhat of a floundering old man, but his love of educating kids and his brain—that was like an ancient library, full of brilliant knowledge—kept his job safe and secure. He found himself in the position of principal a short while ago, but he didn't have a knack for it and the bureaucracy it involved. His natural habitat was the inside of a classroom. Unfortunately for him, someone had to run this place.

"Dead? Are you certain?" he asked looking from Professor Hearst to Dalton, and back again.

"Quite certain, yes."

The principal fumbled with some loose papers on his desk while darting his eyes helplessly around. He looked like a frozen computer experiencing a glitch in the system.

"That's...that's not good," he mumbled out with a creaky voice. Professor Hearst arched an eyebrow, then after another beat of silence he stated plainly, "Go inform the teachers, they need to figure out something to do with the students who are about to show up for Mass. I'll go take a look at the body, make sure nobody disturbs it." The principal nodded his head vigorously, happy that someone gave him a plan of action to follow.

"Yes, yes, great idea. I'll go tell the others."

"And Archie," Professor Hearst added as we turned to leave.

"Yes?"

"Call the police."