Hurricane

Alex - 1

I stood, motionless, so still that even my chest didn't rise as I breathed silently in the hall of the college dorms, very aware of the bodies and motions that blurred past me, other freshman that seemed to spin around me, and I was very, very, very aware that they were all accompanied by a parent.

I heard a young boy whine. "Mother, please. Go away. I can deal with this on my own." I turned my head towards the voice and saw a tall, blond boy, dressed richly, his nose stuck in the air snob-like. There was an older woman with him, who look exactly like the boy, except her head was downcast and her eyes hurt. The boy scoffed. "Mother." He dismissed the poor woman with a wave of his hand, refusing to look at her. "Leave." The woman turned, and walked away, shuffling down the corner and out of sight.

I wanted to punch the boy. Didn't he realize how lucky he was? Of course he didn't. I had learned to appreciate things, because you only really miss them when they're taken away from you.

My mind snapped back to the dark, damp, dank cabin, the shallow breaths of my mother, her limp body going slack in my arms.

I shook my head. No. I came to King's College for one reason and one reason only. To get away from it all.

The hallway was empty now. I hadn't realized how long I'd been standing out here. I stepped closer to the door, and placed a shaking hand on the knob. As soon as my skin touched the cold metal, a loud bang resounded through the echoing dorm halls, and for a second, it seemed as if the entire world was shaking violently in every direction. I jumped back from the door, as if the door knob was fire. My pulse pounded dangerously in every part my head, my body. I eyed the door nervously. Clearly, someone had thrown something against the other side of the door. Something very, very, very big.

Cautiously, I approached the door again. Silence. No, there was a small sound, like a harsh winter breeze, almost silent, cutting fear and uncertainty into the deepest regions of my mind, adding to the hovering cloud of negativity that consumed most of my mind. The sound, a voice, old, and male, I realized, was saying something, in a dangerous whisper, so low I could only catch a few words...

"If you ever—" the voice lowered, so I could not catch the next few words. Then it raised slightly, and I heard the words, "regret", "kill", "hurt", followed by a different voice, a gasping, pleading, younger voice, a louder voice, "Please..." it said, "Please, please don't hurt me..."

I jumped back, alarmed. What was going on in there?

As I backed up, I tripped over a loose floorboard and flew back, crashing into the wall. The bang as my back collided solidly with the chipped-paint-covered surface, a sound that was surely heard by everyone in the entire dorm.

A deep, male laugh resounded from my assigned dorm across the hall. The laugh sent a shiver down my body, and I immediately connected it with the scarey whispering voice from just moments before. It spoke:

"Looks your new roomie's here, fag. Hope he's not one of you." A tinge of disgust was clearly heard at the words "fag" and "you". I could already feel hatred coursing through my veins, and I hadn't even seen the old asshat yet.

However, that was about to change.

The door opened, revealing a old man, maybe fifty-something, and a young boy, whom I presumed to be the man's son, although they looked nothing alike. The man's beard and hair were very scruffy and greasy, and he wore too-small, stained slacks, and a sweat-stained white tank, and two mismatched socks with sandles. Only years of practice hiding my feelings made it possible for me to not display my disgust at the man. Not only for his looks, but his words, too.

Look, son," said the man, with such fake cheerfulness that it seemed more like he was in pain, "It's your new roomie."

The boy, who was also my age, according to my dorm assignment, looked nothing like his father. Like me, he wore a King's College sweatshirt. He also sported a pair of light blue jeans and black Converse high tops. And, I realized from my spot on the floor—

Damn, he was really cute.

His long, dark, curly hair was pulle back in a ponytail, but a few rebel strands still came loose. I noticed that the boy seemed to have a habit of tucking flyaway strand behind his ears, even though most didn't reach. His skin was sunkissed by freckles, and if I looked hard enough, his freckles formed the constellation Orion on his left cheek. His lips were set in a thin, emotionless line, but when he saw me, it transformed to a large, adorable, dorky grin. His chocolate brown eyes were warm, but also sad. They made me want to hug him, comfort him, confide in him. But something in his father's glare told me not to.

His father introduced himself as "Henry Laurens", then gave us each a threatening glare, before walking around the corner and out of sight.