It was a peculiar voice
who existed inside her head.
It started during her
second year. She was taking a Statistics final when she had stumbled upon the
next section and started to panic, the numbers and equations overwhelming her.
She couldn’t tell which one to use, which one to match with the other – and she
wanted to yell.
Fear unnerved her and
numbed her other senses. The pencil in her hand remained limp. Her muscles
refused to work and she swore she felt herself shaking.
The numbers weren’t
making sense at all.
It seemed like hours’
worth of practice and tears went all to that: to nothing. She felt like crying.
She didn’t want a failing grade, not
again. It was the damned final and she had to at least get a 90 to maintain
her average of not below 85 in the card.
It was a simple
exercise, really. She had to match items from column A with that of column B.
A few of her other
classmates had already finished the test, and she felt like banging her head on
the table over and over just to remember the process, the way and get to the
right answer.
‘Didn’t you study?’
It sounded so amused
that she wanted to laugh herself.
“Of course I did,” she
grumbled. No one else heard – their proctor merely remained inside the
classroom, sitting on a chair and reading a book. The person in front of her
was too immersed to even notice, and the one behind was fast asleep. “It’s…it’s
stupid. I’m stupid. God. I studied for this last night and I can’t even…”
‘Relax.’
“Relax?”
‘And don’t talk so loudly, it told her. People
will notice.’
A little flustered, she
decided to talk to the random voice.
This is sad. I’m talking to myself, pretending that
the random voice is actually someone else –
‘Excuse you.’
She nearly jumped in
her seat, startled at the sudden interference.
‘Just relax. Follow me.’
At the end of the exam,
she turned in a completely-answered paper.
*****
It changed in Junior
year.
In the stillness of her
room, she found herself sitting on the study chair, facing her laptop and
scribbling down endless solutions to her Geometry homework. She decided that it
was worse – and what made it more painful was how many people, how majority in
the batch found the subject easier than Algebra III.
It was depressing.
She had taken the
midterm a week ago and the result was given a few days back. It wasn’t bad –
but it wasn’t good either, not as good as her English grade nor as gratifying
as Chemistry’s.
Arianne felt like
crying, but no tears came out.
Instead, she was
putting all her anger – her disappointment – into the homework.
“Stupid similarities,”
the girl muttered as she erased her nth solution. “I can’t believe Chemistry is
easier than this…” she looked at the laptop screen and then away guiltily. A new
post was waiting to be published, and she hadn’t even started on it yet. The
clock read 11:32PM, and it was a Friday night at least, a busy one at that.
She rubbed her eyes and
sighed.
“I just want to finish
the damn thing.”
“Then finish it.”
She stopped.
“What’s stopping you,
hm?”
That voice.
“If it’s the complexity
of the problem, then you shouldn’t ponder on it too much. There are explanations in your book.”
It wasn’t in her head anymore,
that was for sure.
It sounded like…
Like it came from
behind.
From her bed.
Fear crippled her.
Arianne didn’t move, didn’t speak, felt her breathing catch.
The person sighed.
“Would you look at me,
at least? You’re making me feel as if I don’t exist,” he muttered, and she
swore that he was looking away in embarrassment. His tone gave that away. It
made him seem…human.
With that, she turned
to look at him.
Arianne wasn’t sure
what he expected. This stranger – or so she thought – looked young. Hella young, as Giselle would say. He looked
a few years older, like he was supposed to be in college, but that was as old
as he could get. Red-brown locks framed his face and he swept a few away from
his eyes, which were colored a colorful, mixed green.
The stranger blinked,
taking her in as if seeing her for the first time. She felt a little
apprehensive when he absorbed the sight of her, a smaller girl with black hair
reaching her shoulders, wearing jean shorts and a loose grey shirt. Her eyes
were brown – if he would flash a light at them, they would be a mix of coffee
or caramel.
“Do I know you?”
He chuckled. “Second
year Statistics final. Remember? I helped you during the matching type portion
of the test. You were able to score higher than you usually did. After that, I
let you on your own for a while. This year, I helped you with other matters.
Non-academic.”
“But you’re just a
voice,” she argued, finally getting her own back after the shock. “You were
just a voice and now you’re…”
“Projected voice.
Psychically-projected, whatever. But yes, I’m real. Human. I’ve got all my
parts working,” he flashed a smirk. “I can verify my existence, if you wish.”
“…so who are you?”
“Anything but a
Guardian Angel,” he told her. “A bit more on the devilish side. Figuratively,”
he added hastily after catching the look of horror on her face. “Not literally.
Or you can drop the ‘angel’ and just refer to me as your Guardian. A Sentinel,
maybe.”
Even with that, she
still stared. The man frowned.
“Will it make you feel
better if you know my name, at least?”
“I think it will,” she
admitted. He nodded.
“Understandable. Well,”
the man looked back at her, “My name is Miles Gabriel, but I prefer being called
Mail. You spell my real name like the
distance but my nickname like the post.” He stood up and offered a hand, and
she hesitantly took it, Miles pulling her up.
“Arianne.”
“Arianne,” he repeated,
his eyes like jades, and kissed her hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
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