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The first thing he notices as he slips out of the window is that the night is bright. The almost full moon shines down upon this cursed city, reflecting on the snow. Neil’s least favourite thing about nights like this is the quiet. The lack of movement and sound gives way to his own thoughts, monsters that fear not eating him alive.
His breath comes out in small puffs, little clouds, pretty, unique, and so, so fleeting. There’s no one else here to see them; if Neil dies tonight, will they have ever existed? Will anyone ever know about his torment under the stars other than the snowflakes that will melt in a few days? Even they, one-of-a-kind as they are, conform with the rest of the snow at the end, making people happy as they play around and gaze at the snow. Perhaps that’s what he should do.
Yes, that should be the right, easy decision. His dad loves him, he wants the best for him, of course he does… He wouldn’t… It matters not. It matters as little as Neil’s own wishes for his life do, he has to accept it sooner or later. Neil’s life is not his own, no child’s life is their own. He knows no person in Welton that is there without some type of pressure. And isn’t that just a sad admission?
The road may be dark, but he can see Welton’s lights in the distance, sparkling like stars scorching the earth. He thinks about turning back, of course he does. What kind of teenager rebels with no thought of the consequences? That’s what makes it worth it, though. The rush of adrenaline at being brave enough to do something, the exhilarating feeling of owning your own life for once, for however little.
Despite how rigid and strict the teachers like to be, there is probably no student that doesn’t know of at least one way to sneak in and out of campus. It’s sort of a hand down from older students in the form of dents on metal fences and stamps on the loose bricks. Neil, having been here for long enough, manages to slip inside right along the shadows dancing on the walls, waltzing along with the wind.
The student rooms pass him by. He’s not here to sleep, or to wake up Todd. Then again, he is loath to bother his teacher as well. Neil finds his hands shaking once more, not just because of the cold. Knocking on the door seems a monumental task. He hates to be a nuisance, but Keating had said…. He’d said… He was always there. And if this is Neil’s last night, here or anywhere, he needs this.
After the knock, he gets no time to overthink enough to run away. A barely awake Mr. Keating stands on the other side of the door, surprise clearly etched across his features. He’s always been an open book to everyone.
“Mr. Perry, to what do I owe the pleasure?” His voice is merely inquisitive, never judgemental.
“I… I just…” Neil can’t quite utter more words, silently begging the man in front of him to just know.
“You seem quite cold, would you be interested in a cup of tea?” Of course, gentle as if Neil is fragile - and maybe he is- , Keating knows exactly what he needs.
“Sure.” He croaks out as he steps in the room, closing the door behind him as quietly as possible. Part of him worries that at the slightest of noises his father will barge in the room, yelling. It’s a silly thought, nevertheless carved in his brain. He is ushered to one of two armchairs near the window.
“So, what is bothering you this late at night?” His teacher isn’t looking at him, instead busying himself with the preparation of some tea. The pot’s shrill sound burrows in his ears, echoing loud in the quiet, and, seconds later, the scent of jasmine fills the room.
How is he supposed to answer? Should he tell the truth? That he was about to blow his brains out only hours ago, or that this is probably the last night he will spend here, or alive in general. No. If he does, Keating will feel himself responsible, that’s just who he is.
“What do we do when we can’t make our lives extraordinary? What meaning do we find in it?” There. Diplomatic, painful, truthful. A steaming cup is set in front of him, on the table he’s pinned his gaze, rather reluctant to look the other man in the eye.
“Ah, you see, Neil, every life is extraordinary when you do something you love. All you have to do is find a way to do it. Now, I am aware it isn’t always easy. Especially when the people around us, the ones who love us, don’t seem to find merit in our passion, but there’s always a way.” It sounds like a lie. It is a lie, there isn’t always a way, Keating is simply a dreamer, delusional in his own right.
“It’s just, I don’t think I can find a way this time, sir. How do I- How can carpe diem work in misery?” Neil raises his head, looking the teacher in the eye, hoping that just this once, the man that he trusts most among the adults in his life, will confirm to him that his existence is pointless enough for him to not be guilty when ending it. Of course, that doesn’t happen.
“Misery is what we allow it to be, Neil. No matter what our circumstances may be, it is us who make something or nothing out of them. That is what carpe diem means. Make the best you can out of your day, even if the sun rises bleaker than normal,even when your head feels too heavy to keep up. Don’t give up without trying, don’t give up even if the effort fails.”
Easy for him to say. Then again, could Neil…? No, he thinks not.
“They’ll send me away, Mr. Keating. Ship me off to a military school, then medical school, then whatever else they want from my life. I don’t want to do this anymore, sir, I can’t. Perhaps Carpe Diem is not for me.” Keating’s eyes on him go impossibly softer, something akin to sympathy simmering there. He has to be convinced, has to, must either find him away or give him permission to cease to exist. He does none of those things. Instead, he sits across from him, tea in hand, as he looks out of the window.
“How did you feel on stage tonight?” What? What sort of question is that?
“Wonderful. It was as if I came alive under the lights, I had now qualms or worries for these fleeting moments. I wasn’t Neil, I was Puck and it was so cathartic.” It’s the easiest answer he’s given tonight. So much so, that the words come out louder than before, stumbling and spilling over his lips without him thinking about them. For the first time tonight, his voice isn’t choked, his throat doesn’t drag every word down to the pit of his stomach. Keating turns to him and smiles.
“There you have it, then. You were radiant on stage, Neil, hold onto that. Grasp the string that will one day lead you back there, back to that moment. The stage lights will shine on you again, son, you simply must stick around for it.” It’s a bold promise. That’s why he’s the Captain, after all. He makes bold promises and none of them have any doubts about whether he’ll keep them.
“And even if your father is not there to clap louder than everyone, there will be other people. Your friends will be there, proud as ever to call you one of their own.” Tears sting unshed in his eyes, threatening to spill over. Neil won’t have that. He rises from his chair, already heading towards the door, desperate to find somewhere safe and secluded to let it all out. He turns back as the Captain walks him out.
“Thanks, Mr. Keating, I think I’ll… I’ll try to remember that.” That’s the best he can do for now. His teacher seems pleased with it, despite Neil feeling like a failure again.
“That’s my boy! Remember; Even if you lose sight of your road, I’ll be here to remind you why you walked a path instead of standing still. Your cup of tea will be waiting for you no matter who or what seeks to convince you otherwise.” Neil nods as some tears start to spill, hastily leaving, the smile still stuck in his memory. In the corner of a hallway, reacquainted with the shadows, he feels strangely elated. There’s light waiting for him, he just has to get through tonight.
As he thinks about the conversation, Neil remembers; He never even touched the tea.