It was Neil's desk, and it was what had been Neil's book.
The book had a long history for a book. So long that it was not tattered from mistreatment but from use, from its spine being cracked open so many times it didn't quite hold together anymore.
John had found it at the back of his grandfather's bookshelf one day, already slightly worn. When he had pointed it out, his grandfather had sat him down and taught him the value of poetry. From then on, John developed a fascination with words. He had read, devoured, memorised poetry, and stopped by his grandfather's place most days to have tea with him and discuss what he had read and sometimes written. Every time, John had borrowed a new book from his library.
When his grandfather died, he divided his few belongings between four children and nine grandchildren, but it was John to whom he gave his collection of poetry. Especially Five Centuries of Verse, the book most precious to both of them, was to go to his youngest grandson, the problem child, the boy with his head always stuck in the clouds. His favourite, because he had been like that, too.
John had left for boarding school, and he had taken the book with him. Finding himself among a few like-minded boys, John had founded the Dead Poets Society. He had taken up a pen and, after a moment of hesitation, had written instructions onto the first page of the book. It had felt liberating.
They had used the book once a week, and it showed - one day, John had had to glue it back together. But he had never stopped using it.
And then there had been another group of boys, many years later, when he had returned to Welton once more. He was a teacher this time, and John figured it was probably time to pass the book on. He knew the moment the boys asked about the Dead Poets Society.
He'd given it to Neil. But Neil had given it back to him by failing to outlive him.
John buried his head in his hands and allowed himself to cry.
"You're insane -"
"You can't just walk in there!"
"You'll give him a heart attack."
"Oh Captain, my Captain?"
John stilled. Were his ears playing tricks on him or -
Slowly, he turned around, rising from Neil's chair.
He had to grab onto the table for support, almost having fallen back down.
"Neil?", he whispered.
YOU ARE READING
Meet Me In The Woods
FanfictionA few months ago, Neil would have given up. If his father had taken everything he cared about from him, he would have gone to his father's study and unlocked that drawer and taken out the gun. But he was taught by John Keating for almost an entire t...
