Death of Connor Sanderson: Chap 1:Part 8.

Chapter One: Part 8.
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It is barely a first degree burn, so why did it feel like Dante’s inferno? And sunburn in three seconds? For a moment his brain hit a brick wall as he shuffled through myths and legends, and did not like the one that was trying to tear the wool from his eyes.

His stubborn analytical nature came to his rescue. I shall rule out the probable...only then will I entertain the impossible. Deep down, he preferred the prospect of madness to being a monster.
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He continued on, his left shoulder scuffing the wall as he gave the puddles of light spilling over the carpet a wide berth. Still fifty yards from the double doors which opened into the amphitheater, Sir John's colorful tone delivering a lecture played across his eardrums, and he acknowledged another truth...hypersensitive hearing.

Like a Christian preparing to enter a coliseum, he laid his cold palm on the warm wood of the door and inhaled deeply, dragging the air over his palette, tasting his surroundings, and battling with the cacophony of the human flavors of the one hundred-plus students seated just the other side of those doors. A clawed grip closed over his skull, and the veins pulsing at his temples throbbed inside his eyeballs tinting his vision with a blood-red filter. What now?

Agitated. That was the only word to describe how he felt.

He remembered to ease the door of the lecture hall open with painful care and, imitating his usual fluid gait as he descended three steps, he crossed the aisle and slipped quietly into a vacant space on a wooden bench. If I treat every object as though it is made of spun glass, I should be safe.

He closed his eyes, and breathed through his nose in a calming, meditative rhythm that eased the knots in his stomach. When he opened them again the redness clouding of his vision had faded, and as he watched the myriad of human gestures playing out before him as an orchestration of distraction, he felt serene.

Tranquility was an insidious infusion which weighted his sluggish bloodstream with lead, making his arms feel heavy. Moving was an exercise in the resistance of wading through water as he reached up to rub his hand over his strong jaw.

Anxiety melted away and he was in control as he unwittingly discovered the semi-conscious state of vampire sleep. Just as horses in the wild sleep standing up ready to flee from predators, vampires had evolved their own instinctive survival technique, sleeping only one part of their brain at a time.

The trance-like state clung for a moment longer and then a laser sharp jolt of awareness jerked through him, waking up the temporal lobe of his brain...and he felt refreshed.

Skulking in the back row of the amphitheater was not usual for Connor, but he had some serious thinking to do.

Sir John stood in the pit of the teaching arena, with the concentric circles of seating rising higher the further away from the epicenter of learning the student sat. Although Sir John appeared smaller to those hiding at the back, the thirty degree gradient afforded each student a clear view over the heads of his fellows.

Final year students had front row seats, close to the action. Today, Connor's seat was empty, and Sir John's keen eye landed there with pointed frequency. He usually addressed most of his remarks to those he considered talented, and Connor was the epitome of that; dedicated, talented and destined to be an innovator.

Mr Donaghue was lying on a trolley in the repose of a sleeping sun worshiper, although the blue tinge to his skin gave a lie to that perception. For Connor, the man's arteries being congested by congealed blood was the bigger giveaway. He could detect the thickened consistency and the stagnancy from a distance of thirty feet. His attention wandered across the room full of warmly percolating students.

Interesting how each one smells different.

The smell of the English oak paneling on the walls created a mellow fragrant marinade for all the other scents assaulting Connor's nasal lining. He started with the students seated closest and worked his way along each row of the eighty or so young, floppy-haired young men.

The scribbling of their pencil leads were akin to a herd of cats scratching at the bark of a tree. Some pencil leads are harder than others, so some of the cats have sharper claws than others. Connor smiled at the absurdity of his own analogy.

His eyes rested on the back of each head, frowning as he tuned into the vibration of the heart cantering inside each chest, and collated the information. His learning focus today was to make sense of this hyper-sensitivity. Will it pass? Like a viral infection?

Connor already knew the answer to that, but in case he needed confirmation, his hackles rose and burning embers crawled under his skin as though he were again bathed in sunshine. He glanced across the amphitheater, and into a pair of dead, fish scale-reflective eyes, the color of mother of pearl.

The figure leaned forward until the face was undressed of its shadow, and a handful of bony digits waved slowly in a gesture of acknowledgement.

Connor expected fear...he had not expected relief. The prospect of answers was a heady infusion that brought a smile to his lips. Ah, Malachi. Confusion creased his brow. Where did that name come from?