Scholar's Past

Scholar's Past is the story that encompasses all the redaction works the author, Requiem Yoriichi, has made in his life.
==I: The Painting==
It was a winter day like the others at the bottom of the Alps. It was snowing, snowing roughly. I was with my best friend Arthur, whom I had known for a long time. I think we met when I was a child. We were in his mountain cabin. He had very probably bought this mountain cabin with the money he gained with his flourishing spices business. Arthur and I have been friends since long ago and always understood each other well. It was a friendship without disputes; we always helped and supported each other. In short, a perfect friendship. 
We had to separate because Arthur had struck it rich, but we always kept in touch. As opposed to Arthur, I had a hard life. I was a badly paid worker who worked in hard conditions. At least I had a few weeks of holiday. To make it even worse, I had become a somnambulist! And these somnambulist crises happened regularly! Because of that, I arrived there. Arthur had suggested that I come to his mountain cabin for my holiday. It would allow me to spend time with him and to forget the stress due to work. I also believe that Arthur tried secretly to give me back this joy of living that I have lost and searched for since long ago.
I scrutinized the sky and perceived as best I could the sun setting. I left the window of my bedroom, which had been given to me, and looked at myself in the mirror. The mirror sent back the reflection of a thirty years old man who had short and smooth hair, combed backwards. His hair was as dark as the night. His hazelnut eyes were almond-shaped and dull. They gazed at the mirror with a melancholic expression. He had a livid forehead, a thin nose, and a narrow mouth. He had haggard skin, white as milk, and his face was hollow and bony.
But all that didn't surprise me at all. I was forged like a scam. My arms were as short as my legs. I wore a beige shirt, simple brown pants, and black shoes. My clothes were patched, even burnt and torn apart in some places.
What have I become? I thought. I washed myself thanks to the sink below the mirror and, before leaving, observed my bedroom.
It was a banal bedroom. A white bed was placed on the left of the room with a bedside table, on which there was an oil lamp and a wardrobe next to it. On the right, is a desk with many drawers and, on its left, the sink with the mirror above it. The bedroom also had a window overlooking the majestic mountains. One of the desk's drawers was open, revealing a collection of skincare products. Yet, I was certain I had never opened this drawer. Several paintings adorned the walls, one of which I was sure I had never seen before. It was a portrait of a pretty girl. But, for now, I didn't pay attention to these details and left in the direction of the dining room to take my dinner.
"Hello Romeo," said a warm voice.
"Greetings Arthur," I replied in a monotone voice. I scrutinized Arthur with my gaze. He was also around thirty years old. His hair, blond like ears of wheat, was short and perfectly combed. His small green eyes sparkled and scrutinized me with an active look. He had an aquiline nose and a large and expressive mouth. His round face displayed an open expression. He had a slender allure and was a tall yet thin man. He had long and firm arms and legs. He wore a black crossed frock coat. His braided waistcoat with lapels and gusset, which was black too, gave to white pants. His pants, with lateral pockets, also had white horizontal stripes. He wore shoes which were black too.
"Today, we're going to eat beef stew. I hope you will like it ; this isn't what you eat normally at your work," he said.
"Trust me, I will love it," I replied.
We sat on our chairs. Then, a servant deposited the beef stew. We filled our plates, taking equal portions, and began to eat. We talked about my somnambulism and had the idea to lock my door to avoid the possibility of wounding myself in the night. We finished our dinner, I refused to take a dessert, and I went to sleep.
"If you need anything, tell me..."
"Thank you, Arthur," I replied. "Having you as a friend is a chance." We left, going towards our respective bedrooms. I took the key of my bedroom's door that was in one of the desk's drawers and locked the door twice. 
Suddenly, I felt my head become heavy. I laid down on my bed and fell asleep instantly, not even having the time to take off my clothes.
When I woke up, everything seemed normal. I observed my bedroom carefully, but it was too dark. Then, I heard a loud noise coming from the wardrobe. I took my oil lamp, lit it up, and watched, but saw nothing unnatural. Suddenly, the wardrobe's doors opened, and I saw a violin, a bit damaged, beginning to float in the air.
Am I dreaming? I thought. Then, the paintings began to shake as men and women, of different sizes and ages, emerged from the paintings. They all were seemingly from different centuries and wore different clothes, creating a multicolored set which, even though it was comical, resembled an artist's unique and original creation. Amidst the crowd, only one person dazzled me. It was a young woman with black hair like the wings of a crow. They were smooth and so long they arrived at her waist. She even put a rose, red as a heart, on her hair. Her eyes were round, dark, and bright. Their gaze was lively, seemingly searching for something or someone in vain. Her nose was short and her face round. Her laughing mouth and her fresh skin were brilliant. She was tall and thin, even though she looked sickly. Her legs were long and her arms thin. She wore a long lace dress, white as the stars in the sky ; so long it could almost touch the ground and would likely do so when she was moving. As I beheld this woman, I felt a renewed vitality as my eyes seemed to glow with life. My skin took some colors back. I was blown away by her beauty and her steps. 
Then, the violin began to play, alone, with no user behind it, and everyone began to dance. However, the young woman was alone and seemed 
desperate. Subsequently, my body disobeyed me. It put the oil lamp on the desk and I began to walk towards her without ordering it.
"Miss, will you allow me this dance?" I asked. Her eyes were filled with hope as if she had achieved a task she had given herself since the beginning of her life. So, she accepted in a joyful and crystalline voice.
And I understood that this woman that was in front of me was what I had searched for so long : joy. Joy was a concept, an abstraction, and this woman was, in my eyes, its perfect embodiment. Then, she clung to me, and I touched with my fingers the incarnation of my objective. Rapidly, we became the center of attention as our dance steps were perfectly coordinated and I felt boundless joy within myself. We finished our dance and accepted with pride the applause of the others. Then, an old woman came to see my dance partner.
"Rose, it is time to go," the woman sadly said.
I looked out the window and deduced, with the position of the Moon, that it was midnight. I also deduced that it was why she had to leave. Rose cried, looked at me, and clung to me once again. 
"I will never forget this dance, partner."
Then, the people, one by one, vaporized and took back their places in the paintings that, I only saw now, had become empty and white. These paintings took back their colors gradually as the other dancers took back their places. The violin stopped playing and was sucked into the wardrobe which closed itself. Then, I fainted.
I smelt an intolerable smell and woke up. I saw Arthur in front of me, holding a sort of liquid within a bottle that smelt badly, and the door was opened behind him.
"How are you? I was so afraid! You were laid on the ground, motionless! Your dream must have been hectic," he exclaimed, worried.
A dream... Of course! Of course, it was a dream! Why didn't I think of it before! Rose and the others aren't real! I'm an imbecile! I thought.
I took back my senses and looked at Rose's portrait, still present. I then asked Arthur who that was. He said she was his dead cousin and that this mountain cabin was her legacy.
I thanked my host for these holidays that gave me joy back and packed up my business.
==II: Author’s Autobiography==
I was born on the twenty-second of February two thousand eight, precisely at ten a.m. I know, this has many twos in it. In fact, two is my lucky charm number. I took a childhood photo, a class photo. I didn't wear glasses yet, but an orange pullover and a gray shirt. I was smiling, holding a book. I loved and still love reading so much! I think I was around four years old at the time. Despite my young age, my intelligence was already labeled as "extraordinary". I knew how to walk very quickly, how to read when I was three years old, how to count and write easily... However, except my family, I had no one to talk to, which is still true nowadays. I have always been curious about learning and discovering the world. I wanted to know everything. 
Of course, I also had my defaults. I was clumsy and made small and innocent fooleries. I was also one of the worst in sport, even though I had a kind of exceptional physical strength, which was beyond the average. 
I was mostly raised by my grandmother, Noelle, and my grandfather, Jean-Marc. However, my grandfather died because of pancreatic cancer, several years ago. Of course, I still have parents, married and loving, and plenty of uncles, aunts and cousins, of which uncle Alain and aunt Chantal are a part of and who died not much time after this photo was taken. 
I didn't really have a preferred place, except my house. I love talking to my family, including my sister and my parents. I love wandering in our garden. I love my cat too, of course. However, years ago, I lived not in a house, but in an apartment. But we had to leave it as my sister was about to be given birth. I think I was around six years old. I don't remember much about my apartment, but I think I didn't like it. I never knew the exact place of my birth, only that it was in a hospital.
Perhaps my childhood was a better life than my current one... Or maybe not, I don't know! But what is sure is that it is nice yet nostalgic to watch this photo again.
And that's how my childhood happened. I watched, learnt, palpated, tasted, heard, smelt, sniffed, touched... and then, I registered this information that I had acquired and discovered the world, safe in my grand family.
==III: An Honorable Garden==
Fanny's father, a war veteran and now a volunteer gardener, entered the garden. The garden was bordered by tall, poorly trimmed hedges. He could see several flower beds, including red and white roses, yellow and purple tulips, horthensias, poppies and even sunflowers. Added to this were a few daisies and dandelions from the abundant weeds. However, the colors of the flowers were dull and drab, and they were gradually fading. The soil on which they were planted was dry, poorly watered, and the flowers had great difficulty absorbing the sun's rays, which were hidden by the modest birch tree that stood in the center of the garden and which, although Fanny's father was no tree expert, seemed to be doing very well. Fanny's father then looked back and saw wisteria hanging on the walls adjacent to the door through which he had entered. The wisteria, too, looked bland and unhealthy.
He turned around again, this time spotting a simple gardener's shed at the back of the garden, near the hedges. He moved forward and opened the unlocked door. He found all the tools a gardener could dream of, including a watering can, pruning shears, scissors and so on.
Determined, the gardener, armed with his tools, went out and set to work. He began by trimming the hedges to make them uniform. He cut back any overhanging branches, chose a maximum height and removed anything approaching a rather yellowish color.
But his specialty was flowers. He began by filling his watering can from a water collector attached to the shed, and started watering them. The flowers saddened him; they were thirsty, hungry soldiers, mutilated by the merciless shells of ravenous insects. He remembered the war, but above all his helplessness that day, when he saw the chrysanthemums, planted there in a flowerbed behind the birch tree, which he hadn't been able to see when he arrived and which had never seen the light of the sun.
Once all the flowers, including the wisteria, had revelled in the transparent nectar, he thought it imperative to move the flowers so that they could absorb the Sun's rays. He delicately grabbed the flowerbeds and placed roses with roses, tulips with tulips, chrysanthemums with chrysanthemums, hydrangeas with hydrangeas, poppies with poppies, not forgetting the sunflowers. All lined up like soldiers at attention, so as to fill the space and be under the Sun, without getting in each other's way. He then went into the hut and made his comeback with a big bag of fertilizer that he could hardly carry with two arms. He gave this fertilizer, comparable to survival rations, to his soldiers, then got rid of the weeds, but left the dandelions and daisies.
Looking at these soldiers, trembling with fatigue and at death's door, but who despite everything had the courage to stand and survive, who despite everything had the determination and perseverance to go on, to go further, who despite everything had this burning desire to win against their enemy, who today was not the Germans but Death, and who despite everything had the patience for a gardener to finally present himself to these flowers worthy of the Legion of Honor, a tear of pride ran down his cheek. He wiped the tear away, puffed up his chest and left.
Category:Story