Chapter 9: The Agony of Sorrow
"I came too early at school, and everybody seems to be absented here," William said it with his eerie thought and decided to sit down on his bench. "I don't know why nobody is here when, but I am too early," he continued to rattle his rattle with his convoluted mannerisms.
He ultimately decided to track his feet outside the classrooms to sophisticate his eyes with someone's presence or was he trying to escape? He redolently wished to be with no one, and yet he anathematized the segment of everyone because there was no one. As soon as he clipped his toes down... his heart bustled in a toddling manner. It was the very presence of no one, but he wished at least once—Isabelle—and he was flustered within a second and got back to his seat in a second.
"Is she coming here? And why? I won't look at her, but I did just now. Oh, I didn't do it; she came right in front of me. But is she coming here?" William was highly strung with mere sight of that nature, and he got to be in a fragment where he dipped not to be. His eyes were down, looking at the desk, but he could surmise the ingoing and out, "I should go out of here, but why? 'I don't think about her.' This is what I decided, so what makes her presence any fall?" As soon as he constructed this in his mind, a mere presence of an enchantress flowered in there, and he couldn't move a sphere.
He decided to run away again, defiling all of the previous escort; he went as if he had seen some grave. Isabelle, who had just sat down in her chair, seemed as if she could foresee the tranquillity of the very thing that ran away from there—she didn't say anything, but one couldn't tell if she wanted to have it or not.
William, who just ran away in any frivolous direction, not having the increment of where to be headed, decided to stop. "She was there, and I ran away. I don't know, but what would she think about? No, it doesn't matter when she was talking to someone. I don't blame her; I can't. It's just me, my fault. I wasn't that special—I could never be there so that one could only see me. It's not about seeing one, but about why can't I be enough? It's not their fault but mine because I am not special at all." William continually affected his thorns; he seemed to have a minute of talk with Isabelle but normed as if he was with her forever. A day earlier, he dismantled others as he proclaimed himself as incapable of being grasped by others, but now he shredded some conical full of tears mentally and devised himself as ignominious.
The surroundings were like everyday, but he didn't seem to be dribbling in any of those like every other day... but suddenly a tap was made on his shoulder, and he moved in a solaceful, feeble way. Only to find a tray of the same manner from whom he had run off.
"Why did you just run away from there? No. You ran away from me," Isabelle softly procured her words, and William was as surprised and in terror as some criminal who was just caught for steeling. "I didn't run away; I thought about looking outside as no one was there," William said it in a somewhat callow instinctive way. "You also ran away yesterday seeing me with him. Do you want to know who he was? It was someone I love, and it's not you. You can see it. You don't need to run because I don't even think about you, and I never did. Your presence was nothing to me, and I didn't even know you existed or cared to even flinch my eyebrow." Isabelle was there with him as sweet a face as a sugarcane, but her words could crush any feeble trays. William was standing there, listening to all the words without a shout, and each word of Isabelle's acted as a spear through his chest.
"Now that you hate me. Do you think I will give a damn about you? I never did, and now I will hate you. I hate you... hate you... I hate you... I hat"—William's eyes rose, and he realised it was nothing but a facade of his dream—his utmost crippled manifestation.
"All dream?" William jumped to his feat. "All of it, wait, was that even a dream? What was of it? Which one was a dream—the one I saw just or the one yesterday? Which one is real? Am I already in a dream? Have I awakened yet?" William was dismantled and confused, and his heartbeat was joggling through the thorns from all the hatred words in real life, which he had never soothed. Those unrevealed words in his dream felt more like bullets in the heart itself.
"So she hates me. Okay, she is right; I am to be more hated than loved. It's all right." William, with his convoluted schemes of sentences, woke up and fetched his soul.
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