Implode [edited version]

o2 implosion

“What is it that you do afterschool?”

The question held some venom to it, as if there was the barest of usefulness in whatever activity she did. She had to bite back the wave of hurt that threatened to rush over her.

“I contracted out for art,” was her quivering response.

She felt she should’ve, could’ve been stronger in her reply. Showing spine wasn’t her strong suit, but was always what Laurisse advised her to do. She showed an ample amount of acquiescence, though. It must have been the only proper aspect of her answer, as he nodded and took a slight step back. Albeit the step put a crushing sensation in her step, she could breathe a little better with the distance he put between them.

“I’ve forgotten my manners,” he began, his voice smooth and complexly apologetic and confident, “My name’s Ambrose. I’ve known you for a while.”

She could barely squeak out a soft, “what?” before Ambrose was off down the hall, hooded head bobbing in the swarm of departing students. Her thoughts slipped back to the note in her locker, and the weight of the impossibility closed in on her. There was no way - and yet every way - that the two entities could possibly be related.

Staggering off to the art room, she deliberated on what exactly had played out before her.

[ matthew davis ]

As the starting quarterback for a team of champions, his senior year had begun with a blow to the ego. The loss of his first game was only going to cripple his chances of a flawless record to brag about. There would be no way for him to say that he’d started with a bang, unless it pertained to him being knocked over by linebackers nearly half his size.

You’re better than this, his coach had said, disappointment clear on his features.

The brunet snorted harshly in response to the mental image, slamming his car door shut behind him. The old pick-up had seen better days, and the groaning of the door only put emphasis on his need for a newer vehicle. He huffed as he fiddled with the latch and window, putting a barrier up between the outside and the inside of his festering anger and disappointment.

He made the usual preparations to get on his way, pausing as he poised himself to press down on the gas. The only question now was to figure out what he’d do next. There was the tantalizing option of going to get a few drinks with his buddies, or returning home to be coddled by his parents as they mended his damaged image. The former option, in his opinion, was the best. However, he wasn’t entirely in favor of having that over his head.

There was a tap on the glass, ripping him from his puzzlement. He cast his auburn gaze over to the figure outside. Sighing, he went through the tedious motions of rolling down the window before really looking at the person outside. He figured it was no one serious, a disappointed sports fan or a gloating member of the opposing school team. Though, he couldn’t quite place the face before him.

Matt was certain that he’d have noticed a guy on the other team with golden eyes. That, or they were just wearing colored contacts and had the added trick of light. Whatever it was, they were unusual. He could see that the stranger was tall, maybe slightly taller than him. His skin was the sort of sun-kissed caramel that he’d remembered hearing girls going on about to no avail, and the curls atop his head were dark and tangled in a halo around his ears.

The stranger smiled an easy smile, pale pink lips curving up amicably. Amusement played at the planes of his face, and Matt was filled with a complimenting pissy-ness to his already pissy mood. He scoffed lightly under his breath, before stepping out of his car to confront him.

“I’m looking for a Matthew Whitman Davis,” the stranger announced, words crisp and clear as they rolled off his tongue, “Would you happen to know where he is?”

“That’s me,” Matt confirmed, eyes narrowing and brows furrowing, “Do I know you, or something?”

“No, but I know you,” the stranger replied, the smile turning into a malicious grin that made Matt’s stomach drop.

The sense of dread that filled him was unlike anything he’d felt before, not even only moments ago in the last seconds of the game, feeling the truth of their loss shortly before it occurred.

“Can I help you with something?”

“No, but I can help you.”

There was that dread again, sinking in and making itself at home in the regions of his stomach. He supposed it was just the aftershocks of the defeat. It had to be; there was no way that he could possibly be afraid of this…guy in front of him.

“I was sent on behalf of Exodus,” the stranger continued, “I hear you haven’t exactly been treating her right, and I’m just taking some initiative for her.”

At this, Matt had to snort. Exodus was a known pariah; her words meant little to nothing, for all anyone dared to care. She was the outcast, the scapegoat.

“Her? She sent you-” he jabbed a finger viciously in the stranger’s direction, “to tell me off? Ha; real funny.” It was accented with a disfigured smirk and a chuckle of horrendous proportions, he assumed to match the degree of how absurd the entire situation was.

The stranger returned the chuckle, somehow managing to pull it off in a melodically sinister manner. He ran a hand through his hair, letting the laughter die down and his features straighten with serious intent.

“No, I’m here to do more than just tell you off.”

This was, perhaps, the final straw to let the trepidation sink in for Matt. Whatever his fate held, something in him knew that it wouldn’t be good – not with the stranger that stood before him. Said stranger dragged his tongue along his lips, something that made him seem more like a ravenous predator than just some psychopath standing apart from him.

“You’re joking.”

He was sure that the steps to take back to the pick-up were few, but his legs were suddenly trembling columns of uselessness. He was positive that the adrenalin should be kicking in at some time soon, but it wasn’t now. Maybe he could force it.

“Nope, no,” was the answer he received, “I’m deadly serious. If this were a joke, it’d be done far better than this.” There was a soft pause. “Shit, I did it again; forgot my manners. My name is Ambrose. Don’t bother asking about my surname; I’ve forgotten it myself. All the years have taken it from me.”

Ambrose chuckled again, sending another wave of terror through Matt. He noticed then the harsh perfection of his attacker, or whatever he was, and his throat went dry. His hands clammed up, as if they had been dowsed with water. Without his permission, his body lurched backwards, throwing him towards the beckoning safety of the pick-up.

He had only managed to touch the handle of the door before he was thrown back, spine colliding with the brick of the wall of the restrooms. The breath left him, gasping harshly as he attempted to find it once more. Footsteps crunched over the gravel of the parking lot as Ambrose drew closer, followed by the metallic hiss of the door dragging along the ground.

“What’s the rush? We were having a nice conversation,” he remarked, something in his voice that was lost to Matt.

He attempted to answer, to plead for whatever he could, but his voice was lost in the copper tasting liquid in his mouth. His features drooped in an anticipated defeated, his breaths coming out in short, whispery gasps.

He only managed to stay up long enough for Ambrose to break his legs.

[ an ] sorry, sorry

I'm always late, though.

Enjoy, I guess.