I absolutely cannot fail.
Faliure is not an option.
If I fail this test, they'll hold me back a grade. Then all my friends will move on without me, and I'll stay behind.
I'll take this same test at the end of the year with kids younger than me, and feel the same pressure I'm feeling now.
If I fail then, I'll have to retake the test with kids even younger than the kids from the year before.
It'll be awful. It'll be humiliating.
It'll be awfully humiliating.
I studied for hours, and committed dozens of facts and equations to memory.
I pre-sharpened all of my wooden pencils the night before, and carefully packed away clean erasers into my pencil case.
I slept at a recommended time, and studied during the ride here.
But my hands are clammy and the answers escape me.
My sharpened pencils now seem dull.
My erasers are crumbling and leave graphite smears.
My eyes are heavy with exhaustion and tears.
None of my studying matters here.
Only my overwhelming fear.
"Do you think the sun gets lonely up there?"
"Of course not! Think of all the stars who are there to keep it company! It's probably like a never ending party up in the sky!"
"Stars? How could the stars be with the sun? They only come out at night, to welcome the moon."
"Is that what you think, silly? The stars are always out there, shining. You just can't see them, is all."
"Really?"
"Really."
Blinking bulbs and flashing signs Bright neon colors under flourescent lights Automatic and instant are slow to us now With WiFi faster than the speed of sound Homunculus creations, not skin or chalk artificial and nylon , motors to walk Plastics and metals and elements above Like colonies on Mars without people to love.
[ Part 2 of Unsent Messages, since this old prompt fits so well ]
"Hey, [ REDACTED ]!" They huff, pointing to their hair, "Mind explaining this?"
I bat my eyelashes innocently and hum, "Explain what?"
Their hair, which usually rests in a beautiful, fluffy, face-framing style is now messily tied up into several braids. The braids are sloppy and casual, lovingly held together by random, different colored hair ties.
"I, for one, think you look great," I chuckle, lips upturning at their annoyed huff. They're pretty cute when they're upset.
Wait, what?
"Yeah, right. For someone who loves my hair so much, you certainly don't do it justice," They grumble, crossing their arms and plopping onto the ground beside me.
Despite my protests, they tug out the braids, their hair falling down in loose ringlets. My breath catches - their hair, wavy and a little frazzled falls perfectly against their face. It looks wind-tousled, as if they had just returned from flying a kite at the beach. With the sun streaming in from the window behind them, they look almost...ethereal. Angelic, even.
What. Seriously, what are these thoughts?
I haven't been thinking straight after reading their unsent message (haha, title drop :D). That draft...
"You look really good," I blurt, cursing myself internally. "I-I mean, your hair looks really good. It's all wavy, and stuff. Yeah."
Their cheeks warm, and I notice that they look a little disappointed.
"You think so?" They ask, tugging at a curl. I nod, watching them fidget with their fingers. "Do you think I should start styling my hair like this more often, then? I could probably recreate it easily enough, without resorting to whatever those braids were."
I blink, before tilting my head to the side. "Why? I mean, it looks nice, but I thought you liked your current style."
They look at me - and I mean, really look at me - before muttering, "You're so dense sometimes, y'know? I asked because it seems like you like it. This hairstyle, I mean."
My breath hitches, and I can feel my ears start to burn. I hope they don't notice the sudden pop of color in my face. Their lips curve into a smile, and I can't help but notice just how much brighter everything seems.
"Wow, it got warm in here," I laugh, awkwardly shifting in place.
"Really? I didn't notice," They frown, before scooting closer. Then, they grab my hands - pull them close to their chest, and drop the hair bands into my open palm.
"Anyways," They mutter, "I know you can do better than whatever...that was. You should do my hair again."
"Of course, Your Majesty. Absolutely, Your Majesty. Whatever Your Highness desires," I tease, making them roll their eyes.
I listen to them hum quietly, eventually settling into a comfortable rhythm as I braid their hair. Left, right, middle, repeat.
. . .
"Hey, Ajax?" I asked, slipping my hand into theirs. "Have you ever been in love before?"
They looked at me breifly, before glancing away. "Yes," they replied, an unfamiliar look resting on their beautiful features.
"I guess that's not too suprising," I nodded, giving their hand a squeeze. "It's different for everyone, right? What does it feel like to you?"
They hesitated, slowing their pace for a moment. Then they leaned forward and I, startled at the sudden proximity, was unable to do anything but blank as they pecked me on the cheek.
"You--" I choked, cut off by a sudden jab to the side.
"That," They answered, "is what love feels like to me."
"Is it supposed to hurt so much?" I frowned, rubbing at my aching sides.
. . .
"...there!" I exclaim, tying off the final braid, "All finished!"
I step back to admire my handiwork, using my phone to take a few photos of their front, back, and sides.
I hand them my phone, and they admire the photos, nodding in approval. "Not bad." They agreed, lips twitching at my triumphant and self-satisfied smile. "These should give my hair that nice affect when I wake up tomorrow, too. Do you think Rozalyn will like it?"
My smile falters, "Right, we have school tomorrow. I forgot." I hadn't even thought of leaving until now, the idea suddenly so heavy on my chest that I notice it's suddenly difficilt to breathe. Weird.
Have I always felt so hesitant about leaving their side?
The more I think about it, the more uncomfortable I begin to feel. My heart speeds up, beating so quickly that my breath struggles to keep up with it. The blood rushes to my head, making me feel dizzy and unsteady on my feet.
"...are you good?" They ask me, brows furrowing in concern.
"I don't know," I reply, biting my lip. I'm reluctant to tell them about the sudden increase of butterflies and stabbing-pains in my sides. About the rose-tinted lenses that suddenly manifest when I look at them, or the aches my heart feels when I force myself to look away. Will they think I'm being ridiculous?
"What's wrong?" They demand, suddenly much closer. Their worried hazel eyes scan my face, searching for an answer I'm not sure they'll find.
"Well, I'm actually hoping you'll tell me," I sighed, wringing my hands together. If I keep how I'm feeling bottled up, it's bound to explode and burn everyone (myself included) as a result.
"What?" Their frown deepens, and they take a step backwards to tilt their head.
"Recently, I've been feeling really weird. I'm flustered all the time, and my heart starts beating uncontrollably. I can't stop thinking about it. It's hard to breathe, and my stomach's filled with butterflies that turn to ash when I'm alone."
Their eyes widen with an indiscernible emotion, "[Redacted], that sounds like--"
"And what's weirder?" I interrupt quickly, "Is that I only feel this way when I'm with you."
A few beats pass before they speak. "...Oh."
"Is that bad?"
Their face lights up with delight, "Not at all."
Our relationship is a complicated one. I can't always tell where you stand.
Is this love? Is this loathing?
When I think about you, my heart gives a flutter. Butterflies flit about, tickling my insides and then fizzling out. I feel strangely empty when the butterflies go, and I wonder if it would be better if you disappeared with them.
My heart heart aches when you're near me, my cheeks burn when you're close. My fingers twich desperately, wanting to wrap around your throat.
Your lips are lovely.
They're pieces of flesh.
I want to kiss them.
I wish you death.
I can't think straight around you - you have me seeing red. They things I want to do to (or with) you have me feeling not right in the head.
Is this a normal feeling? Do you feel it it too?
I love it when your eyes sparkle, wilt when they dull. Wish I didn't itch to finger the trigger of a gun to pull.
What have you done to me?
What are these thoughts? I fluster, lose composure, and wish they were gone.
I want to push you to the opposite side of the Earth - and even them I'm not sure if that's far enough. Maybe I'll ship you to space.
But even then, I know for sure - I'll still think of your face.
"I can't believe you'd do something so reckless!" I exclaim, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Do you understand how much trouble you could've gotten yourself into? Especially since the people you decided to "prank" happen to be the children of the Earl Grey and his late wife?"
I wave my arms in exasperation, "What, are you going to decide to prank the Countess next? At this rate, I wouldn't be suprised. What'll it be? A bug in her powdered wig? A toad in her cocktail?"
I fold my arms and observe him for a moment, my eyes narrowing when I notice that he doesn't appear to be listening.
"I didn't think it'd bother them that much. They're so used to seeing others as writhing little worms, so I thought they might like to see a few real ones for a change. In their food. I guess they don't like the taste of their own medicine. Is that my problem?" He huffed, running a hand through his platinum-white hair.
"What, and you didn't plan ahead? Think of the consequences?"
He shrugs, rolling his eyes. His arms are crossed, and everything about him screams "I could literally care less". He looks uninterested in what I have to say, but what else is new?
Avoiding my gaze - not out of shame, but out of annoyance - he sits down on the plush red lounge behind him. His suit creases as he sits, legs spread in an effort to make himself as comfortable as possible.
Clearly this approach isn't working. I'll try something else, then.
"Look," I sigh, sitting beside him. "I know this hasn't been easy. I don't like it either." He purses his lips, and I finally get a reaction out of him.
"Yeah? What would you know about it?" He asks, his gaze darkening.
My eyes soften, as I sympathize, "I know that being only one rank above the "commoners" can earn a lot of unwanted attention. I wasn't always the heir of a Castle and wealth, either. Just... don't take it out on other people, oka--"
"No, it isn't okay," He growls, cutting me off. "You may have gotten a little "taste" of what it's like, but you will never understand me. You will never be like me. You think that because you suffered for fifteen years before getting promoted makes you like me? I've been living this way for my entire life!"
I gape. Well, okay then.
"Fifteen years is still more than half my life, Rue. I'm only eighteen," I mutter, irritated. If he thinks that the last three years have made me an uppity, corrupted, no-good fancy-pants, he is sorely mistaken.
"Three years of comfort and luxury? Three years of acceptance? That is still more than I will ever even hope to recieve. Don't try to act like you aren't like the rest of them now. Soft," Rue spits, his voice burning like acid.
"Oh, really? Okay then. I'm a soft, flabby, cruel noble now. Happy?" I ask, turning my voice into a sickeningly-sweet coo, "Ooh, yay! I'm finally important enough to be recognized by my so-called peers! /Now I don't have to be mercilessly bullied, like you!/"
"Stop that," Rue seethes, turning to glare at me. His eyes are colder than words can describe and his words sear more than hot oil.
"Stop what?" I bite back, "Giving you what you wanted? What you asked for? This is how you picture me now, right? I suppose it's only fitting I go along with it!"
"You don't understand!" Rue shouts, and I can see tears pooling in his eyes. Fighting to keep the tears from falling, his face turns into a concentrated glower. It'd almost be funny, if not the current situation.
"I hate being so close to the "commoners". They think it gives them right to walk all over me, as if I'm poor. I've tried everything, and nothing works. I buy expensive clothing, I learn to act like them, I try to be friendly - but they only see me as a fool with a couple of pennies. Just another poor person pretending to be rich," He grits, sharp teeth clamped shut in an effort not to completely break down.
My voice dies in my throat, and my spirit deflates. This brings back memories. I remember when I was young, wondering why none of the other noble children my age ever showed up at my tea parties and croquet games. Why I never got invited to theirs.
"Rue," I say as gently as possible, "Is being a commoner such a bad thing? They're still people, after all. There are plenty of people less fortunate then us who go to work with a smile on their faces. Most just strive to live, being themselves in a world that favors the rich. Don't you notice how odd it is? That they can wake up with a smile on their lips, and you can't?"
"I don't know," He mutters, his spirit seemingly have worn out. "I didn't think about that."
"You don't think about anything," I reply, my lips trembling in an effort to smile.
Rue's white hair falls over his eyes, his bangs so light they're barely a different shade than his pale skin. His snow-white eyelashes flutter over ruby-red irises, which shine like dew on a rose, or blood on a silver knife.
"I don't know how much longer I'll last," he finally murmers, tugging off his thin black gloves. "I thought that if the bullying wouldn't change, then I'd be the bully."
Without warning, I pull him close, wrapping him in a warm embrace. I can feel his tears seep into my shoulder.
I grab his hands, which are frighteningly cold, and press it against my cheek. I take his other and give it a squeeze, watching his eyes widen.
"It'll be okay," I whisper.
"I hope that's true," He replies, face buried in the crook of my neck.
"...huh?" I turn when I hear a familiar noise, one that causes my friend's phone screen to light up with new nonifications.
"Oh, they got a new text," I hum, absentmindedly playing with their hair. It's so soft and fluffy that I always joke about them becoming a hair model. Which, in my defense - they totally could.
The two of us are sprawled out onto their couch together, with their head resting against my stomach. They're fast asleep, burned out from the previous night of aggressively playing video games and drinking.
Last night is hazy, but we spent all night together. We sat, huddled under the same blanket in a dimly lit room, with only the flashing lights from their tv screen illuminating our surroundings.
Their phone chimes again, the pinging noise filling the room and accompanying my friend's light breathing.
Curiously, I reach out and grab their phone, pulling it close to my chest. Unlocking it is easy enough - they told me their password ages ago. It's using it that's difficult, seeing as they're currently sleeping on top of me.
I bring the phone close to my face, before holding it high above my head so that I don't disturb my friend's peaceful slumber.
[ You have (3) new messages. ]
[ (insert brand name) ] 11:09 AM
Hello, Ajax! This is (insert brand name). Your order is ready for pickup.
[ Yelena ] 11:10 AM
Hey, dumb[][][] Where are you? Don't tell me you're still asleep...
[ Rozalyn ] 11:12 AM
Hey, Ajax? Did you tell [ REDACTED ] yet? I don't feel like it'd be healthy for you to keep masking your feelings, especially because I know you two are so close.
I frown. What was Rozalyn talking about, and why did she mention my name?
I glance at my friend, confused. Did they have something they wanted to tell me?
My brows crease and furrow as I debate whether or not to ask them about this when they wake. I decide against it, for now.
Glancing at my contact, I fight the urge to smile when I see that they have affectionately labled me as "Idiot <3". How charming. I suppose it's only fitting that I have them down as "My Dumb[][][]", then. Great minds think alike, after all.
As I stare at my contact name, I notice that there is a draft below it. A message they didn't get around to sending, I guess.
...unless...?
I hesitate to click on the draft. If it's something they want to tell me, shouldn't I respect their privacy? They'll tell me when they're ready.
...however, the tempation to check anyways quickly wins, pushing my morals to the side.
Idiot <3 (Draft)
Um [ REDACTED ] This is really weird, but No, that's not a good line. This might be unexpected, but I No, that's not it either.
I don't know how else to go about this but to tell you this straight. I think I'm in love with you I think about you everyday, and wonder what you're doing or if you're thinking about me I get butterflies when you say my name and I re-read our 2AM messages over and over again the next day I could spend hours listening to you talk, even if it's about something you hate (namely, your growing pile of math homework) and I get dizzy when I hear you laugh at the most random things Your stupid jokes - god, your stupid dad jokes - I love them. Even though I poke fun at you for them, because they really are lame, I love them because you're the one saying them Nopenopenope no this is ridiculous
...wow. That was...interesting.
I blink, unsure what to feel. I feel flattered and touched, but I'm unsure of whether I actually have romantic feelings for them. I mean, I do sometimes feel butterflies dancing in my stomach, but those are normal, right?
...
I stare at them, their face still buried in my waist.
The back of my neck flushes and my cheeks burn as I realize that they might actually hold feelings for me. They care about me - which I already knew - but they care about me so much more than I ever could have imagined.
I quickly exit out of the app and shut their phone off, placing back in its original position.
I look at them again, and the heat returns to my cheeks. I feel my eyes drifting towards their lips, and the butterflies return.
I curse, shaking my head. Why did I have to be so curious? Now I won't be able to look at them without getting flustered. This person, who I've grown so close to, may actually love me.
As I continue to play with their hair, all I can think about is how much closer we might get.
We live in a land where the footprints of ghosts linger.
Here is where the creeping of frost's blue lace is audible, and the sighs of a lovestruck girl are not. A place that has forgotten what the sun's rays feel like, a glow upon soft skin.
It has been centuries since something last truly lived here.
When the people could still be called people, there were no vengeful spirits or haunting wraiths. Just people who were happy to be alive in a flourishing world.
Now, the sorrows of spirits from centuries past roam, searching a world that is as empty as they are. They prowl, searching for anything to consume, their numbers as countless as the stars.
They comb through barren fields, wander the rooms of homes long abandoned, linger and loiter in absent schoolyards, their icy fingers grasping for a warmth just out of reach.
This world is such that the misery and the grief of a childless mother may reach it's fingers out to find the neck of another. And squeeze.
Where every negative thought is a residue, every callous remark a stain on this already crumbling world, one that we build of our own demise. Where every thoughtless action and cruelty adds to the anguish of the poor.
How can a world who's only inhabitants are cruel, selfish monsters really be called alive? How can a world, filled with heartless people, be anything more than a desolate wasteland?
This is a place where the leaves that drop from ancient, dead trees are enough to stir a storm, but with no people left to weather it.
This place is a forgotten, rocky landscape that will remain blanketed in snow and ash, crawling with ghouls.
Today is my birthday.
I'm turning fifteen in 10 minutes, at 11:59. Right before midnight.
What is supposed to be a joyous occasion is something has brought me nothing but grief.
The clock ticks. It's 11:50. 9 more minutes.
I remember the screaming. I couldn't forget it if I tried. And I've tried.
I still remember how howls of pain tore through the lips of the people around me as they clawed at their own flesh. How my own wails of agony weren't enough to deafen the crying of the people beside me as they desperately attempted to put themselves out.
The clock tocks. It's 11:51. 8 more minutes.
I remember the fire.
How it raged, consuming everything in it's path. How brightly-colored decorations and paper plates easily became fuel for nightmares. What was supposed to bring joy now only working to feed the flames.
The clock ticks. It's 11:52. 7 more minutes.
I remember crying, but no tears.
After the fire reached my face, greedily licking at my soft skin, searing my tear-ducts, working through my hair - there were no more tears. There will never be tears again.
The clock tocks. It's 11:53. 6 more minutes.
I remember the smile slipping off of my face as I felt the first waves of heat.
I remember the looks of joy on my friends's faces slowly draining away, morphing into looks of panic as we realized that this was not a joke. Fear. How they banged on the door, begging to be let out as the room filled with smoke.
The clock ticks. It's 11:54. 5 more minutes.
I remember the parents frantically moving to protect their children. How they tried call the fire department. To get help. To get reassurance. Comfort.
The clock tocks. It's 11:55. 4 more minutes.
I remember the smell of burning flesh.
How the scent of my own charred skin and singed hair quickly overpowered the cake in front of me. How it was unlike anything I had ever smelled before.
The clock ticks. It's 11:56. 3 more minutes.
I remember the pain.
White-hot, searing, burning pain. It hurt so much I knew that if I survived, I'd never experience anything as painful again.
The clock tocks. It's 11:57. 2 more minutes.
I remember the wishing.
How quickly I changed my birthday wish from "I hope my cat gets better soon!" to "Make it stop! I'll do anything to make it stop."
The praying to God, as the teary-eyed younger siblings begged Him for help while I and their older siblings burned.
The clock ticks. It's 11:58. 1 more minute.
I remember the ash and smoke quickly filling the lungs of those who managed to crawl into the corners, far away from those who burned, like me.
How they dragged their nails down their cheeks, scratching at their throat. Trying to breathe through the smog. How they coughed, like a sputtering engine before it dies. Dry wheezing, visceral roars.
The clock tocks.
It's my birthday. I was born now, in these 60 seconds.
I won't forget again. How could I?
I will never forget. I will remember today forever.
The clock ticks.
It's 12 AM.
It's a new day, now. No longer my birthday.
