𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐫...
𝐖𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐋𝐄𝐘 sighed as he dropped his arms. He was exhausted from being forced to practice for longer than everyone else. His father, Ode, stood before him, ushering for him to raise his hands again. Mixed Martial Arts was a skill that everyone in Goldcrest had to learn and master. Ode believed that it was essential for survival and, because he was an expert, he had survived for more than four years after the virus hit.
"Oya, we have to finish before dinner is ready," he said, as he got back into position. Westley ran his hands over his face and then through his hair.
"Dad, I'm tired," he groaned, "I've been sparring all day. Why has everyone else gone and I'm still here?" Ode kissed his teeth. His Nigerian accent began to show through his tone, as he got angrier.
"Westley, stop asking questions and get into position, all this groaning is what is making you a terrible fighter." he stated. He grabbed Westley's hands and put him in the correct stance.
Westley pulled a face, "I'm not a terrible fighter,"
"You are the bottom of the class, your junior sister is even better than you." As his father started, Westley rolled his eyes, having to hear this litany again.
He'd heard it a million times before, since he was always made out to be the weakest link. His father had mocked him so much about it during the daily classes that he was constantly made fun of by his friends.
"I'm not going to have you embarrass my teaching because you cannot keep up and you 'cannot be arsed'. You de crazy? O ti wa ni se ara re bi asiwere." he kissed his teeth. As soon as his father began speaking in Yoruba, Westley decided to abide. He raised his fists, as he rolled his eyes.
"Okay, okay," he mumbled. He didn't want to speak too loud for his dad to go off on him.
For another hour, Westley practiced with his father. His body ached and he grew frustrated at how he kept losing to him. When practicing finally became futile, Ode sighed and stepped away from Westley who propped his hands on his knees, as he heaved for a breath.
"Let's just go and eat," Ode said.
"No, no, I almost got you down, let's go again." Westley straightened, getting back into the position and barely having the breath to go on.
Ode waved him off. "No, you are done for today, I don't have the will to fight with you anymore." His father walked off to the changing rooms and Westley's arms fell to his sides sadly. He frowned, as he had disappointed his father once again. It soon changed into annoyance, his father wasn't realising how much he was actually trying.
Even though he was the eldest, he was always compared to his younger sister, Monet. She was seen as the baseline of expectations in the Feilds family, and Westley was barely meeting it.
As much as Ode tried to help his son to be better than he was, he always ended up underachieving. The embarrassment and ridicule that came along with it was what he couldn't handle, as much as he had come to terms with his son's failure.
With Westley's past affiliations with gangs and crime in London, which made them move in with their father living in Oxford in the first place, Ode knew to never trust any good coming from his son, which explained his easy unwillingness to even try to help him succeed.
The put-down that Ode put on Westley was definitely evident in his behaviour. Physically and most definitely psychologically, as his jealousy of those better than him caused erratic behaviour. It began to show very clearly when Goldcrest started getting off its feet as a strong-holding community, there were men that were conspicuously stronger than Westley, and he hated it.
Ode didn't see it as it was, however, he believed that his behaviour was performed by his son to embarrass him in front of the people that aspired to be the leader that he was. It seemed he cared more about his reputation than anything else; and only God knew what that had done to Westley's mental state.
Westley sighed and ran his hand down his face, before he followed him to the changing rooms.
•
Goldcrest was destined to be a bright, thriving community, not with ferocious flames. It was built from the ground and founded by his father, resonating in Jericho, Oxford, with a group of survivors looking to start a new life in the poisoned world.
Ode wanted his son to be a part of The Crest, it was an organisation of some of the Goldcrest townspeople to be the voice of politics in the community. They created peace with fundamental democracy. However, Westley wanted to be a leader, the only leader at that...
West stood before Murphy's grave. Enormous rocks sat at the head of it, holding up the wide wood plank that had his name inscribed into the oak growth rings. Wilting flowers were rested along the grave in respect.
He grimaced at the fact that his birthday just passed not too long ago, making him twenty-four. It was beginning to get harder to hinder the guilt he felt for drawing his weapon, but if it was enough to make everyone believe his lie, then it was all that mattered.
...Westley liked the idea of power, being able to dominate above people that have to abide with his demands sounded so desirable that he would do anything to get it. His father was a powerful man, he wanted his son to follow in his footsteps even if he was failing at it; not at all knowing that his son believed his mindset was flawed.
The greedy boy wanted nothing more than to stand like Ozymandias, for his visage to hold a timeless sneer that people would fear to upstage. He craved for his cold command to be respected—to prove that he was strong enough to lead, regardless of his father's disappointment.
He failed to realize that his fate was exactly like this forgotten king: bare and bereft of such colossal authority, with nothing residing...
Footsteps drew near and stopped once they reached West. He broke his stare from the gravestone, raising his eyes to find Sasha, who apathetically inspected the wood plank before sitting beside West on the damp grass.
For a moment, they sat in the silence. Then Sasha faintly sighed, the tremble in her actions still resided after weeks of grief. "How are you coping?" West began faintly.
He hadn't attended the small funeral they had—frankly, he wasn't even invited, Zara made sure of it. Sasha was like a ghost, floating in the air aimlessly among the hundreds that lived in the community. As much as the girls tried to convince her otherwise, she was certain that she'd lost her final purpose in this poisoned world, to live happily; and the destroyer sat rigidly beside her.
"I'm okay." she flatly replied. He gazed at her profile. It was reassuring that she looked better, she was coming to terms with it—though her joyful spirit hadn't returned.
"It's a beautiful ring." West commented, not quite sure how to approach the silence that ensued once more.
"I know, he always had the eye for good jewellery." she replied. She gently smiled, glancing down at the engagement band.
...His father never wanted to see it. Even when he stared up pleadingly at him, begging for his life. His father never wanted to see the power that Westley had—not until it was taken right from him.
He'd paused for a moment, feeling the world slow down amidst the chaotic explosions from the riots, and tightened his grip on the semi-automatic pistol that was leaving a faint gunpowder tracing on his father's forehead. He wondered what this feeling was, a type of satisfactory relief as he came to his senses—and he smiled.
"I've always imagined doing this," he softly uttered, his smile growing menacingly.
He squeezed. The ringing was exhilarating. Shocks through his body. As his father's body met the ground...
West soon sighed to break the heavy silence between them. He hadn't spoken to her in almost a month and he was beginning to look like even more of the monster that he was already attempting to conceal from everyone. "I wasn't really sure how to say it, but I'm really sorry for—"
"Don't." Her smile had fallen and she now stared blankly at deceased fiancé's grave. "Apologising won't bring him back. So, don't." Frankly, she didn't want to hear it, especially if he was going to lack remorse, he was so sure that his reason was justified.
"Well, whether you accept it or not, I want you to know that I am. I just wanted Monet safe." he explained again.
"We all did, and she was going to be. But—" she halted at the start of her sentence, the frustration that she'd learnt to control was brewing once more. She shook her head and remained silent.
Sasha was only two years younger than West, he was like the older brother that she'd never had. She understood why he was so fearful for Monet, she was too. The search that she and Zara had conducted, the day after her disappearance, was futile for the majority of it, and Sasha was constantly trying to plan the best way to tell West that.
His protection for Monet was evident, but his treacherous actions that followed was what made Sasha glad she never had a brother like him.
"I'm fine, West, it's fine." she lied dryly. He sighed, tenderly squeezing her shoulder, leaving her rigid, and walking back to the community centre. Spotting Monet with Zara, he took a detour from his original journey home.
Zara failed to hide the disdain in her expression, when he stopped beside them. Monet raised her brow.
"Mo," he spoke, his voice trembled. His broad shoulders fell and his body slowly caved into itself with vulnerability. It was all coming down on him, she thought. Westley folded his arms around her, to which she failed to react to, "I just wanted you safe."
"This is ridiculous." Zara muttered with an eye roll. She'd been restraining herself from saying the worst and this "vulnerable" act that he was beginning to use as an excuse was the last she was going to take. "You have this hero complex, that you think you can save the day. You keep fucking messing things up and I hate that Noah won't just end it all, for the sake of all our sanities!" she grunted.
West pulled away, taking a proper look at the hatred that filled her dark brown eyes. "How many times do I have to apologise? I apologised to Sash, just now. I can't do very much if you lot aren't going to accept it." he retorted. Zara scoffed wryly, stepping closer.
"Having you six feet under would do the fucking job."
Vulnerability was replaced with ferocity. "If I go down, every single person in this community is coming with me."
...Guilt? Regret? None was present. Nothing but the feeling of accomplishment...
"You are sick," Zara spat. As West advanced closer, Monet stopped him, throwing her arm across his chest like a barrier. He gazed down at it, then back at Zara, whose stare hadn't faltered. Once he finally glanced at Monet, he noticed that same, mutating fury that resided in her eyes. She looked upon him with undying revulsion.
She wanted him dead.
...Had he really accomplished all? She still stood. High and mighty. The Feilds' treasure child, as she stared from afar.
Westley and Monet's eyes met, and he didn't hesitate to raise the gun again. An explosion shook the ground beneath them, giving Monet an escape. Bullets zoomed past her, as she zigzagged, diving into the congregation of hooded trees...
"Just stop, Westley," Monet pressed.
He inhaled, concealing his inexplicable urge to throttle his sibling. He stepped away without another word. He could live with Zara's hatred, she would soon meet her demise either way when he was in power.
But Monet? She was a problem.
...He was the most powerful in the dying community of Goldcrest. He knew that for certain. As he turned to marvel at the beauty of what was now his, blazes brandishing wild oranges with a warm, yellow core and sharp reds swallowed the clocktower at the town's centre.
Blinded by this triumphant swell of fickle power, he failed to realise that he was the creator of these now poisoned waters.
Once calm, now disrupted by the thirst for destruction...
|𝟐𝟏| 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬:
Now this is what I call a powerful chapter. West is a bit of a shithead, isn't he?
Anyway, hope you enjoyed!
~𝐠𝐥𝐝𝐧𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐬.