LILIANNA'S POV
"But my question to you is, as our next generation of historians and history scholars do you believe today's age of cancel culture is similar to any previous trials and tribulations of social history?" Professor Powell asks the lecture theatre.
Without hesitation, and to no bodies surprise Alec's hand raises.
"Yes, Alec." The professor nods for his opinion.
"Absolutely sir. If anything I think today's cancel culture is something like a modern day Salem witch trial. A person can be considered an influential individual one day and be burnt at the stake socially the next." Alec vomits up his personal opinion as if it's fact and the people around him nod and agree while I roll my eyes.
"An interesting take." Professor Powell nods and scratches his beard. Fueled by my annoyance of everyone's blind fondness of Alec my hand raises.
"Miss Kapley?" Professor Powell seems surprised by my rare contribution to the discussion.
"Quite the contrary." I begin and look over at Alec who turns his full attention to me, the smug look on his face only fuels my incoming argument.
"To compare witch trials to that of today's cancel culture is absurd. You of all people should know, Alec, accused witches were never actually burnt at the stake in Salem. There were convicted witches burnt at the stake in Europe. But the Salem Witch trials began in sixteen ninety-two which predated the standard judicial procedures we know today. They were convicted and sentenced otherwise but not by burning at the stake. As for the comparison, today's age simply holds an expectation of how one conducts themselves. For the last hundred years we have completely changed our social hierarchy, putting celebrities and much lesser persons up on pedestals to be worshiped as if they were gods or creatives that actually contributed to the progress of our society. Someone can be a nobody one day and become a famous millionaire overnight with one viral video and be given a platform they may not deserve. People these days have the right to both give someone a platform and take it away given they don't suit the standard or characteristics of a respectable luminary. It's a fast day and age, so of course that change can happen over night. But to compare an educated and accountable generation with that of superstitious, uneducated and irrational people of that era is unfounded. At least cancel culture victims are accused with solid evidence which is much more than you can say for any of the women accused of witchcraft." I can feel everyone in the lecture halls eyes flick between Alec and myself and I indulge in the agreeing claps and few snickers that echo through the silent room as I put Alec in his place.
"An excellent reflection there Lilianna. A true historian always remembers the facts." Professor Powell beams, clearly enjoying my debate and ignoring my snarky tone directed at Alec.
Alec himself turns back to face the Professor, he does not bother to indulge me further and in fact looks slightly embarrassed to have spouted off his opinion for once. Take that you prick. I bite my bottom lip to stop me from grinning in victory and flick my pen between my fingers satisfied with the outcome.
When the bell rings and Professor Powell releases us from class I pack my things and slip out the lecture theatre, careful to avoid Alec in case he tries to speak to me. I'm sure he's not pleased with me but I don't care, though I'm also not keen to brunt any indifference he may have against me because of my little stunt in class.
It's uncharacteristically warm for this time of year and I'm thankful it isn't raining as I walk through campus. The leaves in the trees are beginning to brown, some species are already naked in preparation for the winter. I fiddle with the sleeves of my black top as I walk, pulling the blue trim down to stretch past my knuckles. Collecting my hair from around my shoulders I tie it in a simple bun to stop it from blowing in my face as I walk.
I use to listen to music when I walked through campus last semester but now that I can't really bring myself to enjoy it, listening to the snippets of conversations and atmospheric sounds that swarm not only campus but the busy streets of cafes, book shops and small boutiques that guide my way home is entertaining enough.
I walk slowly, in no rush to get home and enjoying being out in the warm breeze. The smell of fresh coffee beans is too tempting to ignore so I slip into my little local coffee shop and grab my usual order. With a beverage in hand I step back out onto the street to a familiar feeling nipping at the pit of my stomach.
Look around, my mind instructs and I do just that. The street is not by any means busy but it is also not empty. Many other students walk the street and come in and out the stores, cars drive on the road followed slowly by a few cyclists. But just like before, I feel a gaze on me. Like a burn set alight by glass, unnoticeable at first but then it's concentration begins to heat and smoke. I feel the heat but fail to find the eyes that scorch a hole in me.
Why the hell do I keep feeling like this?
I must be losing my mind.
Perhaps I am or perhaps this has something to do with that curly haired, tattooed stranger at the cafe on Saturday morning. Am I really that desperate to wish they were Seven that I'm now imagining the feeling of someone watching me? Following me even?
I sip my coffee and enter one of the book stores, hoping to find something to distract my pathetically tortured mind. The store is quiet as practically every book store is apart from the little bell that rings to signal my entrance. The store is busier at the front where there are comfortable chairs for people to read and I gravitate to the back in search of a novel.
Shelves line the walls as well as two interior shelves that seperate up the narrow store. The history section is rather small on this side but I can see through the shelf that there are some more titles that might interest me on the other side directly across from me as well. I study the spines of the interior shelf slowly reading over the familiar titles.
I own most of these already but I pick out a book that's unfamiliar to me. The store bell chimes as I turn the book over to read the synopsis at the back. Entitled, The Pass at Thermopylae I smirk to myself of the ridiculous Zack Snyder adaptation of the Sarptans in his film, "300." The historically incorrect and overbearing masculinity in the story has ruined such tales for me and I return the book to the shelf. Tucking it in to its rightful place my eyes catch the body standing facing me in the adjacent isle.
I can not see their face, only from the top of their chest down but I'm frozen in place. A black dress shirt meets my eye line through the shelf, top buttons undone to reveal a gold chain adorning a matching gold cross pendant.
No.
The air is completely sucked out of my lungs as my eyes train lower, picking out the hints of black ink peaking out the open shirt.
My heart races while my entire body feels as though it goes numb. I must be losing my mind. I'm imagining this, I have to be imagining this. I lose the sensation of my grip and my coffee slides from my hand. Like slow motion it falls and I tear my eyes from the sight between the bookshelf to watch the cardboard cup crash to the wooden floor, the dark liquid spilling out in a murky puddle.
Shit.
I think to myself but am still rendered speechless from seconds ago. I take a step back so as not to stand in the spilt coffee and further the mess I've already made.
"Oh dear, let me grab you a cloth dear." An elderly voice sounds next to me and I look up from observing the pool of liquid caffeine on the floor back to the shelf where the ghost of him just stood.
And much like a ghost the familiar figure has disappeared. I whip my head up and down the isle and step around to check where I swear I had just seen him. My mind races with a million questions in the speed of mere seconds.
Where did he go? Did I really just see him? Or did I imagine the entire thing? I swear he was there, standing right in front of me. Am I really going crazy? Is my mind playing sick tricks on me?
The old gentlemen who I assume owns the small book store returns to my side and begins mopping up my spilt coffee.
"I'm so sorry, please, let me do that." I apologise and take over the cleaning up, soaking up the coffee with the sponge-like cloth he has brought over.
"It's no problem my dear." The old man insists as I keep apologising. Once cleaned I apologise once more and quickly leave the store. Feeling embarrassed and maddeningly confused. The more I try replay what just happened the more I convince myself I imagined the whole thing. Is my brain even capable of fabricating such an illusion to such detail. I mean I could have sworn that I even smelt him.
Back on the street my eyes train every person I encounter. I check over my shoulder every so often for good measure and with the slightest hope that he magically appears again. Perhaps my brain is playing tricks on me, but for what reason? Is it for this feeling that expands like a balloon in my chest? Or the adrenaline-like buzz I can feel vibrating around my entire body? It's a static, a mild current to the electricity only Seven has managed to provide me. Maybe my body has missed this feeling and is imagining him to feed itself short doses of those sparks? Or maybe, just possibly I'm not imagining things and he was really there in that book shop. Perhaps he was also there in that cafe booth too.
If that were the case why is he hiding in plain sight from me? Does he wish to talk to me but maybe doesn't know how I will react. He did leave me after all, without so much as an explanation. Has he come back to explain himself?
I unlock my front door, giving myself one last glance up and down my street just to be sure. When I'm satisfied that there doesn't seem to be anyone around when I enter my flat. I can't help myself and go right to my large windows, looking out at the street and park below me. A car I don't recognise catches my eye parked on the park side of the street. I stare at the car, a black Audi with tinted windows and get that intuitive flare in my gut once more.
Clutching to that small fragment of hope that I'm not going clinically insane while also ignoring the rational side of my brain warning me not to act, I slip from my window quickly and grab a lipstick from the dresser in my bedroom. As I walk back to the window I heavily coat my lips in the deep red shade, hoping that this insignificant but specific gesture will find the right person. With a breath and another glance down at the blacked out car I press my lips to the cool window, retracting to observe the perfect kiss printed clearly on the windowpane. I lean forward and press another, then another till my window is decorated with seven perfect kisses.
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