Chapter Four

                Elijah Beaumont reached with his free hand and turned the volume up on his phone, from which poured the sounds of The Din Symphonic. They were among his favorite bands, beautiful classical sounds fused with electric guitars and angelic vocals, a perfect symmetry of calm and fury. That band suits you too well, Vee had told him once. All that quiet angst and stuff. People already think you're this tranquil, broody, high school god, or something. All silent and strong and whatnot.

                Perhaps it was the sunglasses; he wasn't sure. Vee was right, though: he felt that he actually did mesh well with the tone of The Din Symphonic, those raindrop piano moments, followed by piercing power yells. He didn't fashion himself a poet, necessarily, but he saw the parallels: a composed exterior and an interior set afire. That composed exterior did not come very easily, but the present day helped out, provided by the incoming Autumnal air, the fact that it was his senior and last year in school, and his girlfriend sitting nearby.

            Sitting inside the window, partially indoors partially outdoors, was a favorite hangout of his; it had become an unspoken agreement that the spot was his, and no one else’s, ever since the third floor room had been secured as the meeting place for the Chess Club. Room 44 had once been the school library until the new one was built; though rows of old books remained now it was also filled with busted leather chairs and sofas, small tables littering the room with chess boards atop them. Rarely did they move the pieces on the boards, however. That wasn’t the reason they met there.

            “… you seem quieter than usual, big guy.”

            Her voice was like magic; he had told Presley this before, actually exposing his soft side. She had smiled.

            He sighed. “Just resting is all.”

            She chortled. “Not likely. I know that body language. Billion-yard stares on the horizon, shoulders so relaxed, wind in your hair... you’re deep in thought over something.”

            “I look that way every day,” he said; she'd told him so.

            “Unquestionably,” she said, moving up beside him. The jokester left her expression and she spoke. “What’s on your mind…? Is everything okay?”

            “Yeah,” he said. Her stare remained.

            “No, really,” she said. “If you’re worried about them overhearing, don’t be, they aren’t paying any attention to us…”

            Elijah turned and looked. The rest of the Chess Club was inside the computer room of the old library, sitting and chatting; a few computers remained, which they sometimes used. They were as Presley -- not a Chess Club member -- had said, too far away to hear. They did not like it when Elijah brought Presley to their “club house”, but he felt his choice in the matter was slim. The list of secrets he kept from Presley grew with the hour, so he hadn’t the heart to deny her this one thing. She wanted to help him so badly but her questions were many and his answers were few.

            Why do you guys wear those glasses all the time?

            “Chess Club requirement.” To cover our eyes.

            I like your mother, she’s sweet… where is your father?

            “Not sure.” In a ditch, somewhere, preferably.

            Do Darius and Jackson even know how to play chess?

            “Of course.” Not even almost.

            What is it that you’re hiding, love?

            “Nothing.” Everything.

            “Everything’s perfect, really,” Elijah said, looking sideways to Presley. The curvature of her eyebrows told him she was still concerned but she didn’t pursue it. He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead, which brought a tiny grin to her face; he followed that with a kiss to the lips, lingering for seconds. He paid no attention to the sound of the door opening in a rush, nor the red-headed girl that zoomed through it.

            But, as his lips rested against the soft bottom lip of his girlfriend, he wondered: What’s the deal, her running in here like that?

            As the kiss broke -- Presley leaning over and resting her head on Elijah’s chest, facing out to the dusk -- he glanced toward the computer room to see Vee bursting in at quite nearly a sprint. His curiosity deepened but he did not move; instead he tilted his head, hoping his inclined ear could gather what was going on, and turned The Din Symphonic down to a whisper.

            “… … is your deal, flying in here like a banshee or something?” Darius, annoyed.

            Indecipherable words, spoken by Vee, hushed and hurried; from his vantage point far behind her Elijah watched her hands moving sporadically as she made her point. What is going on in there?

            Clear as a bell he heard the voice of his brother. “Are you kidding?” He sounded… hopeful?

            More hushed words from Vee, but her excitement pushed her volume just within his range: “… … her mind… I couldn’t believe it… … wilted in her hands…”

            The silence that followed was not confused but, from what Elijah could tell, awestruck. He tried to incline his ear closer… perhaps he should get up and simply go see…

            “Mmmm…” Presley moaned against his chest, drowning out something Vee said. “Lemme tell you, babe… I don’t know about yourself but I think some ice cream from Minnie and Marley's would do the trick. Whatcha say?”

            He didn’t respond at first, but instead, pretending to think over her suggestion (“Um…”), listened for the voices of his fellow Chess Club members. But the moment was passed; they had regained composure and spoke in low murmurs.

            “… yeah,” he finally answered. “Yeah, that sounds great.”

            They stood and left the old library, Presley’s thoughts on what kind of flavor ice cream she would be getting, Elijah’s on what his friends had been whispering about and if it would affect him at all.

           

             In that groggy place between slumber and awakening Nicolle drifted, her mind not yet fully capable of remembering the day’s prior events. Incoherent images hovered before her mind’s eye, none of them making much sense: her grandfather sleeping in his chair, her mother screaming at her from across the cluttered kitchen table, Timmy messaging her on the computer, Elijah Beaumont and Presley Llewellyn with a rose… … her terrified expression returned to her in the mirror, eyes of black, dying petals falling into her lap, Adam waving at her from a distance…

            Nicolle gasped and shot upright, her newly awoken heart now rapidly punching her chest. At once everything became so clear again, as if sleep had never come to her; she was waking to a world in which flowers could die within seconds at her touch, and hands could reach through walls, and where she passed out in the hallway of her high school. That particular detail threw her for a loop, for she was at school no longer; in the darkness of twilight Nicolle could still make out her location. She was back home, in her own bed, the room mostly shadow in the dying daylight.

            Remembering him, Nicolle held her breath and listened.

            “… … Adam?”

            The darkness did not respond, just as it had done for the past eighteen years; Nicolle had regarded all things metaphysical, or “supernatural”, as basically fairy tales that some, for whatever reason, decided to believe despite having grown up already. Their faith came to her as childish, wishful, idiotic. And yet…

            Nicolle had reasons to believe. Strange people sought her... ghosts?... staring her in the eyes. She heard voices in her head, voices that she now suspected were not impending insanity but something else entirely, something external. She had seen Adam, who, by all newspaper accounts, tombstone carvings, and funeral receptions, was supposed to be dead. Nicolle was suddenly a believer. Her hands were shaking.

            The black eyes were doing this; Nicolle could feel them in her head, not the same eyes she had been born with, but something new; they were like separate, living entities, two cruel hearted pranksters hoping to sadden their master. How could black irises make a person hear voices, or see the dead? And what had Nicolle done to bring this on herself…? Was it all of her stress lately?

          She had always carried with her the image of her final meeting with Adam. He had been so much smaller than when in health; his eyes had the sleepy, worn down look of a sick puppy. She had smiled at him when she entered the room, nervously waving to the boy she barely recognized. Weak and dying on the hospital bed, Adam did not wave back.

            Looking free from cancer and ready to elude Fire Woman for the evening, Adam finally responded to the wave ten years down the road in the school hallway. What she had always believed was her final time to see him was, in fact, not.

            Attempting to climb out of bed, Nicolle felt the crinkle of a folded piece of notebook paper on her stomach. She unfolded it and read:

            My thoughts and hopes for recovery are with you; I expect you’ll be okay (Mrs. Fleming said you looked like you’d be alright) but I’m still concerned: I think this has to do with the overnight development of your curiously black irises. Keep me informed should anything arise; you have my number, I put it in your phone a few months back. By the way, your glasses came off when you passed out, but your eyes were closed so it didn’t matter. I put your sunglasses on your computer desk.

            Take care of yourself. Ever your servant… Timmy.

            P.S. For the record, I thought you looked radiant today.

            P.S.S. About what Alyssa said, about us being lovers… is that a rumor you think may spread?

            Nicolle tossed the note aside; it slowly fell into the crack between her bed and her wall, where it would likely stay for the remainder of recorded time. Her priority was not Timmy at the moment. However… I put your sunglasses on your computer desk. He had been in her room?! She checked her phone; she had eleven missed calls from him.

            Nicolle slid off her bed and moved the mouse of her computer, making the monitor kick on. Tybee Lighthouse, a beautiful, poetic image, lit up the ever-darkening room. Heart rate rising, Nicolle went to the internet browser, went to Google, and began, for the second time that day, her search to uncover the mystery of the black eyes.

            Black eyes… hear voices…

            Something came up about bird-watching; Nicolle backspaced and tried again.

            Black eyes… see the dead...

            It was about as she expected; psychic hotline numbers filled the screen, women with cosmic lights surrounding them offering to tell you your future. Was Nicolle psychic…? After some time studying psychic phenomena she decided that was certainly not what she was experiencing.

            Black eyes… see dead loved ones… kill flowers on touch… hear voices…

            This brought up a plethora of junk, all of it unrelated to her search: gardening, singing, funeral home locations, eye contusions, even Halloween recipes. After an hour of surfing the internet Nicolle had come to her conclusion: whatever was happening to her was unheard of.

            Her evening was spent rising in and out of panic, wondering anew (thanks to the lack of internet answers) if she was perhaps insane now, sick and dying, always looking over her shoulder expecting a face to appear coming through her wall. The nighttime wind howled beyond the window and she swore it said Nicolle, and that dead eyes were watching her from the darkness beyond.

            Twice she went into her bathroom to examine her new irises, getting as close to the mirror as she could and pulling back her eyelids. She wouldn’t be able to wear her stepfather’s sunglasses forever; eventually, and probably very soon, others would see her without the shades. What would they think? What if they found out what she was doing, the things she could see, the things she heard? Nicolle formed the mental image easily, herself in a straight jacket and alone, screaming the truth to deaf ears outside the door, surrounded by the lingering dead in a padded room without escape.

            Her mother never came to her as Nicolle hid in her room. It was nearing Nicolle’s normal bedtime when she heard her mother stomping past the closed door, on her way to the bathroom. After several minutes there was a flush and Nicolle wondered if she would stop in on the trip back to the living room: Hey, that thing with your eyes ever turn out okay? No? Hm… that’s not good. We’d better run you to the hospital in the morning. Until then you make sure to tell me if anything happens, I’ll do whatever I can. Oh, and I made muffins for you. No reason, other than that I love you more than life itself. Goodnight. Love you. Sleep well. Take care, my little girl. I love you.

            … the footsteps never slowed as they passed by Nicolle’s door. After a moment she heard her mother’s explosive cackle in the distance, humored by something on TV. Nicolle had no desire to see her but she had grown quite hungry; she never had lunch, passing out at school before having a chance to eat. After some time she gathered the will to leave her room and walked into the dark living room, the only light being that from the television. Her stepfather was spread eagle on the couch, asleep. Her mother was alone in the plush rocking chair, a bowl of some depleted food resting on her stomach, her glazed eyes glued to some late night show.

            Nicolle quickly darted across the TV and into the kitchen; her mother never seemed to notice her as she quietly scavenged for food. Into her pocket went a granola bar, into the other pocket a banana, she quickly ate a pickle with the fridge door open, grabbed a snack cake from the counter, a can of Pepsi…

            “Close that door!” Sylvia yelled. “Damn.”

            Nicolle hurriedly shut the refrigerator door and hoped her mother didn’t see the food she had hidden in her pockets. She began for her room again, quickly jumping across her mother’s line of vision for the TV, but was stopped.

            “I got called today,” her mother said, her voice lethargic. “By one of your teachers.”

            “… you did?” Nicolle asked. “What did they say?”

            “Said you were acting sick or something, weird.”

            A moment passed as Nicolle waited for her mother to say more. She didn’t. “Yeah, I was.”

            “Some fat kid brought you home.”

            “Timmy?”

            Her mother gave no reply. The conversation was apparently over; Nicolle quietly left and returned to her bedroom. She checked her phone again; four missed calls from Timmy Stoker.

            She found herself again thirsting for company, for someone to tell her it would be okay, to not be alone when the dead finally appeared. She had no desire to see the dead… she was afraid of them, intensely.

            But… what of Adam? Nicolle was confused there. Even as she sat in a ball on her bed, expecting her mind to break in the silence of lonely insanity, she wondered what she would do if he appeared. She hadn’t imagined him, she was sure. There he had been, her best friend, age ten. How many times had she wished to see him again; now she had, and had passed out from terror. Would he return? She hadn’t heard his voice… she wanted him to return, but was also frightened at the thought of it. Her brother was dead but had come to her. The thought sent a chill down her back.

            Lying in bed eating, every few seconds letting her eyes search the room for others, she took the old comic book she and Adam had made together from the floor and began to read it. Finally, beaten down with fatigue, Nicolle’s eyelids drooped, her mind began to swim, and she fell asleep.

 

            Nicolle awoke to the ear-piercing ring of her cell phone, inches from her head; sleep-addled, she snatched the phone up and answered without thinking; regret flooded her stomach.

            “Nicolle?!” Timmy sounded alarmed.

            “Mm,” she moaned.

            “Where are you?”

            Nicolle looked around; the gears in her mind began to turn normally again, pushing back the slowness of sleep. “I’m at home…”

            “Why aren’t you here?” School, he meant; it was morning. “Are you feeling badly?”

            Nicolle took a deep breath, her lungs hurting a bit from the expansion, and sighed. “I didn’t set my alarm last night…”

            “… are your eyes still… you know…” Nicolle could hear a room full of students talking in the background and he whispered to elude their attention. “… black?”

            A trickle of fear came onto her… drip, drip, drip into the well of her soul. She picked up a stray CD from her nightstand and used the backside as a mirror; she partially expected (likely born of scary movies, a genre she loathed) the face of a ghost to be staring at her over her shoulder.

            “Yes,” she said.

            Timmy exhaled. “Very well. I’m taking you to the doctor. I’m coming to get you now.”

            “No,” Nicolle said a bit too hastily. “No… it’s fine… I just need to be alone today. Really, my mom said she would take me if I wanted… it’s okay.”

            “Your mom said that?” Timmy asked.

            “Yeah… but I think I’ll be fine… I just need some bedrest…”

            At first he said nothing, and she wondered what he was thinking. Then: “Okay. I’m here if you need anything.”

            Timmy Stoker had been a thorn in her side for a long time. He wasn’t a bad guy, but he was mind-blowingly clingy, and there had been times when his fury from name-calling and cruelty had seriously freaked her out. She allowed him friendship out of pity, but sometimes she wondered if it was worth it. Still…

            “Thank you” she said, trying to sound as sincere as possible. Before her kind reply could encourage him to keep the conversation going to try his luck further, she said. “Have a good day, Timmy… bye.”

            She heard him saying goodbye as she thumbed the red button of her cell. The absence of his voice awoke her to the sound of rain on the window, not heavy but not light, a white rain over Savannah. A part of her wanted to treat the occasion as she always had - rainy days were a favorite of hers, the curtains of waters seemingly separating her from the rest of the world, the easy patter on the roof peace-inducing, and she usually attempted to read the day away, hoping her mother didn’t intervene somehow - but things were different now. The room appeared empty, but was it?

            She thought it was. Her experience was admittedly small in the area of ethereal beings randomly appearing, but she had felt genuinely alone ever since Adam hadn’t responded to her call the night before. That still didn’t mean she could curl up with a paperback, though. She had business to attend to.

 

            The potted plant sat in the center of her room, she on her knees in front of it; it was a peace lily, its green leaves large and vibrant. It had been a gift from someone to her mother and had gone neglected; Nicolle watered it whenever she passed through the den for reasons she didn’t know; the plant had been kept alive essentially to combat boredom. That part had been easy; reversing the process would likely be harder.

            Ghosts were not the only entities absent from the house; upon creeping from her room Nicolle discovered that her mother and stepfather were gone. Hurriedly she grabbed food, random food, and began back to her room with it before they could return. It was then that she saw the peace lily and dragged it along with her. The plant was not capable of expletives nor did it divulge the results of a paternity test to a live audience; it would not be missed by her mother-extraordinaire.

            Nicolle was terrified. She was a creature of habit, of routine; this was uncharted territory, mysterious and unheard of. Was it possible to die from this? 

            “Breathe,” Nicolle whispered, her words almost inaudible from the rain. She inhaled slowly and deeply, exhaled, and reached trembling fingers forward to the nearest green leaf. It was cool to touch. She pinched it between her index finger and thumb and caressed, feeling the smooth texture, holding her breath as she did.

            What had she expected? She didn’t know, and that was the honest truth. One moment she expected nothing at all, the next moment she believed she would see a repeat of Biology class. The prior expectation had been correct; ignoring her touch the peace lily remained as it had been for weeks.

            Nicolle stayed on her knees with the plant. What was she doing? What would a normal person think if they walked in on her? What would Elijah Beaumont think? Undoubtedly he would think she was insane; Presley Llewellyn probably didn’t attempt supernatural experiments with plants in her unlit bedroom.

            So was this the final verdict? Was it insanity? The Biology incident could have been a fluke; the disembodied voices were likely manifestations of her ruined psyche; the ghosts were figments of her broken mind.

            A tumble of faraway thunder; the first leaf hit the ground. The rain increased, becoming a downpour; the plant disrobed, its leaves browning and crinkling before falling away, the trunk taking on a less healthy gray color.

            Goosebumps moved over Nicolle’s body, a cold blanket of non-existent mist washing over her; so pronounced was her fear, her awe, that she could feel tingling in her nerves, in the tips of her teeth, in the edges of her fingernails.

            “God,” she spoke, her voice shrill, sounding nothing like herself.

            The truth began to settle at last, and she suspected it would follow her throughout the rest of her life, like a heavy medallion never removed from the neck; she wasn’t insane. She was something else, something new.

            Something blessed?

            Something cursed?

            The plant was dead. She sat down on her bed gasping for breath, shaking, and listening to the downpour.

 

              What was the proper way to spend the remainder of a day in which you discovered such a remarkable, demented thing about yourself? Tell a friend? Nicolle lacked the prerequisites. Call a clergyman? Nicolle feared what she might be told, wondering for the first time in her life if perhaps an evil thing had taken up residence in her soul, a spiritual plague. Answering her own unspoken question, Nicolle did much of nothing, “nothing” consisting of ignoring phone calls, checking her ever-empty inbox for that non-existent email, avoiding mirrors while simultaneously seeking her reflection, and spending long minutes staring at the deceased plant in the middle of her room.

            The wind howled across the corners of the empty house, the white sky falling into grey as the day ended. Nicolle’s light was her computer screen; an outgoing email was typed up but remained unsent, mostly because Nicolle lacked a recipient. She returned to the computer desk for the quadrillionth time that day and reread the message.

 

            Hi. My name is Salem. When I was eight my big brother Adam Darling died of cancer. I’m now eighteen and I saw him again yesterday, at school. I also saw a girl I'm pretty sure was also dead. My eyes are also black now. Also plants can die if I touch them. I’m scared to death and I don’t know what to do. Please HELP ME.

 

            She stared at the screen for a moment, sighed, and backspaced the email away. She didn’t even know who to send it to; she had looked into medical and psychic websites for email addresses but ultimately opted to not send anything; they wouldn’t have real answers, only suggestions for counseling or to call the one-eight-hundred telepathic pals hotline. Nicolle’s belief now was that no one had answers to her questions, that she was alone, more alone than she had ever been.

            Nicolle examined her fingers in the light of her monitor. She had felt… something… as the peace lily crumpled, like small amounts of something were exiting her fingertips (though she had checked thoroughly; nothing had); in her mind she pictured a syringe slowly pumping fluid into a vein. Would her touch work on other living things, too? She wouldn’t be able to bring herself to testing her theory on animals, and humans were totally out of consideration. And yet…

            “Hey, Alyssa? I say… bygones be bygones! How about we shake on it?” BAM!

            That wouldn’t happen, of course, Nicolle would never. But... accidents happen, and… what if…? A new worry seeped into her, a new unanswered question. A day could come - it was possible - when she would hug another person, or pass them the salt, or stir them from sleep, and as she innocently did so she felt that something in her fingertips. The image in her mind was the occasion of the hug; she saw her grandfather’s smiling face descending into a painful frown, then his wrinkles becoming more pronounced, him calling her name; becoming the peace lily, he would crumple to the floor in a heap. 

            Her mother's sudden voice: “What in the hell…?”

            Nicolle jumped; her room light burst on, hurting her shadow-accustomed eyes. She turned, hand on her heaving chest, embarrassed; her mother was standing in the open doorway, a confused and disgusted look on her face.

            “What are you doing?” Sylvia asked, gesturing wildly around the room with her hands. Then her eyes dropped to the center of the floor and Nicolle’s embarrassment rose. “What the hell happened to my plant?!”

            Her mother’s priorities were in order, as expected; berate the daughter, inquire as to the health of the house plant, and then, eventually, maybe, wonder about the daughter’s well-being.

            “It was… for Biology class, I have to write a report, for what happens when cells decompose…”

            “You’ve been sitting in the dark in here all day?!” A statement and a question. Then, with a hint of challenge in her voice: “You still telling everybody I gave you a black eye?!”

            “I never said that in the first place, mom,” Nicolle said, keeping her head down.

            Her mother simply stared at her for a moment, saying nothing. Finally, sounding more bored than angry: “Your yearbook came in, it’s in the kitchen.” Then, a bear returning to hibernation, she lumbered backwards and out of sight, leaving the door open behind her.

            Nicolle hardly cared for such things as the school yearbook, especially with recent events, but she still went into the kitchen and got it. Back in her room, she tossed it onto her bed and returned to her computer; with her inbox expectedly empty, however, and the lack of black-eye-answers online, she eventually found herself on her stomach across the bed, thumbing through the pages, her thoughts less and less on the yearbook and more on the dead plant on the floor.

            It was the previous year’s records but nothing had changed, not really. If anything Timmy had gotten a bit fatter, Presley had gotten a bit prettier, Alyssa’s hair had gotten a bit blonder, and Nicolle herself had gotten more than a bit goofier looking, at least in her opinion.

            The “wills” section was typically one she paid no attention to (she never knew any of the outgoing students), but when she reached this one it made her think. She was now a senior; what would she write in her will? I, Nicolle, will my unfixable hair to nonexistent friend A, my incurable fear of socializing to nonexistent friend B, and my ability to murder vegetation to nonexistent friend C.And even worse: imagining the wills of others. I, Timmy Benjamin Stoker, will my ability to pwn noobs to ND, my ultimate BFF… I, Alyssa something Craven, will something to someone, probably an inside joke that’s stealthily vulgar. And: I, Elijah Westly Beaumont, will my unconditional love to my girlfriend, PL…

            The pictures in the yearbook conveyed a high school world that she did not belong to; teenagers playing basketball with smiles on their faces, jocks carrying each other over their shoulders at pep rallies, random laughter in the hallway with friends. The theme of nearly every photo wastogetherness; almost everyone was in a group and almost always they looked moderately happy. Apart from the single class profile picture there were no others of Nicolle. In that single picture, in which Nicolle was alone, her eyes were hazel.

            Almost unheard over the rain, a bing issued from the computer.

            Timmy, she thought; unable to get anything satisfactory from her by way of phone, he was messaging her now. He would want to ask about her day, and gush over his loyalty to her, and tell her about some game…

            Her eyes squinted over the computer screen, searching for the IM window. There wasn’t one; instead, a small yellow icon hovered in the upper left hand corner.

            You’ve got mail.

            Nicolle felt her stomach rise into her throat. “From… … who?”

            She was clicking the mouse as she fell into the swivel chair, racing through menus, impatiently waiting on her slow connection to make her inbox appear on the screen. Who could it possibly be?... No one ever sent her anything… in the seconds it took to load she blazed through theories, some disheartening, others downright beautiful, from Timmy emailing her a video of his Green Elf slaying an ogre to Elijah confessing his unbearable attraction to her…

            At last the screen was up. The only unread message was in bold.

 

            [email protected] - For Your Black Eyes Only ; )

 

            Nicolle’s face went numb. Only after several moments did her motor functions allow her to click the message and open its contents. As she read her mouth fell open and her hands began to shake.

 

            From: [email protected]

            Date: Thursday, February 7 8:49 pm

            To: [email protected] 

            Subject: For Your Black Eyes Only ; )

 

            Nicolle Darling,

 

            It is with unspeakable enthusiasm that we come into contact with you at last. Recently, we understand, you have made the transition to become an Artist of the Black. We expect that you have questions; we have your answers. As Roland Beaumont once said, “First comes fear. Then comes acceptance. And then the search begins.” We hope you choose to begin that search with us.

 

            Awaiting your reply, MOST sincerely : )

 

                      Vee

                      High Secretary

                      The Chess Club

Reviews

[Melody]

This and the last chapter were much exciting. It seems to me that your style changed in the second chapter. You started writing a lot more fluently than you had in the first chapter. I can't wait to read more. :)

[ScottWinchester]

Oh, wow, thank you :) I had't expected anyone to read this lol.

The novel is completed... I'll upload the rest now. And you're correct, I think; I've expected for a long time that a rewrite of the beginning would be necessary.

[Melody]

Lol. The photo you chose actually made me want to read it, and since the title had nothing, visually, in common with the picture- I was intrigued and had to read it.

A whole new rewrite of the chapter might not be necessary but maybe just edits to certain sentences and an enhancement in the vocabulary.