Chapter Text
Wednesday, 16th of December, 1959. 7:19pm.
It's been a day since Neil died. It feels like I've been gutted and strung up on a wire, still alive but just barely. I sat through class in a trance-like state, not really picking up anything that was being taught. I sat through trigonometry. I sat through the painfully boring lecture of Mr Keating's replacement English teacher. I sat through physics. The day went by in an indistinguishable blur, seemingly another simple and fast-paced memory. The writhing, witheringly dark part of my soul was consuming my mind with bitter rage. I hadn't had the time to process my emotions after the school-wide assembly regarding Neil. They'd simply sent us back to classes afterwards. The little I can discern in my cluttered and foggy mind is this; confusion and and undulating, overwhelming pain. But it is not the physical kind I am used to, it is a foreign, strange and in ten thousand ways worse.
Charlie said I had a blank stare. So I glared. Meeks said I looked pissed. So I frowned. Pitts said I looked distressed. Is there no way to please people? They left me alone afterward. It was because I snapped at them. It was an accident, I really didn't mean to. I was on edge, still am. I just need time. Time to process everything. It feels like the world is moving too fast. Things just go on as normal with the absence of those who leave. Every day.
Pitts suggested I start up with diary entries. Charlie laughed and called it effeminate, which merited a punch from Cameron. Admittedly, it isn't a bad idea. In fact, so good I agreed to it. Oh Neil. Look what's become of me. A diary-writing melancholic loser. You'd be so disappointed in me.
The teachers have noticed my distress. The campus counsellor, to be brought in especially for our 'Neil circumstance' by Nolan in the next day or so, is seeing me as her first student. I'm supposed to be scheduled with her on Friday, the 18th. I've never needed external help with my emotions. This is new and I don't believe I like it, Neil. I really do not. I am anxious to meet this counsellor, and do not intend to open up about anything. At all.
Thursday, 17th of December, 1959. 8:54pm.
My heart aches. I laid in bed last night and simply just... contemplated. I contemplated both Neil's and my own mortality. His life was short and he meant so much to so many people, me included. He had a burning passion for stage performance. He lived. He breathed. He smiled, and teased, and danced. He suffered. He laughed. Confidence radiated from his grin. Neil was inexplicably human. He was a complex, incredibly amazing person. And he was taken from us. Whenever I think of him it feels like a knife is being twisted in my heart, a throbbing pain that leaves me debilitated.
It doesn't make sense. Nobody else seems to feel the weight of Neil's loss as much as I do. Charlie goes about his life, Knox about his, as does Meeks and everyone else. Regardless, when Neil is brought up, a solemn silence settles over the room, hanging over our heads as dark and gloomy as an approaching storm. Nobody looks like they cry themselves to sleep. Nobody looks like they hang their head in anguish for hours on end. Nobody looks like they are suffering. Maybe I am just bad at hiding pain. People tell me I look like a ghost, a vampire. I look like I haven't slept in weeks, despite it only being two days (albeit long and aching).
It's embarrassing, really. Everyone asks me if I'm quite alright, if I need anything, and they offer their condolences. I don't need any of it, in fact I'd much rather them simply leave me be. Knox's girlfriend Chris brought over a home baked pie, and we all ate it without saying a word in my dorm room.
Neil's bed is empty. As it has been for two days now. The other side of the room is bare, devoid of any sign of human life. The only thing that hinted of Neil's mere existence was the book. The green hardcover book inscribed 'Five Centuries of English Verse'. Keating gave it to Neil before we assembled the Dead Poets Society, just a month before. We didn't know what would become of it. The book sits on Neil's bed, untouched, and I intend on keeping it there.
Keating found it in Neil's desk, and placed it on the bed briefly before his departure. I've been informed that many people blame Keating for pushing Neil too far. Many people blame him for Neil's death. But the way I see it, Keating was giving Neil just the encouragement he needed to pursue his dreams.
It's late. I should be studying. Goodnight, Neil. I miss you.