Lovers: Boarding School

_nightmare

Alternate title: _nap

Alternate comment: Why must all the stories I write be fucking weird? Why can't I be a straightforward minimalist like the writers I'm a big fan of and not write J.K. Rowling sized tomes that could kill people when dropped from the roof a building?

I dunno. How do you guys manage to read this thicc ass story Q7Q

I also want to thank EVERYONE for helping this story reach a legendary milestone: 9000+ reads and 900+ votes! holy jesus mary and joseph. S H O O K. All the thank yous in the world aren't enough OMG ٩(⌯꒦ິ̆ᵔ꒦ິ)۶ᵒᵐᵍᵎᵎᵎ I need an entire universe's worth. DAMN.

***SIGNIFICANT THING NO ONE NOTICED YET: Keep track of when Violet calls Mr. Reinhart "Mr. Reinhart" and when she calls him "Gabriel." When does she call him by his name and when does she call him by his surname? I want your theories Qw<

WARNING: "DAMN! THIS IS SOME SCURRY SHIT!" - Brenda Meeks, the goddess reigning over my life and soul

Numb.

That was all she felt as she stared at her thumb crusted with dried blood.

Blood.

It filled in the crevices of her cuticle and stuck onto her skin, leaving lasting stains on sacred places Violet once thought were holy. Untouchable.

At the helm of the car, Mr Reinhart drove through the night like a knife slicing through black silk. His eyes of fractured green and gold were trained on the never ending road, his lips pressed together hard like the marriage of his foot to the crushed gas pedal beneath it.

Neither spoke about why they were out so late in the night, her in a forest and him in a gleaming black Mercedes. Violet couldn't even think properly as her mind was washed blank, the paper white canvas of her conscience tainted with crimson soaked thumb prints. What little she could feel was alien to her. She felt like she needed to scrub herself raw, to kill those hungry white faced jackals, to hide under her bed sheets and never face the world.

A single tear drop fell from her eye to her hand.

The game had went too far.

Violet did not realize that the car had been parked until Mr. Reinhart dropped his hands from the steering wheel and cut off the ignition. Blinking awake, Violet scanned her surroundings, her fear mounting and her heart racing. Far past the menacing evergreens and deciduous trees of the Fucking Forest, the Mercedes was parked on the gravelly curbside of a desolate country road. Wide open field spread out from either side of the car, its vastness stretching far into the horizon that was marred by the ink black darkness of the night.

Nervously, she glanced at Mr. Reinhart, her hand clutched tightly on the can of hairspray she'd forgotten she had in her pocket when she was nearly silenced by a lamb.

"Why did you stop the car?" Violet whispered, her voice shaky.

The faint glow of the dashboard carved out his face from the darkness, his sharp features pronounced by neon absinthe. His eyes fixated on the abyss untouched by headlights, his lips pinched slightly as if answering her required him to sever a limb. Or an eye.

The answer finally unraveled from his lips in loose strands of chilled silk. "It's easier to catch a bird when you know where its nest is."

Violet processed the words, curing them of their unnecessary poetic fat. She understood him in less than a heartbeat and an icy chill crept under her skin after another.