Northern Downpour

The Open Gates (I, II, III)

I

It was a bright Saturday afternoon and a very special day for Micael. One must be happy , most definitely, because of his high school graduation. As far as he could remember, he was not really expecting to even graduate in the most sophisticated way possible for he was not really studying and only cared of his peers and wants.

“What’s the matter, honey?” said his mother right before their line was called. “Nothing. I am just so happy to graduate and make you and dad proud,” he uttered. He looked upon the white and blue garlands which had adorned the sides and aisle of the auditorium and verily noticed the signage posted at the front of the gym saying: Welcome, graduates! May the commencement today foresee the journey beyond.

Upon looking around meticulously, he found his classmates waving at him (they were arranged alphabetically, which were way far than his) and he gracefully waved back, trying to decode what they were saying that time; the crowd got loud from a performance of Armes Beaumont, who had a great taste for what it seems to be old music but a very angelic voice to start with. “Are you bored, Mic?” said his father having the same regards inside his head. “Because of the songs he’s singing? Not at all, dad,” he replied and followed: “I mean, he’s got the voice of a damn angel.” After what it seemed to be a very great performance, the emcees finally went forward to the graduation rites, where everyone was surely excited to be involved in. “This will surely be a tiresome and a beautiful day in one, right, Micael?” said his seatmate, who he only knew because of their Physics class where they both failed. “Uh-huh. I mean, who mustn’t be happy, Jake,” Micael replied and they both followed a laugh reminiscing what they cowardly did just to take a passing grade from Mr. Watsons. “Remember the day when we tripped Mr. Watsons in the bridge and he fell down the muddy water?” said Jake while hysterically laughing, which buggered those who are listening to the emcee’s talk-abouts. “IT was the very of our semester,” obnoxiously uttered by Micael and also, followed by a very loud laugh which captured the very eyes of some teachers (they were more than glad that Mr. Watsons was not there, not because of he was diagnosed with Tuberculosis but because he was literally not in the ceremonial rites, or else they were dead sheep by that time) because of how they were bothering the latter of the students around them as well as the parents who attended to see their respective boys and girls hoist sweet success.

“Oh, here she comes, mate.”
“Who?”
“Look!”
Micael was confused by the way Jake suddenly reacted over something.

What the hell is he even talking about? Or pointing to? ‘twas Micael’s mind running unto and then without any mere hesitation, he looked towards where Jake was pointing his index finger at. “Let me just wear my glasses, mate.” Micael said (he is near-sighted, just so you know). He quickly reached inside his brown leather bag and searched for his glasses, only to find out that it was in his mother’s. “Hold on one second, Jake. I will talk to mom first,” he embarrassingly followed. “I know you are looking for your glasses, honey,” enunciated by his mother and quickly handed his glasses to him, as if one’s mother could hear every voice of their children with most accuracy. As far as Jake could remember, Micael had this ‘reading specs’-looking glasses with a metallic fame and a quite astounding capability of making him good-looking.

Only if Micael wasn’t really near-sighted at all, one would haven’t waste time to see such beautiful lassie was the words circulating inside his mind, let alone the thoughts one cannot even articulate in front of Micael. Jake watched closely as Micael went back to his seat, as his parents sat on the other side of the auditorium, and quickly went back to business. “There she is now,” said Jake and pointed his index finger towards the front right corner of the auditorium. “You see her now?” Jake frustratedly articulated. “I see,” Micael replied and followed: “What’s her name again? Her face and hair are familiar, mate. Maybe because she lives next block on our street or?” Micael surely had a good sense of taste of memory, I guarantee. “She does live next block to ours and her name is-” Jake replied and abruptly cut by Micael and started to point out names randomly.
“Rebecca?”
“No.”
“Austine?”
“Of course, no.”
“How about Alexandra?”
“No!”