ever marching as to war

"I used to talk to Dr. Erskine about it," I say, angling one eyebrow and ignoring the quip.

"I never tried to sound smarter than I was, because I knew he'd see right through it, but I always wished I was. Smarter, I mean. He was brilliant, and I might've been a book worm, but I was still just some Irish orphan. But he'd always talk to me about these lofty ideas, concepts I didn't think I had much right to weigh in on, but... Well, he'd ask. So we'd talk about it." A student or two of mine are here, and faces I recognize, but I don't so much as glance at them. Distantly, a part of me hopes it doesn't seem rude, but my most immediate desire is to be left alone.

"I always told him I didn't believe in fate. Fate makes things mean less, and I believe, always believed, that your choices matter. Because if they don't, what's the point?"

I honestly don't notice that the glass is cracked- I have no idea when it happened. A single, jagged streak, live a silvery lightening bolt, under where the heel of my hand is pressed against the glass. My fist holds for another moment before I carefully release my grip, a few drops of blood appearing on my skin and an entire half of the glass shearing away, falling to the wood table top with a clear, light sort of sound.