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It had been 2 days since Ulysses slept. Not that this was unusual for him, but now, even the thought of sleeping made him want to staple his eyelids open. The memories of what he saw–the boiler room, the flames– ran circles around his mind. He wanted to make sure he would never forget a moment of it.
He scribbled in his notebook obsessively during that trial, making sure he got every detail, every note, every emotion. But, when it was all over, he still felt a burning blankness to his pages, like there was something that just needed to be written.
He knew exactly what that was.
The first thing Ulysses did once the trial was over was head for Wolfgang’s room. Most of the other students retreated back to their own dorms, some lingered in the courtyard. Ulysses did his best to avoid them, maybe out of some irrational fear that it would look suspicious, maybe just because they might find him weird. But, successfully, he made it to the door of Wolfgang’s dorm.
His hand stopped as it touched the doorknob, frozen in place as he took a second of contemplation. Why was he even doing this? He only knew him for a few days. He gazed forward at the plaque in front of him, spelling out the name Wolfgang Akire. Those two words felt so tragic now, like they carried the weight of every ounce of dread that he and every other student felt, the dread that they might each end up like him.
By some strange instinct, he picked up his pen and wrote out that name, drawing out each letter slowly and staring at the finished product. The tip of the pen lingered on the E at the end, creating a black blotch of ink. After a moment he blinked, he must have stared at that page for a good 20 seconds, maybe the exhaustion was already getting to him. But finally back on track, Ulysses put down his pen, reached out, and opened the door.
The inside of the dorm was almost exactly like he remembered seeing it last. Tall bookshelves, mature design, clothes strewn on the floor. Yet, for once he had no clue what to write down. He wanted to capture the whole image, every last detail down to the temperature of the air to guarantee it would never fade. It was almost overwhelming for him, looking at this considerably underwhelming bedroom. And so, despite the swirl of emotions he felt, he wrote down one thing. The time.
It was a terribly mundane thing to write, but his shivering hand couldn’t seem to muster much else. 1:26 pm. To think that just a few hours ago Wolfgang was alive, here, in this room. His head was resting in that pillow, his feet brushed this floor, his hand touched that door.
Ulysses’ mind wandered back to the one night they shared this room. He was slightly bashful about it back then, though he made sure not to show it. He had never had to share a room with another person before, much less share a bed, but Wolfgang was particularly polite when it came to those things. Even that night, Ulysses remembered when–before getting into bed–Wolfgang browsed the books on that mysteriously-specific shelf, he made sure to check with Ulysses to confirm that keeping a light on was alright. Of course, he didn’t have a problem with this, he had been sitting in a chair writing about the whole interaction.
He revisited those pages, and reread over a note about how easily Wolfgang could reach the top shelves of that bookshelf. It reminded him of his regular library, and the ladder he had to use to reach anything above the 5th shelf. It would have been nice to have him there with him, perhaps they could study together.
Of course, Wolfgang was dead.
Ulysses lowered himself down into that same chair, a slight sting itching his eyes. He blinked it away, this was no time to get emotional. He decided to focus in on the other parts of the room, noting a discarded purple tie on the bedside table, a half-drank glass of water next to it, a pair of socks strewn on the floor. He even found his gaze lingering on the indent left on the pillow, his eyes tracing the outline his body left. He remembered again, that same night, Wolfgang inviting him to share the bed as he prepared for sleep, explaining how terrible he felt about forcing someone to sleep on the couch. Ulysses declined, though he considered it for a moment, if for anything than just to ease Wolfgang’s conscience.
He thought about that night for a while, long enough for eventually his pen to stop moving. He thought about the calm, comforting presence of Wolfgang, he thought about his excessively gelled-back hair, his finely-pressed suit, the smoothness of his voice, the lightning burns on his neck–
Thud.
A dull sound snapped him awake. Apparently he had been sleeping? He cursed himself under his breath, this was the last thing he wanted. Sleeping meant he wasn’t writing, and not writing meant there was more he could end up forgetting. He reached down for his notebook, only to see that it was the source of that thud noise, it had slipped from his lap after he dozed off, and the sound of it hitting the floor is what finally woke him up. He grabbed the notebook off the floor and checked the time on his watch. 4:53 pm, how the hell had he slept for three hours?
Ulysses picked up his quill and touched it to the paper, trying to pick up where he left off. Only, he came to a blank. He willed the pen to start moving, to form words onto the page, and yet his hand didn’t budge.
Dammit. He thought. Dammit, dammit.
He tapped his pen again and again, trying to conjure up any other facts to write down, but after a scatter of dots decorated the page, nothing came.
Though… there was still one more thing he could do to fill the space.
Ulysses started slowly, a few lines here-and-there that eventually created a shape. The shape of a suit. He began with the details he remembered best, long black pants, purple tie, white collar. His mind's-eye could practically see the image in front of him, remembering that scene of Wolfgang reaching towards the bookshelf, back towards him, and he recreated it on paper.
It had been a bit since he drew, but this sketch came relatively easy to him, less like he was drawing it, and more like it was forming into the page. The details brought it together, the shine of his hair, the metal embellishments on his suit, and suddenly, he was staring down at a finished drawing of Wolfgang.
He couldn’t help but be proud of his work, it was stunningly realistic, a frozen moment of time. It just made it that much more painful though, like in a second, Wolfgang would turn around and meet his eyes, grin, and speak a few words.
He wouldn’t, though. Nothing could make this image come to life, and he would never see that grin again, no matter how much he wanted to.
...
Ulysses frowned.
He got started on another drawing, and made sure this time to start with a face. He drew a chin, a nose, hair, and yet found himself pausing over the eyes. He recalled every memory he had of Wolfgang’s face, but for each one, the image of that silent, agonizing scream took over. It made him feel sick.
Pushing that away, he gave it a shot anyway. He drew out the eyes, focusing on any possible detail he could remember, and yet, once he was done, a stranger stared back. That wasn’t Wolfgang at all, he huffed slightly in frustration, but tried once again.
A different angle. Nose, lips, eyes. Eyes. Somehow this once was worse than the last, but at this point, he was determined. Again, eyes, ears, hair. He cringed. Again, scribbles. Then again, but still no. The frustration was starting to bubble up to his throat, causing a tightness that he couldn't wash down. Not one of the drawings looked remotely like him, they all felt like cruel, offensive doppelgängers, and he was running out of room on the page.
One thing Ulysses did remember, though, was how great Wolfgang was at eye contact. It was probably part of his profession, to look the judge in the eyes when giving his statement, and eventually it began a habit attributed to his professionalism. Unfortunately for him, Ulysses was terrible at eye contact. It was hard for him to hold it for more than a second without feeling uncomfortable. And so, he could hardly pinpoint a single time where he really saw Wolfgang’s eyes.
Yet now, that's all he wanted to do.
It killed him inside, so badly that he found himself crinkling his pages with his grip, but he knew there was only so much he could save. As all history was, some of it was bound to be lost to time. He took another look down at the page full of botched sketches, and ripped it out. He balled it up, a little more aggressively than intended, and shoved it into the trashcan within Wolfgang’s room. He snapped his journal shut with one hand, stood up, and made for the door, feeling a tug at his back for just a moment as he hesitated, aching to take one last look. He didn’t.
Now back in the hallway, he shut the door behind him, standing for just a moment as he breathed.
“Ulysses?”
He jolted slightly, startled by the high-pitched voice coming from his right, and turned to see that it was Toshiko, who had just rounded the corner. He clutched his journal a little tighter, feeling the awkwardness immediately, and looked at her through the dark tint of his glasses.
“Were you…” Her fan fluttered slightly, “crying?”
Ulysses blinked, previously himself unaware of the wetness around his eyes, until now. It made his cheeks heat slightly, but he managed to keep his relatively emotionless composure nonetheless. He didn’t quite know how to respond.
“Ah- well… It appears so.” He said quickly, “Excuse me.” and turned around to return to his own room.
He could feel her hesitation, like she wanted to say something as he walked away. He didn’t care too much though, he just wanted to be alone right now.
But, just nearly as he reached his room, he faintly heard one last sound from behind him. Nothing more than a hm. Not amused, not judgemental, just… sad.
The tears started flowing.