aconite

iv. lavender

Stratford-Ward Preparatory, a school relish in organization [and affluence], is in a complete state of havoc.

The school's security is on their strongest surveillance—guards patrol the sidewalks and terrain like foot soldiers, padded up and armed with weapons of the highest standards. Every possible camera hidden in every crevice of the school is reactivated, monitoring every aspect of Stratford-Ward, watching over the school like angels. The students, upon their arrival, are walked from the doors of their vehicle, parked in an enclosed parking lot across the street, to the threshold of the school's front door with a bodyguard locked by their side.

Red sole shoes were never made to run with, but once the media scampers after you like you're a dog in heat, crying, Florence Laurent, please, tell us what happened to Elijah Boyes-De Clare! one has the knack to speed up to shorten the time of the traveling distance. Your palms tend to exude anxiety in the shape of humid liquid, your eyes frantically bowled down to the earth's crust. Refuse to give them any attention.

The journalists encumber him with poorly asked questions, one more direct than the next, fishing in an ocean without fish. We hear Elijah Boyes was found in your cottage, Florence. Florence shuts his eyes, is head ticking to his left shoulder. He holds his head there for a second longer, squeezing his eyes before turning his head back forward and plastering on his best poker-face. Tell me, how did you feel seeing your best friend mutilated? With his trained cold shoulder, he ignores both the microphones and cameras, wading through them into the school's butterflying crystal entrance. He flashes his student card, dangling by a chain around his neck in a card holder that holds his most important cards—his student card, his debit card and his driver's licence—from below his blazer. He taps the student card to the small machine next to the door, altering the flash of light from red to green. Did you keep Elijah there, Florence? Where were you the night of Elijah's disappearance? Are you in love with Elijah? The bodyguards release him into the school's premises like exocytosis once the doors slide open, safely depositing him into the hallways of his school, finally leaving him to peace and quiet.

He pauses, shaking the overwhelming tension from the shoulders of his navy blazer, already straining to cover his broad shoulders. Usually tight clothing is not a problem for Florence Laurent, being every second Stratford-Ward fashion-designer-student's model, but today the black polo neck is hacking at his throat. He waits for the balls of his joints to settle in, for his shoulders to soften, for his breath to settle back into his lungs.

There is a vile uneasiness in the stomach of Stratford-Ward, as if the building itself feels ill and infects the entire population inside. Which is quite the opposite to the usual, tight atmosphere that lingers like a strong perfume. Expensive eyes lay lost in the marble-floored hallways, refusing to meet one another. His teeth are quietly grinding and working on dried lips. Worry barks petulantly at the back of his head as his mind chews on possible explanation to his endeavour.