Cirus' POV:
"Come on skinny love, what happened here?
Suckle on the hope in light brassieres.
My, my, my, my, my, my, my, my.
Sullen load is full, so slow on the split."
The tips of my fingers hurt. I strum my guitar, letting the smooth vibrations of the strings echo around my room. I sing, letting the thick vibration of my throat produce these sullen lyrics.
I have to give it to Bon. His music is sad as hell but comfortable. Why is there comfort in sadness? Who knows..
The pads of my feet feel the coldness of the wooden floor as I sit on my bed, bent over Harold. Harold was my grandfather's guitar. His name was Harold, too.
He never liked me to call him Grandpa. Only Harold. While the world continues without him, I take every moment I can in his remembrance. I remember the first night I introduced Harold to Bon Iver. He fell in love, just like I did.
In a world of difference, Harold was my common ground. A person of familiarity. Me. Mom used to joke and say that I was him, all over again. Which could be true.
He passed during my Sophomore year.
As my nose began to run, I strum one last sting, finishing the instrumental. Placing the guitar back on its stand, I stand, wiping my nose with my arm.
...
I stand outside the gates of Hell in dread. In the uniform of blue, black, and green, I walk toward the main door. Every step increases insecurity.
Every day I ask to be dropped off early so that I'm out of the way and away from Ethan and his groupies.
The sterile cleaning products fill my nostrils.
I hate this place.
----------------------------
6:28pm NATEHAN 91%
NATEHAN
Here.
CIRUS
Same.
Where R U?
NATEHAN
Library.
CIRUS
En route.
----------------------------
The stares never get easy. As I walk down the hall, a short guy starts to hop from leg to leg. Galloping like a horse. The people surrounding him laugh like hyenas.
Immature scum.
The library wasn't full today. Not like usual. Nate sat at a desk, writing in his red lyric book. Nearby, I could see the top of the page was labeled
K.M
"Ohh, someone's gotten hit by Cupid." I tease, sitting down next to him.
"Stuff it. I still don't know what rhymes with eyes.." He replies.
"Lies? Maybe try hypnotize." I say, pulling out a book. The Secret History by Donna Tartt.
"Genius boy!" Natehan sprung.
I chuckle, turning to my bookmark.
In my head, I could configure the perfect lyrics for Natehan. "Oh, what prize lies behind your eyes, those wonderful guys I despise. To my surprise, you're wise. You leave all your allies hypnotized. You're a prize if, I must imply. You disguise the skies in sunrise highs, unable to describe or compromise."
Words float to me, I organize them, and boom: LYRICS.
But I hold my tongue, letting Natehan organize his project alone. It'll be more meaningful if Natehan did it himself.
Now back to my book. Who killed Henry?
...
It's been a couple of weeks since I've been grounded. A couple of weeks since that dinner. The one with Vittoria.
I've been working towards getting my freedom back. I've missed the Landing, I've missed Natehan's house, and I miss The Potter's Club.
I really do hope so.
Lunch has started. I don't eat school food because it tastes like processed dog food. I roam the halls, specifically the West Wing. These halls are always empty.
Grey lockers line the walls, the white tiles gleam on the floor. Sunlight pours in through the windows, and That sterile smell has faded.
Taking in my surroundings, I hear talking. I stop in my tracks to hear better. Who's that? Nobody's supposed to be here.
Around the corner, comes Ethan Shane, Monty Viloreal, Pete Walker, and Terrance Trahan. Fuck.
I turn in my heels, walking in the opposite direction.
"Hey, Cripple! Wait up!" Ethan yells.
I don't stop. Sweat begins to appear on my hands, and I can feel my heartbeat in my eyes. It's hard to breathe.
Footsteps surround me as I pull out my phone.
----------------------------
12:59pm NATEHAN 47%
CIRUS
Come to the West Wing. Eth
----------------------------
My text message was interrupted by a pair of hands on my shoulder. It wasn't just any regular touch, it was a push. My phone flew out of my grasp as I took a trip to the lockers.
My left shoulder hit the metal with a bang, sending ripples of vibrations through my arm and chest. Black dots cloud my vision. A yell escapes my mouth, dancing in the air with the laughter of the boys.
"Leave me a-" I try.
"Shut up, pussy. Vegetables shouldn't talk. Matter of fact. Monty, where's your lunch tray?" Ethan grunts.
Unable to see, I feel on the ground for my phone. I need to get Natehan, Silas, or anybody.
Moments later, a slap comes across my face. Something slimy is spread across my face as I try to claw at the hand.
"Get off!" I exclaim.
A kick comes full force on my ribs. All the breath in my body uses my mouth as an escape route. I gasp, desperately wanting the sanitizer air.
"Pathetic. You should have died on those stairs." Ethan spat. Literally spat. Wet, thick, and slimy. Right on my cheek.
"Hey!" Another voice yells. One not belonging to Ethan, Monty, Terrance, or Pete. "Get the fuck off of him!" It continues.
I want to close my eyes and sleep.
My eyes flutter closed and darkness feels my blotted vision.
CZYTASZ
All for the Plot
Romans"Do it. For the plot." - - - - Vittoria St. James is a walking paradox. She is stuck on the outside of her family's inside circle because of her alliance to her parents. She tries distracts herself with the night life but is never happy too...
