unscripted | dead poets society ✓

13 | the tiniest details

     MR. KEATING WAS WORRIED sick for Presley who had failed to show up in his classes three times in a row. She had a habit of disappearing for a while, and coming back saying she was fine when in fact, she was nowhere near fine.

     He was reminded when Presley was fifteen and she was home for the holidays. Her parents had scolded her for the simplest things that day, and they'd think no one would notice their family was too far from perfect. Yet Mr. Keating noticed this, in fact he noticed everything.

     She had ran away that day and went straight to his residence. Not really having any friend or some sort of acquaintance to talk to, Presley always found herself turning to Mr. Keating for help, and for reassurance that everything would be alright.

     Presley's father was a lawyer, almost never at home as cases start to pile at his desk, leaving him stressed and snappy whenever he would enter their house. Everything would start to piss him off. To the point even Presley thinks he's pissed of her existence.

     Although Mr. Ross was kind to Mr. Keating and his wife, the teacher still read between the lines and knew there was something wrong with the man and his parenting.

     Mr. Keating then finds himself at Presley's door, knocking a peculiar tune which alerted Presley it was him, before entering. Closing the door behind him, he gave Presley a concerning look, to which the girl just stared blankly at him.

     It was like Presley's mood constantly drifts from one cloud to another, you'll be lucky if she wasn't her truth slapping self when you decide to visit her room. Today, though, she was enveloped in the sorrowful reality of her pathetic life.

     "Is something bothering you? You haven't been attending my classes." Mr. Keating says, grabbing a chair and placed it beside Presley's bed, consequently sitting down as he arched an eyebrow at the girl.

     Presley let's out a bitter scoff, turning to look at Mr. Keating who was now to her right. "No shit, Sherlock." She says wryly, to which Mr. Keating grimaces.

     "Captain. Not Sherlock. Its Captain." His response elicited a bitter chuckle from Presley who narrows her eyes at him. "I'm not a detective, I'm a teacher. The man behind the steering wheel, steering the ship towards land. Guiding the sailors from storms that brew in the sea of life."

     Presley can't help but listen to him as he once again manages to slip in some sort of lecture upon visiting her. Of course, there's never a conversation with Mr. Keating without a word of advice, or poetic correlations. "Why did you visit me?"

     "Did you and Neil have a fight?" Mr. Keating counters Presley's question with another question, to which the girl responds with a sardonic snort, rolling her eyes in the process.

     "Don't say it like that," She says. "We're not some sort of item. We're not even friends." Presley's bitter tone made Mr. Keating flinch a little. He had noticed the two had grown closer over the course of the semester, and hearing Presley say this just seemed so unbelievable.

     "Presley," Mr. Keating warns. "Why do you think that? You talk to each other, smile at each other, laugh with each other. What do you mean you're not friends?" The teacher knits his eyebrows, waiting for a reply.

     "We're just —" Presley lets out a sigh, exasperated. "We're not friends, okay?"

     Mr. Keating sighs as well, knowing this will be a lengthy lecture and conversation. "Presley, when are you gonna realize that they genuinely want to be friends with you?" Presley only gives him a blank stare, waiting for him to continue. "They get out of their way to talk to you, make you laugh, get your attention, get you to join them in the Dead Poets Society."