Aphotic Academia
Rows of rusting lockers line a corridor
draped by shadow so deep you feel as if you could reach out and lay
your hands upon it. Above, anemic skies distort and bend unto
themselves as a light mist begins to fall. In through some unseen
window enters a steady flow of cold spring air, it carries with it
the bitter aroma of scorched plastic. Sirens wail continuously from some far off place, muffled by the brick exterior of the building to
little more than a repetitive and endless drone. A background noise
which carried through every corridor of the three-story school.
Within the classrooms there were no
desks. This is most typical of shuttered schools, as districts often
re-purpose them elsewhere, but here their absence seemed more
significant. All around the desk-less rooms lay scattered materials
from its past as place of learning - Assignments chalked up, graded
papers hung on bulletin boards, prom photos strewn on shelves, and
inspirational posters abound. But no desks. Just highly-decorated
empty chambers to meander through or stand in the center of,
wondering what knowledge these rooms might hold from the near-century
of lectures which have transpired herein.
In the halls uncollected papers lay
strewn the floor, books sit stacked in strange partially-toppled
piles, and posters beckoning your vote in the upcoming school
elections still cling to windows and doors. On the ground level is
found the old auditorium, at one time the focal-point of activities
at the school, it now stagnates. Cavernous, empty, and uncomfortably
quiet, much like the entirety of the old school has come to be.
Outside the world too is shaded. We
carefully walk through the tall grasses which were once a schoolyard,
the cuffs of our pants becoming evermore sodden and cold as we
proceed. Though early spring, it is obvious that winter has not yet
fully gone from here. All around us exists a murky haze that hangs
damply upon greyish-brown earth. Unkempt branches of dormant trees
stretch out toward the sunless sky, others toward the brick walls of
the massive old school. We stand now just miles from a major city,
yet there is not a soul to be seen. Masses of fog periodically roll
in over the streets and empty sidewalks, wrapping the school in a
pulsing miasma. There was something strange about the fog though, it
had an unfamiliar nature to it, and brought with it a sour and
unplaceable odor. Only later did we discover that the fog we
experienced wasn't actually fog at all, but wisps of smoke carried
low by winds passing over a massive fire at a recycling plant blocks
away. In a way the toxic clouds seemed suiting - The property of the
school and the blocks surrounding it were colorless, desolate, and
lifeless. Against all this though, we always shared the uneasy
feeling of having eyes upon us. Likely this was just a result of our
minds wary from the cold, dreary day. Or, perhaps the shadows of
those halls held more secrets than they cared to reveal.
