A More Modern Prometheus (Part I)
(prologue)
five medical students in the pacific northwest find themselves obsessed with life, death, and the inbetween.
September 1998 (part I)
 When I arrived at North Oregon University, the trees were cloaked in mist and the sky was covered in a thick cloud. Internally I rejoiced at how perfectly it matched everything Iâd imagined for months; externally I probably looked sullen and drab.
 Classes didnât start for another week, but the administration advised that we arrive early to get settled in and socialise. I doubted that Iâd do much socialising, but I had been waiting for this since I received my acceptance letter in March, nervous energy coursing through my veins in the months since then. I jumped at the first chance I got to leave the blistering Virginia summer for the pine-soaked wind of the pacific northwest.
 The college, a small establishment, was unusual in that it roomed students by subject; I would be living in a small house with four other first-year medical students. It was covered in some kind of climbing vine, and that combined with the red brick of the exterior amused me, as it truly was stereotypical; picture-postcard Pacific Northwest. I hadnât run into anyone on my way to my new room, and from the silence of the building I assumed that I was one of, if not the first, to arrive.
 My room was double, as all the dorms in our building were. Four off-white walls, a dusty grey carpet, and a boxy window contained two bedframes, a rickety desk, two unnecessarily large wardrobes and several bookshelves, bent from years of supporting hefty textbooks.
 Obviously, I unpacked my books first, my back straining as I loaded the tomes onto the protesting wood, coughing at the dust that arose from my every movement. I was careful to leave plenty of space for my absent roommate, even as I resigned myself to the fact that I couldnât fit all of my books on the shelves.  On the very top shelf I pushed my dog-eared novels, knowing full well that an extensive knowledge of nineteenth and twentieth century literature wouldnât earn me any respect from my classmates.
 The other students were at the forefront of my mind as I unpacked my clothes, noting the ridiculous amount of space left over in the wardrobe I had claimed as mine, even after I stacked more books under the space made for hanging garments. There would be more men than women, almost certainly, and more Oregon natives than not. Again, I would be an outsider, but I found that I didnât mind the prospect as much as I had thought I might.
 A flash of white slipped past my door, and I opened it further to peer down the corridor. A girl stood outside my room, her head cocked to the side quizzically as she flicked her eyes up and down my frame.
 Thump.
 A large bag dropped to the floor, disrupting another cloud of dust, and the girl stuck a slender, scarred arm towards me. I shook it. Her skin was cold and dry, and her grip was like rigor mortis.
 âErica LaBonne,â she said, not letting go of my hand. âWelcome to Oregon.â
With that she pulled my hand towards her, and I stumbled, caught off guard as she pressed a fleeting kiss to my forehead.
 âLetâs get acquainted, shall we?â Her cherry-red lips curved into a sly grin.
 I nodded mutely, and she snaked past me into the room, flinging two bags onto the other bed before flinging herself onto mine. I picked up her third bag from where it had been left outside the door, and shut the door gently behind me.
 âcome here,â she beckoned me with her long fingers, and I gingerly moved towards the bed. âdonât be silly, come here,â she giggled, grasping my jumper and pulling me down onto the bed so that we were lying face to face, our noses almost meeting across the pillow.
 I drew in ragged breaths as we held eye contact for what felt like hours, Ericaâs hand still twisted in the dark blue material of my jumper. Suddenly, she grinned, letting go of me and leaning back against the wall.
 âyou donât talk much, do you?â she enquired, teasing but not mean.
âI do!â I retorted, but the crack in my voice betrayed me, prompting another peal of laughter from across the mattress.
âfine, if you say so,â her eyes, glinting with good-natured malice, narrowed into playful slits. âbut I seem to recall I donât even know your name.â This, somehow, broke some kind of barrier Iâd been holding up, and I began to grin at her.
âCharlotte,â I said, âMy name is Charlotte Fairmont.â
âNice to meet you, Charlotte Fairmont.â
âNice to meet you, Erica LaBonne.â
 We talked for hours, the cadences of our voices wrapping us in a cocoon of solitude as darkness began to surround the building. I found out that Erica was from an old-money French Canadian family, and had grown up in Portland with her parents as they set up some kind of mysterious âbusinessâ. Sheâd never questioned it; it kept her fed and living in great comfort, and whatever her parents were doing, they never got caught.
I found out that she was morbidly fascinated by the human body; the layers of skin, the intricate network of capillaries, veins, and arteries that kept our brittle bodies working.
 In turn, I told her about the oppressive heat of Virginia, the radical genius of the Romantics, and she laughed when I shyly told her of my vision of a person built from death, a real-life Frankensteinâs monster. Her laugh was not malicious, simply caught off guard. She clutched my hands in hers and told me I was the brightest black hole sheâd ever seen.
 When we finally ran out of things to talk about, we found that the inky darkness had taken over our room without either of us noticing, so caught up we were in the delicate intensity of our newfound friendship.
 âAre you hungry?â I posed the question, propping myself up on my elbows and craning my neck backwards to stretch the stiff muscles.
 âI could eat,â she mirrored my movements, emitting a soft groan as she worked the tension from her knotted tendons. I watched as she stretched, her mouth slightly open and her eyes fluttering shut. I couldnât help but notice even more scars on her neck and exposed collarbones, but decided not to ask, lest it ruin whatever fledgling bond we had grown over the course of the afternoon.
 We wandered downstairs into the common area, where there was a small kitchen and a shared living room. The kitchen was cramped, and I couldnât foresee any particularly exotic cooking happening in its bowels. The living room, by contrast, was almost opulently decorated, heavy brocade curtains framing huge windows that took up almost a whole wall, floor to ceiling bookshelves filled with innumerable medical texts, and a massive fireplace with a gilded mirror hanging above it.
 Erica raised her eyebrows, scanning the room before making some kind of affirmatory noise and throwing herself onto the largest of the three couches into the room. Erica seemed to have an affinity for throwing herself onto horizontal surfaces.
 âAhem-â Erica and I both started at the sudden noise, heads snapping in sync towards the cushioned window seat, where a long-legged boy â no, man - was sprawled.
His dark, long hair curved around his angular face, making him appear almost raven-like.
 âWho the hell are you?â Erica spat, an accusatory edge to her tone. I was startled, both by the sudden appearance of another person and by Ericaâs sudden hostility, despite it not being aimed it me.
 âIâm Caleb,â the boy shot Erica an appraising glance, matching the steel in her eyes quite ferociously. âwho the hell are you?â
âErica LaBonne. And this is Charlotte. Charlotte Fairmont.â
 The boy â Caleb, who had previously seemed unaware of my presence, raked his eyes down my body, before flicking them up to my face, raising an eyebrow in a playful challenge when his eyes met mine.
âpleasure to meet you, Miss LaBonne, Miss Fairmont,â he said, in a tone far too near mocking for my liking.
 He stood up, surprisingly elegant for one with such ungainly limbs, and stretched his arms over his head, rumpled white shirt riding up over his stomach. I averted my eyes, feeling a blush cover my cheekbones, but I could sense Erica still gazing unabashedly, seemingly taking his measure.
 âWell, Caleb,â Erica broke the silence, placing a hand on her hip. âYou donât happen to have any food, do you?â
 Caleb had no food, but he did have a dangerously old rust-bucket of a car, which I entered with more than a little hesitance.
âIs this thing safe?â
âSafe as lifeâ
âThatâs not an answer.â
 âWell, itâs good enough for me,â Erica interjected, fingers drumming impatiently on the back of Calebâs headrest.
 The short drive passed uneventfully, and upon reaching a small strip mall off campus Caleb proclaimed that he needed breakfast food for dinner. I was too tired to object, and Erica nodded her approval before slamming her door with far more force than I thought necessary.
 âWhat I hate,â Caleb proclaimed, completely unprompted, striding across the asphalt, âis medical students who are motivated by a wish to âhelp peopleâ. I truly believe theyâre vapid and uncreative.â He stopped in his tracks, furtively glancing at Erica and I. âThatâs not why youâre here, is it?â
 We both shook out heads in denial, and as Caleb pushed open the door to a grimy diner he flashed us the most brilliant grin, eyes crinkled up and all. Once we were sat in a cracked vinyl booth, laminated menus clutched in our hands, the conversation (if it can be referred to as such; only Caleb had spoken thus far) resumed.
 âWhy are you here, then?â He arched an eyebrow, surveying the two of us in an almost clinical fashion.
âI believe itâs rather impolite to ask such a question without first answering it yourself,â Erica retorted, her grinning eyes betraying the lack of malice in her barb.
âRight, right.â
Completely drawn in by Ericaâs taunt, Caleb launched into a convoluted spiel of mixed-race parents, unrealistic dreams, and an obsession with chemistry. I hardly registered this, the feeling of Ericaâs slender thigh pressed against mine combined with the expressive movements of Calebâs elegant hands creating a heady sensation that started somewhere in my belly.
 âCharlotte?â My vision refocused on the curious faces of my companions, and I realised that I had missed their question.
 âwhy are you here, Charlotte?â Caleb prodded.
âif itâs all the same to you, I rather think itâs not your business just yet.â
Caleb leaned backwards triumphantly, his arms crossed languidly over his chest. His white button-down was pushed up to his forearms, and the view of honey-hued skin and faintly toned muscles did strange things to my stomach.
 âand pray tell, Miss Fairmont, why is it not my business? We are classmates and housemates, after all.â His dark eyebrow quirked, the lazy smile on his face turning almost predatory.
 âI think, Mr Marks, that my personal and academic motivations are not necessary pieces of knowledge for a roommate to possess. A friend, maybe.â I crossed my arms and grinned, mirroring him to the best of my abilities. âWeâll see if you can make it to that point.â
 Erica shot another appraising glance at me, and Caleb seemed to be less confident than he had been prior to my impromptu speech.
 âMy apologies, Miss Fairmont ââ
âOh, for the love of God, just call me Charlotte. Or Fairmont, if you must, but drop the formality, Caleb.â
âCharlotte, then,â he appeared to roll my name in his mouth, savouring the vowels as he had his syrup-soaked pancakes just minutes before. âI do intend to be your friend. I didnât, however, mean to overstep your-â he paused here for a moment, selecting his word with care â âboundaries.â
 We held eye contact for a few moments, but just a few seconds later I was rolling mine and truly on the verge of giggling. I didnât quite know what had taken over me, verbally sparring with my new roommate and laughing about it, but strangely I felt quite at ease.
Erica, who had been watching our back-and-forth like a tennis match, grabbed my hand, resting on the table.
 She stuck her tongue out in a fit of childish playfulness, before addressing Caleb; âDonât worry, Charlotte here is perfectly lovely. the only one you need to watch out for is me.â
 By the time we made it back to Magdalene house, the sun had long since set and the camera on Calebâs dashboard alleged that we had spent nearly three hours at the diner. For the life of me I couldnât remember any other topic of conversation weâd covered in that time, but I was beginning to warm to Caleb, despite his initial arrogance.
 Erica appeared to feel the same, blowing him a kiss with exaggerated flair before flouncing up the stairs towards our room. I stayed downstairs, observing new suitcases in the entry hall, and a light on in the living room.
 âdo you suppose thatâs the other two?â
Caleb shrugged, âwould you like to find out?â
Inside the room were, indeed, the other two students sharing Magdalene house with us.
 Sprawled in an armchair was a tall east Asian girl, with short jagged hair and wearing a boxy shirt over slacks. She was engaged in animated conversation with a red-headed, freckled boy sitting on the sofa, whose shaky hands moved like frightened birds.
 The discussion tapered off as they noticed us, and the boy sprung from his seat and walked towards us.
âHi,â he stopped a couple of feet before us, hands tucked into his pockets as if to hide their movement. âIâm Robin, Robin Stanley.â
 He made no move to shake either of our hands, turning his head to face the seated girl as if asking for backup.
 âAleta Bryant,â She introduced herself, remaining seated. âIâd get up, but I think this chair is consuming me.â
 Caleb introduced himself, reclaiming his position on the windowsill as he engaged in small talk with our two new roommates. I quietly excused myself, slipping upstairs as they began to engage with each other.
 Erica was standing by her bed, clearly in the middle of getting changed; she wore nothing but her underwear, and her scarred flesh was startling to me, perhaps more so than the sight of her bare breasts.
âCharlotte!â
âSorry! Sorry, Erica, I didnât mean toâŚâ Intrude? Look? What, precisely, was I sorry for?
âOh, donât worry about it. Weâre living together, after all.â She made no indication she was going to talk about her scars, so I nodded my head curtly, faced my own bed, and began to get changed.
 When I finished, wearing a plain t-shirt and shorts, I chanced a look at Erica. She was in bed, her covers pulled up almost to her chin, staring at the ceiling. I did my best to be as considerate as possible, padding around the room quietly before turning the light off and tucking myself into bed.
 Ericaâs voice broke the silence, so quiet I half-wondered if I was imagining it.
 âGoodnight, Miss Fairmontâ
âGoodnight, Miss LaBonneâ









