Beneath the Cerulean Sky

You don't love someone because they're perfect, you love them in spite of the fact that they are not. Merritt Palmerston constantly ponders on such wise words of Jodi Picoult, even if he believes that they do not apply to him. Hanging just above the bathroom sink, a large looking glass reflects a charismatic, dirty-blond guy with eyes of azure and a razor sharp jaw who is blossoming in his early twenties; that reflection becomes entangled from the distortion of a turbulent mind, ravaged by the storms of depression and self-doubt. His mind often assures him that he will forever remain alone on the roller coaster that is life. Why would he even deserve love, he often thinks to himself. No one would ever love him, such a devastating whirlwind of emotional, damaged goods. That's right, he thinks to himself, he is damaged goods, tossed aside by a society bent on the perfection of Instagram influencers. He picked up a comb in an attempt to tame his thick mane of rebellious hair. Although it is cut in a fashion that he can style it like a quiff, such attempts are always futile; it always manages to find a way to become disheveled, befitting of his meandering fate of life full of unrelenting disappointment. He eventually managed to form some sort of style resembling the quiff and walked into his chambers to retrieve his knapsack. His first day of winter semester at the Institute of Archaeology at the University of the Highlands and Islands in Orkney starts today, and barring any unpredictable, yet completely predictable misfortune for him, he did not wish to be late. He tossed the emerald green knapsack over his shoulders, exited the tiny cottage, and made his way to class on foot.

His normal itinerary to classes would have him on campus within twenty minutes, as it is just over three kilometers from his residence. Today, unbeknownst to him, that familiar path, to which he had always adhered, had become covered by a thick coat of slushy snow that silently fell overnight. Fantastic, he thought to himself, as the light susurration of the snow beneath his feet began to soothe him. He still managed to make it to class just in time for him to claim a vacant seat, stowed away in the safety of a dimly lit back row. Mere moments after sitting down, professor MacFarland entered the auditorium style classroom. Professor MacFarland was a stubbly, middle-aged man with thinning, red hair. His spectacles appeared to be too big for his slender face as he is constantly forced to push them up the ridge of his nose. He placed his briefcase on a vacant chair and gently sat down atop a desk next to it, grabbing a small remote from the front pocket. He turned his gaze backwards, pointing the remote at the ivory screen behind him. With a faint click, a light protruded from just above and behind Merritt, casting an image of a clay colored brick castle, encircled by a verdant, treeless field peppered with flames of yellow wildflowers, all peacefully resting beneath a cloudless sky of deep blue. The image, which happened to be the first slide in a PowerPoint, contained a text in large, bold print that read "Fàilte gu taigh Skaill - Welcome to Skaill House". The presentation is written bilingually. Although the course is taught in English, Scottish Gaelic is rather common in Orkney and can be heard around the city, especially by the elders, and is therefore utilized throughout the island on signs along with English. Professor MacFarland cleared his throat.

"Welcome to Intro to Scottish Archaeology. We will be focusing on archaeological sites of northern Scotland with an emphasis on the ruins found here on Orkney. Now, as you can see by the presentation, our first historical site is located on the grounds of the the Skaill house" his voice cracking as if his throat bothered him. He immediately apologized for the way he sounded.

"Pardon my voice. I was visiting with some cousins in the state of Wisconsin and fell through a frozen pond. Needless to say, I am a tad under the weather." he chuckled with a half-hearted smile.

He continued with his presentation, droning on about the ruins of Skara Brae on the Skaill house grounds. His somniferous voice had begun to lullaby Merritt into a light slumber when he jolted awake upon realizing that professor MacFarland had just mentioned that they will be writing a twenty page research report on their findings at the site. How lovely, he thought. He scanned the room to witness the displeasure of his classmates when his gaze froze at the sight of a red-headed lad sitting just three rows away. His head was cocked sideways as he was rumbling through his black knapsack, apparently looking for something. He was young, but didn't seem much younger than him, perhaps in his early twenties as well. His straight, red hair lay smooth on his head. His face was speckled by faint kisses of the sun. From where he was sitting, his eyes appeared to be blue, maybe green, or even bluish-green; he really could not tell in such dim light. Merritt began to feel something in his chest, something that he has never felt before. His heart fluttered rapidly like the wings of the ruby-throated hummingbird, fast, powerful, unrelenting. The lad turned his head slightly backwards to catch him looking at him. He smiled a smile as warm as the sun's beams on a cold winter day. The warmth that emanated from it could thaw even the thickest of glaciers. Merritt quickly looked down, trying to hide the fact that he had been caught. His mind began to race with unfounded fears of how weird the lad must find him. He could no longer concentrate on the monotonous drone of professor Macfarland's presentation. For the rest of class, Merritt wasted away in the turbulent storm of his anxiety, lost within like a helpless bird in a powerful hurricane of uneasiness.

As the semester progressed, so too did the feelings of angst within him. It had been several weeks since he first saw that red-headed beacon of warmth on that first day, and every class he would find himself looking at him, and at times catching that dulcifying smile of his. His class's first trip to the Skaill house was the next day, and with it would come the daunting task of researching for the mid-term paper that filled Merritt's mind with dread, not that his mind was not already preoccupied with the trepidation of being thought of as a weirdo by the lad, whose name happened to be Alastair, as he had been called on, by the professor, to state his reasoning for Skara Brae being nicknamed the "Pompeii of Scotland". Merritt even fought with the realization that he may even be gay, a new development in his life, to which he had never once had a single passing thought. Needless to say, the welcome relief of sleep was hard to come to Merritt that night. To pass the time, he lay in bed seeking the help of others, who dealt with issues that were similar to his own, on an online forum. Many of the responses encouraged him to follow his feelings and offered advice to console his anxiety. He thought to himself that if he read another comment to just stop worrying and be happy, he would probably scream. Growing up suffering from depression and anxiety, he had always been told one thing or another: To find religion, to just stop being sad, to stop worrying, even to just grow up. No one seemed to ever really empathize with him, and for that, he felt alone in a world so overpopulated with feigned happiness, bought out by the sham of money and TikTok fame. A sudden thought interrupts the many channels of Merritt's anxious cogitation like an intrusive advertisement selling the next greatest problem-solving product: Talk to him, tomorrow. At the site. You are going to do it. He tried to brush the thought aside, but it just stayed glued to his mind. How crazy, he thought. He would think I am crazy, I am damaged goods. No one wants to befriend someone with a broken mind. He kept thinking of what all of the scenarios in which he would make a fool of himself when sleep finallyhim.

Early the next morning, his alarm clock woke him like an auditory slap to the face. He quickly got up and showered. Dreading the day as he always had. Within an hour, he found himself on the way downtown where he would catch the bus that would take him to the Skaill house. He arrived at the stop to find the others in his class awaiting the bus. Of course, he thought to himself, there he is. Alastair was propped up against the wall of the shelter that enclosed the bench, he was reading the morning edition of the local paper. His handsomeness was a rare jewel for him. Alluring and enchanting. He tried with all of his mental strength to not glance his way, but how could he not? The black pea coat and blue jeans accentuated the fiery red of his hair and ivory of his face. A mechanical screech interrupted his train of thought as a white bus, with a painted Scottish flag at the end and the words Orkney in a colorful motif along the side, halted before them. One by one the students mounted the bus, each choosing to sit next to a friend. As luck would have it, or not? The only vacant seat that remained for Merritt was beside Alastair. His stomach dropped like a two tonne weight free-falling from the Burj Khalifa in Dubai. Alastair glanced over his paper to look at him. He smiled and slid over to the window to allow him to sit. He reluctantly sat down, trying not to gaze upon his eyes, which actually looked like brilliant crystals of malachite.

"Hi, I'm Alastair Lennox." he said looking at Merritt. His voice played within his ears like an opera. . It was very virile, yet not overbearing. His heavy Scottish highland accent was a melody to his mind.

Merritt stuttered: "Hi. I know. I am Merritt". Oh great, wonderful, now he knows how bizarre I truly am. Great way to start the trip, Merritt, he thought to himself. Alastair went back to reading his paper while Merritt thought of a million ways to flee from the situation.

After an awkward thirty minute bus ride, they had arrived at their location: The Skaill House. The magnificent castle-like building was just as pictured in professor MacFarland's PowerPoint. It was even more majestic in person. Off in the distance, the ocean could be heard roaring as its' waves crashed violently against the bottom of the cliff. The air was heavily perfumed by the saline vapors it emitted. It was a refreshing day, in fact, there was not a cloud in the sky, the early spring sun shone brilliantly above and the breeze was light, yet strong enough to caress his quiff. The group walked up the driveway closer to the house, Merritt could see the many yellow wildflowers in bloom, they looked like tiny fireworks in an emerald green sky. They were met at the doors by professor MacFarland who had his assistants carrying luggage for him. He greeted the band of eager students and ushered them to follow him down a path to the spot of Skara Brae. Merritt wanted to capture the beauty before his eyes with his phone when anxiety flashed through him like bolts of lightning. His phone was not in his pocket or anywhere on him. Panic ensued. Normally, the thought of losing something so trivial as a phone would have seemed petty to him, however, it did not today. As the group of students made their way to the site, Merritt found himself alone in front of the house, or at least, he thought he was alone. A firm tap on the shoulder shook him to his core. A heavily accented voice said: "I believe this is yours." It was Alastair. He was holding his phone. Their eyes locked. It was as if time stood still. "Erm, thank you." he replied while gently taking his phone from Alastair. Merritt could feel the pangs of uneasiness fill his entire body from his abdomen. He wanted nothing more than to flee, flee as if he were prey being chased by some savage predator in the Serengeti. From out of the nowhere Merritt muttered "You are breathtaking." speaking a thought aloud was his worst nightmare and it had become a reality. Alastair chuckled and said softly: "Thank you. As are you." Instinctively, Merritt reached for Alastair's hand. He could not control himself any longer. His mind had hijacked his body. He was out of control. Alastair reciprocated. Their hands clasps as if in prayer. "I know you like me, Merritt. I have known since day one." he said calmly, his malachite-like eyes piercing in the sapphire of his own. He broke the silence by saying: "I am a third year psychology student and am taking archaeology with my uncle MacFarland as an elective. I know that my silence this entire time has caused you great strife, and for that, I am truly sorry." "I think you are very brave to fight through what looks like an obviously anxious time dealing with your emotions." he added. Merritt responded shakenly: "I thought that you would think I am a crazy stalker or something. My anxiety has always been through the roof and other mental impurities hold me back. Sometimes it's as if I am alone in a crowded room. Who could love someone like me? Someone..." he began to mumble: "Someone who is damaged goods." Alastair smiled, almost laughing. "You are not damaged goods. We are not products, but sentient beings who merit love and respect. Not one of us is perfect, but that is why I like you, because you are not. You cannot truly love someone else if you cannot even love yourself." Alastair smiled, looking up. "The cerulean sky is your limit," he added. Merritt could not believe what he was hearing. His thoughts where racing. Is this some twisted reverie from which he will soon awake just to continue droning through this misery of life, alone. He realized that their hands were still touching. A powerful warmth surged from within his core. For moments the two stared into the distance of each others souls through the windows of their eyes. Alastair leaned forward and his lips gently caressed Merritt's. He felt as if he had just been showered with pure love, cleansing him of all impure thoughts. Their lips remained locked as they lost themselves within each other. This was the first time he had ever kissed someone, and this kiss was for him a blossoming flower of affection that could never be reduplicated. The kiss dragged on as if it had lasted forever. He began to feel more at ease with himself after that. He could finally shrug away the blankets of anxiety that smothered him and enjoy his liberation and love beneath the cerulean sky.