Rain pattered on the windowpanes, colliding with the scratched glass in a broken symphony of noise. I thought, how fitting it was, that the clouds would hide me from the sun today. Given today, I would leave this grey place, hopefully for good. It had been six months, to the day, that my life had come to a full stop within the warm arms of a bloodbath.
During the last six months that felt like sixty, I was moved from grey place to grey place. Since running out of tears on the corpses of my parents, I had called the authorities (what else to do?). Without any hint of reaction or emotion (what did I have left to feel?), I sat paralysed as I answered countless questions (what could I say?). The 'specialists' had 'especially' driven me to a plain building within the span of an hour. I didn't say or do anything (why care anymore), which they wrote off to PTSD. I believed them, I took the pills and I went to therapy. I said what they wanted me to, and they said I was 'cured'. They walked me past fluorescently lit rooms with an air of pride in their step. I was leaving the monotonous 'institution', another great success of theirs. Back to courtroom, for the last time. Every moment was a blur of pointless questions and empty statements, it came to a point where I had no opinion anymore, and it didn't matter to anyone at any point.
It had taken, what the judge called "a very considerate and unusual" amount of time to track down a relative, all were dead or missing. The closest they could find was a vague uncle living so far north, he was practically in Canada. The only part of the following weeks that I remembered thinking about was that I would finally get to see snow. Where I came from, it just never snowed. The excitement was smothered by the walls of protective blockades I'd built up over the past months. When the judge made te final call to take me to my Uncle's residence because he had yet to reply to any communication with more than a single "Very well".
Riding in the Agent's company car was quiet, and probably awkward. The agent seemed fidgety and faltered whenever she tried to make conversation. She was kind, but was obviously unnerved when she was ever left alone with me. I watched the scenery go by, as only a numb person can, with faded disnterest. Buildings grew shorter, and trees grew taller and more numerous. With great difficulty, the court had their two words from my uncle, and were sick enough of me to take that as the green light to be done with me. The lawyer was trying to be nice and told me it was likely he'd accept me, because I had a good file.
My 'file' was all people cared about since I entered the system. Ember Lorel, A month or few off of 18, 5"4', shoulder-length light-brown hair, so-on so-forth. What a wretched name, I thought, the word for a dying flame and a useless vagabond. I had found that out sometime in high school when we were encouraged to look up meanings, though my mother had always tried to tell me it was a lovely name and the last meant the tree not 'the obsolete'. A knot pushed up in my throat at the thought, though I swallowed it bitterly. I sighed for maybe the millionth time that day, the Agent looking at me with the same worried expression for maybe the millionth time that day.
Reaching the airport, the Agent got me out of the car and up to customs, before trying to give me a hug. It ended awkwardly when I lightly raised my arms around her but didn't quite touch her. It felt ever-so cruel to say goodbye like this after all her 'help'. But there would be many more heart-breaking cases for her to deal with yet. I followed through with the rest of the processes of flying like a robot, programmed, silently, practically emotionlessly.
Boarding the plane was dull, I followed in step with an older man to the back of the plane. I shuffled into the 27th aisle, sitting alone in the window seat. This was good for me because I would have something to stare at before we took off, when the view would become something I heard to be a sea of fluffy white clouds. A slow 15 minutes passed before the plane was ready to take off. In that time I realized the plane was far from full, only 4 people had boarded the plane before take off. It was my first time on a plane, and I hadn't realized I was actually jittery. Taking off, I concentrated on the rumble of the engines and gripping the arms of the chair tightly, rather than the slightly overweight man snoring in the middle of the aisle seat. I listened intently to the sound of the wheels grinding into motion, wondering which sounds meant failure and which meant the engines were in good working order. There was a loud whooshing sound of changing air pressure flying through the cabin, then the pilot gave his seemingly rehearsed speech along with the single stewardess. The plane began a rush down the tarmac, creating a sensation I'd never felt before. The shock of it drove my eye-lids high and my nails into the arms of the chair either side of me. But, when the wings of the plane hummed and we took off, I felt a rushing sense of freedom was over me. No longer was I drowning down on the ground, I was flying into my own personal freedom. As we left the ground of my hometown, and descended into the sky, I was--for the first time in so long--ever so slightly free.
I woke up to silence after a comfortable sleep, which didn't seem strange until I remembered I was still on a plane. I also realized it was the best sleep I had had in quite a while, since it was nightmares, insomnia, or both, that usually kept me up at night. I saw the man on my right getting up and pull down his lugagge. I hurridly got up and wiped drowsiness from my eyes, then pulled down my only duffle bag, my favorite abercrombie and fitch duffle. I wasn't spoiled, this was one of the best things I owned, and by far my favorite. Most of my belongings were blood-soaked or part of evidence in the case for my parents' murder. So all I had was with me, or in a storage container being held by the Specialists until further notice.
I had arrived in northern Maine, right next to the border of canada. Walking out of the tiny airport in my warmest clothes, consisting of: a long sleeve shirt, jeans and a light scarf from my 15th birthday. It was only mid-fall, but I was taken aback by a gush of cold air. I hugged myself and shivered as I turned pink at all my extremities. I was looking around for a driver or someone expecting me, and was not dissapointed by a simple black sign with a flushed white border, the name 'Em' Lorel' written in cursive chalk. I was choked at the thought of my last name, of the Lorel's that were now gone for good. I had known the name was cursed. I was quick to suppress a rising knot in my stomach as it neared my throat, threatening to choke me. Walking up to the sign, I saw the man stood behind it, also in black, wearing a dramatic black trench coat. He had black sunglasses, black leather gloves, black everything. I suppressed a dark chuckle at the sight of him in his all-black gettup like an 'Agent' from movies. I covered my dark smile with my hand. His skin was dark also, his eyes covered by dark sunglasses. Seeing me, he picked up the sign with a swift and silent movement of his hand, then moved swiftly to the back of a long black car with tinted windows, and stored it in the trunk. He took my bag and gingerly placed it next to the sign. When he saw my shivering, he raised an eye-brow and gestured towards the now open backseat door of the car. I gladly, but silently, clambered inside. I almost dived right into the pre-warmed air of the car. I was pleased to find the chairs to be quite comfortable, and I was finally able to feel my fingers again.
The seats were a dark and worn brown leather, so unlike the hard black outer shell of the car. I barely noticed when the driver got into the car and started the car with a smooth purr. Contrasting heavily to the old truck I was used to as a child. Pulling away from the airport, the car made next to no sound, much like the driver, I thought. Looking around, I saw that most of the vehicles were pick-ups or other variety of hardy trucks. The people around the terminal also looked hardy, and annoyingly warm with their smiles and puffy jackets. I leant back, content not to have look at them anymore.
This is where Em dozed off. This also brings the story into the present.
She awoke curled into a ball against the car door. The smaller buildings that stood so stoutly around the airport had been replaced with lush green fields. They were almost immediatly replaced with a thick dark forest of tall, old trees. White spruce trees and apple oaks stretched over the thin and strangely well-kept road. She was reminded of her childhood when her and her mother would name trees in the park. Some of the happiest moments in her life. Still gazing out the window, there was a thick variety of trees that she could name: Black birches, Plum trees, huge Oaks of all kinds and spruce Pines arching over the others. She smiled for the 'second' time, as the forest offered to help her forget and move on like taking her first flight. Her eyes brimmed with tears from the past. She lent back, focused on anything but.
The car drove on for what seemed like hours, past trees that looked the same as the last mile of trees. Eventually though, it slowed, and turned into a large gravel driveway, lined with decorative purple plum trees and a pair of twisted black and bare cherry trees. Coming to a stop at the head of the round'a'bout entrance, Em tried to get out of the car quickly and reached for the door handle. The driver was already there to open it for her. A strong gust of wind hit her as she exited the car, it blew shivers through her where she stood, and the last of the orange leaves from the surrounding trees.
She looked up and admired the large building before her. A dark red brick mansion, with white window frames, obviously very old and very large as it dissapeared into the surrounding woods. The right side of the entrance way was covered in curly and weaving ivy vines up to the fifth story. Two great black stained doors rose before Em. Each was held up by large iron hinges with nails probably as large as herself, weaving out from these nails were some metal decals which curled around in confusing designs. The door's low blemished handles also had intricate carvings barely worn by age and time. To the right of the building, a large black sign with a washed white border bore the name "garçons n'aimaient pas pensionnat" in thick cursive. From her small knowledge of french, Em surmised that it read 'The boarding school for the disliked boy', or something along those lines. Although she doubted that was what it said. Since it would suggest it were a boy's school. So she asked the driver: "What does the sign say?"
The Driver looked at her with something slightly less than a measurement of genuine shock, then responded in a deep smooth voice "Boarding school for the..." he paused, and smirked to himself with a dark chuckle before continuing "special.. boy".
She was less concerned about the affliction of the boys attending this school than the fact that it was indeed a school for boys. She was overrun with sudden panic, "Wait," she said, "School for BOYS?" she exclaimed, her voice reaching a shrill tone at the end of the word.
The driver was now visible unsettled, flinching at the high shriek and sudden outburst.
"yes?" he said simply, obviously unawares of her unawares state.
Her heart was in a frozen flurry that was sure to chill her through, she hugged herself against it. Her thoughts buzzed around in her head like bees. Just before she could speak again, the doors to the school opened with a loud creek and moan, turning her head. A man in a dark tuxedo came through the large gap between the doors. He struck Em as similar to a bird because of his upturned nose, and the tails on his coat. She suppressed a dark chuckle.
He then beckoned her inside, and as she turned to follow, she noticed the driver slowly making his way back to the car. Seeing him as he drove off, she saw the butler holding the bag before she could inhale to say that the driver must still have it.
Again, and impatiently, the raven or crow-like character beckoned her inside. She turned and walked inside to the biggest foyer she had ever seen. She briefly thought that the Whitehouse didnt have a foyer this large when she visited it. It was even topped off with a stained glass dome, depicting a scene of angels and demons, people in a forest, along with bats and a cloaked man, next to what appeared to be a man and a woman holding glowing orbs emitting light rays. Looking down to the edges of this glorious room, there were two staircases. Surrounding the round room from a halfway point, slightly shielding the hallways that led off on either side. The room was such a temperature that it had none, and was almost deadly still. There was a lack of plants, or any life so much as an insect, and an abundance of sculptures in every alcove of the round room. The floors and walls were mainly marble and heavy fabrics in shades of wooden browns, red and white.