Blood Bride — 1

"The Blood Bride is here! The Blood Bride is here!!" 

A scarlet carriage embellished with gold jewels rolled over the cobbled driveway. It was a spherical machine with big wheels and intricate flower detailing of gold around its surface. It was being powered by a white elongated pentagonal stone levitating over its top. 

The carriage halted to a smooth stop in front of the open castle doors. Through the lacy curtains over the round windows, Elowen caught sight of multiple pale skinned, ruby eyed, folks curiously eyeing her ride. 

She rested a hand over her chest to calm her raging heart. For, being sent all alone as a sacrifice, all the more, to the vampire kingdom, no less, did come with a main course of nerves and a bitter aftertaste of abandonment. 

To think there was no one to recieve her, a human princess, at the castle doors held another dash of dampness to her already sullen state of mind. Even if she intended to run away — how could one escape a place with eyes and ears in every nook and cranny?

Surely, no less than ten people might be relishing her fear hastened heartbeat in proximity. 

Where is the Crown Prince who was supposed to meet her? Should she get out all by herself? Is it disrespectful to stay inside for too long? If she were to dash the carriage back home — how much international tension would it cause? The last question was easily answerable. She would be murdered unceremoniously and the vampire kingdom, Valoria, would declare war on the mortal empire of Imania. 

The inside of her carriage was dark and musky. Her gloved hands sweated against the door handle as she gently twisted it. The door sprung open and Elowen almost yelped, lunging into the back of the carriage, at the sight of the person before her.

"I was beginning to think you'd never open the door," the person said. She was a woman with the most perfect rosy complexion accentuated by her curly chestnut hair and emerald eyes gazing into Elowen's soul.

"Ah, no, I was just making sure I look presentable," enough to die, Elowen didn't add; she ran a hand over her hair and outfit to convey her point.

The woman's sharp features softened into a smile and she held out her gloved hand for Elowen to take. Her fitted suit jacket and dress pants made Elowen wonder if she was a knight. Nonetheless, the human princess gently held the girl's hand and let herself be escorted out of the carriage.

"I am Astrid Atlier, the highest ranking Lady of Valoria and your aide for the stay. Welcome to the land of the cursed, Princess Calyx," she curved in the most elegant bow and pressed a kiss on Elowen's lacy knuckles. A chill of awe ran down her spine. 

The princess sucked in a shy breath, for Astrid Atlier was the most charming woman she had ever laid her eyes upon. "It's an honour to have you by my side," for as long as I live, Elowen did not add. She smiled with a tilt of her head which ever so slightly bared her neck.

Instantly, Astrid's hands were around Elowen's neck — choking a cough out of the princess. Though, instead of wrangling her neck or stabbing her artery, Astrid tied a small shell shaped necklace around the smooth curve of her throat.

"It has been scented by the maids. It shall dampen your scent until the ceremony begins," Astrid informed as she stepped back and eyed the necklace with a satisfied nod.

"What about my heartbeat?" Elowen asked, her hand instinctively crept over the necklace and brought it to her nose. She sniffed the miniscule shell only to whiff nothing out of the ordinary. 

"I'm surprised," there was a twinkle in Astrid's eye, "It is a smart question. The castle has plenty human maids and servants. You don't have to worry about it." Astrid turned to lead the way into the hauntingly bejewelled castle. Elowen followed behind, closely inspecting the aged precious stones embedded into the tiled walls colouring up her way. 

"The Valorians don't believe in subtlety, I see," Elowen whispered as they crossed the crystalline foyer. She felt a sudden drop in temprature as goosebumps rose over her exposed skin. Vampires littered the hallways, loitering around with hushed whispers or dull laughter. Everybody could hear everyone, everyone could see everything, as long as one was in sight — their flaws were out for scrutiny amongst the cruelest of all races on Eidryn. 

With eternal time on their hands, as Elowen expected, everything inside the Valoria castle was slow. The deep vibrato of a cello, the slow clinking of wine glasses and Astrid's patient steps which threatened Elowen to accidentally step on her heels on more than one ocassion. 

They rounded a corner and Elowen gasped at the sight of a glass staircase. The wall alongside was covered with intricate beaded tapestries. The first one showcased, in warm colours, a silhouette of a man kneeling in front of a deity. The second depicted the man staring through the tapestry, the warm background a stark contrast to his cold blue gaze. The third continued as the man had his arms spread and the land in front of him was covered in dark beads. Behind him was another deity, blended in with the dark greens and blacks, controlling the man. 

Elowen turned to the fourth tapestry but it was covered by itself; one of its corners had come loose and rolled outwards. Elowen wanted to ask Astrid what it was about but was swiftly reminded of her surroundings by two chuckling vampires, staring at her from the landing.

"Want a game?" 

"What do you bet?"

"I'm bored. My lifetime? What do you put on line?" 

"Eh, my lifetime?" 

They chuckled, sipped from their scarlet wine glasses and sang, "Fang~ Blood~ Cloak~" while waving their hands. As the chant ended, their hands stilled. One of them had two fingers out and curved to represent fangs. The other had his palm swaying left and right.

"Aha," the winner scoffed monotonously, "My fang tears through your cloak," he stated after a look at their hands. 

"It is what it is," the other shrugged. 

Elowen witnessed with cold fascination as the winner's face darkened. His fangs enlarged and his body lunged onto the other, attacking his neck so violently that his head fell and rolled off. 

Elowen whimpered. 

His calm scarlet eyes caught her bewildered auburn gaze. A devious smirk eased up his bloodied face.

"Don't litter, Evander," Astrid chided as if the man hadn't straight up murdered another at hand. 

"That is no way to talk to your Prince," the blonde retorted and flung the blood-oozing-body off the stairs. Elowen shimmed to the right as the vampire's colder corpse rolled off the staircase with much haste owing to gravity. 

"I'll be formal when you'll be princely," Astrid rolled her eyes and extended a hand in Evander's direction, "Unfortunately, he is our crown prince's younger brother by blood and ill fate, Evander something Sythar, pay him no heed." Her words did not sound like a suggestion and Elowen wasn't there to take chances on warnings. 

She bobbed her head in acknowledgment and proceeded to climb up the stairs without Astrid's lead. If the younger brother was a cold, heartless, murderer — what did it say about the Crown Prince? Was he equally vicious or even worse? 

"See, you scared the poor child!" Elowen heard Astrid's harsh whisper.

Evander probably replied in a hushed tone because Elowen couldn't hear it out of earshot. She chose to wait at the end of the staircase, tapping her gloved fingers on the banister. One second she had her eyes on Astrid's back and the other Astrid was on her left, urging her to continue following.

Everything around Elowen was a horror movie made out of candid shots and jumpscares while she was its sole audience. It's fine, this is what she was made for. The end was within grasp.

"You seem on good terms with the royal family?" Elowen questioned as they headed through a hallway of consecutive gothic chandeliers and slow piano music echoing off the marbled walls. 

"I was raised with Evander and your fiancé, oh talking of your fiancé, he apologises for missing your arrival. He'll be there when the ceremony begins," Astrid informed. Elowen stared at her back, the squared shoulders and swaying brown ponytail, almost hypnotically in awe with her slow gait. 

"How long have you lived?" Elowen blurted out, quite rudely if one considered Lady Manners. 

Astrid chuckled at the question, "Long enough to have witnessed your grandfather's fascination with centaur milk. That was quite a time," She drawled much to Elowen's disgust.

They stopped in front of a door, wide and characteristically bejewelled. 

"Do you want to make sure you look presentable?" Astrid mused.

Elowen ran a hand through her silver curls and looked down to check for wrinkles in her flowy pastel shirt and wide legged pants, "I think I'm good," she concluded her observation.

"Cute," Astrid coughed and opened the gigantic door with a flick of her fingers. "I will leave you here, until then," she curved into a bow as Elowen stepped inside. 

The hall was marvellously covered in mirrors and peacock jewels. Grand windows swept in moonlight reflecting all through the hall in illumination. Shrouded partially in darkness and partially in the silver of the moon, two figures awaited her welcome.

"If it isn't the blood bride," the woman drawled.

"And before time, for once," the man deadpanned.

"Did you schedule your mourning hours before arriving?" The woman snickered.

"Pity, I was looking forward to some drama around," the man tsked.

They were the Sythars, King Draven and Queen Lilith Sythar, her in-laws to be. They were a tall and pale pair, gracious looking with elegant stances and bejewelled corsets. It was all Elowen could gather without staring like a dumb fool.

"Are you mute?" Queen Lilith asked, sounding mildly concerned. 

"Ah, good evening, Your Royal Highnesses," Elowen curtsied with grace, "I am Elowen Elyra Calyx of the Mortal Empire, Imania, introducing myself as the centennial blood bride." 

"Why isn't she cowering like all those before her? You know that you're a bride in name but a sacrifice in deed, right?" King Draven scoffed. 

"I happen to be comfortable with my mortality. My parents did not raise me with worldly expectations," Elowen explained eloquently, maintaining her curtsey. The crystalline floor was sparkling enough to reflect a grey image of herself.

"Be at ease," Queen Lilith said as she sped out of the shadows to stand in Elowen's face and pushed a finger under her chin. "The ceremony starts at eight," she whispered as her fingers flicked the shell necklace to the ground. 

Elowen stood perfectly still as Lilith inhaled the scent of her nape and sped back to her husband's side. "She is Arcturus' daughter alright," the woman confirmed. 

The King exhaled a throaty chuckle, "Would've made an excellent ambassador, wouldn't she?" He mused. 

"Excellent indeed," Queen Lilith agreed.

Elowen should have felt proud of the praise she was receiving from the most dangerous couple in the world. But her heart stayed calmer the longer she stayed in their presence. Elowen had been raised with the concept of death at the tip of everyone's tongue. Her mere existence was doomed the day she had her first cry in the arms of her frowning mother. Elowen had had twenty-one-years at her behest to dream, give up and mourn all that she could have or never had. 

To be a human princess in Eidryn was an inconvenience at best but if one were unfortunate enough to be born at the end of a century, they were destined to be dressed up in pretty clothes and sent off as a peace offering to the Kingdom of Valoria. 

Following her fate would be the Blood Ritual. Then, death. 

As Elowen stood on the tallest tower of the castle, looking up at the red eating up the silver of the moon, she sighed in relief at the predictability of her fate. All of her life had surmounted to this moment, she turned to the glistening pond in front, reflecting the changing hues of the moon. 

The ripples in the water were concentric and eternal, a fate Elowen could only wish to possess. 

"Apologies for my late arrival, beloved."

The sudden comment, shot out of silence, startled the wits out of Elowen. Her torso twisted to have a look behind, her feet jumped back out of instinct. Her eyes widened as they laid on a man stripping off his silk shirt. A gasp escaped her lips as her body arched a full ninety against the ground. Her heartbeat hastened as cold arms wrapped around her waist and caught her, mid-fall.

"Hasty to die, aren't we?"

Rain on You

Weather doesn't make the seasons, it's the memories which do. 

When the summer sun was scorching over their heads, blazing the grounds in some one-sided vengeance against humanity, his kindness washed over her like midnight rain. 

She was knocked to the bite the dust, scraped hands and knees threatening tears out of her five-year-old tolerance. She was supposed to be a brave girl, she was supposed to be a bold girl, but the sand was hot and sharp against her burning skin. It hurt but she was afraid to accept it.

The children around cackled at her expense as if tripping a fellow classmate was them witnessing peak hilarity.

"Can't get up now little rat, can you?" The boy, who tripped her, snickered behind her back.

She gulped a soft cry though as she was about to get up, she heard a muffled thump followed by resounding gasps. She jerked to look behind and saw her bully on the ground with a reddened cheek; tears welled his eyes and snot clogged his nose as he wailed in pain. Everyone clamoured around to give him a helping hand, uttering words of concern, but her eyes were focused on the hand in front of her.

A singular hand sporting rosy knuckles belonging to a boy with a gummy smile. Sweat plastered his hair against his forehead and dirt had made a permanent home on his cheeks, still, her breath hitched as the sun shone behind his head as if haloing him. 

"Come on, let's play!" He exclaimed and beckoned his fingers, urging her to grab his hand.

She took it. It was the first time she had held someone's hand, someone who wasn't a teacher at the orphanage. Someone who wasn't leading her up to her parents' grave. Someone whose eyes burned like the summer sun but upon touching his hand, peace flooded her mind like winter rain.

"I am Dylan," he grinned before bending to dust the dirt off her dress and knees.

"I'm Ellie," she replied, nervous as he kneeled in front of her to examine her injury. She noticed the red t-shirt he was wearing and how well it suited him. The red went along with the darkness of his hair and the paleness of his skin.

"You're like the red ranger. Red looks good on you," Ellie giggled.

It was a comment in the passing upon a tryst of kindness and bravery. Ellie uttered the words quite instinctively, since she liked power rangers so much, baring any ulterior motives of friendship.

Though as he led her to the nurse's room he kept talking about power rangers and when he proposed friendship, holding out the bandaged hand which was hurt to avenge her — who was Ellie to deny?

"Look, Ellie! I made a red lego house!! Is it pretty, do you like it??" He looked at her with a gaze blazing with expectations and he held the lego castle in front of him. 

"Eh-he, it's pretty, but...?" Ellie leaned to look behind him and spotted a bunch of crying kids in the corner of the room. "Did you really have to threaten them for the red blocks?" She mused. They were at the orphanage's playroom, a place they frequented over the past year to hangout with eachother. 

Dylan wasn't from the orphanage but he would stop by, everyday after they became friends, to be with Ellie because without him she had no friends. His absence made the glares of her classmates sharper and the mean comments louder. 

"Why not? You like red so it is all good," he replied, nonchalant. 

No one dared to look at her when he was around. The glances would diminish along with the rest of her problems when she would be crouched on the floor with him, playing with toys or building lego sets. 

He smiled at her with earnestness which would make his eyes crinkle. 

Ellie liked the crinkle of his eyes. Not many people smiled at her with such genuineness considering her parents died while escaping to pay back the money they scammed out of poor commoners. 

Ellie was made aware of the fact when she was twelve and during the 'what's your dream job' presentation she wished to be Dylan's parents who were honorable politicians. She was snickered at by her classmates and shut down by her teacher's harsh comment, "You better pay back your parents' debt first. They owe this world more than your existence is worth." 

When she reiterated the incident to Dylan the crinkle left his eyes and the smile dropped his face. He frowned then proceeded to pat her head and said, "You're different from your parents. You're better. You're my good girl." 

From the next day, a new teacher replaced the old one. 

Ellie never questioned it because of a scar on Dylan's wrist. She henpecked his ears to gain a grain of information but to no avail. In the end, they ended up wrapping a bandage around it in the Nurse's room. She wondered why Dylan wouldn't even make an excuse about it, until he asked her out of the blue, at the doorstep of the orphanage, "Did you like that shade of red on me?" 

The sky thundered behind his head, emphasising the dark of his hair and eyes. The winds howled as if carrying a warning message for her but she eluded them by saying, "You should rush home before the storm starts! Be safe!" 

The storm lasted a week. Power outages and floods busied the adults and terrified the kids. Ellie was twelve and a mature enough person to not be afraid of the dark. The silence of her room was comforting and the tapping of raindrops against her window lulled her to sleep.

"Shh, it's that crazy's girl... isn't she?" 

"Yes yes. She's crazy as well. You know Peter from the neighborhood?"

"The one with the big house?"

"Yeah, he used to play with us. She stole his Pokemon toy when she was a kid. He caught her playing with it behind the swings and she bit his hand and ran away. The next day he tripped her in front of everyone so she called that crazy guy and had him beat Peter up. He never came to the playground again. Tsk." 

"Wah... that's evil."

"Yeah, she's like that."

"Let's lock the door."

"Yeah, she deserves it."

Ellie spent four out of the seven days locked inside a dark room on the fourth floor, wailing for help and banging against the bolted wood for attention. On the eighth day, she was found passed out inside — apparently having survived on rainwater. 

Ellie had been a slender child ever since she was brought in but when Dylan saw her on the white hospital bed that enveloped her small frame, he decided that she would not be staying in the orphanage anymore.

Ellie had never fathomed the thought of a family before but the Wisterias were the closest she could get to it. They let her sit on the same table as them, let her eat the same food as them and let her have a room beside their son. Though they never verbally acknowledged her presence, they paid her school fee and got her new uniform and books each year.

Ellie was thoroughly obliged and indebted but there was a gnawing feeling in her gut that made her hide underneath the bed every night. Because each night, someone would walk into her room and search the bed for her.

The first night, Ellie had been asleep when the sharpness of a knifepoint pierced her skin barrier and broke blood. She flinched her eyes open and witnessed the ever familiar gummy smile and crinkled eyes within whom she had once found warmth.

"D-dylan— w-what are you doing?!" She spluttered her words, eyes alternating between his face and the knife in his hand.

"I wanted to match," Dylan held out his hand and rolled up his shirt sleeve to reveal a large cut on his hand, "So we'll both look good in red!" 

"N-no, t-this is wrong! Why are you doing this? Why did you do this?!" 

"Are you afraid of me...? Please don't be. It's what I get for being so close to you. But don't worry, I know you have nowhere to go. You are nothing without me."

His eyes seemed teary.

'You are nothing without me.'

The words resonated through her head for years to come. As the scars on her body increased, the lonliness of the world settled in her mind. She had known Dylan since she was five, he was the rain for her blazing days, the solace of her tormented life. He was her hope, the haloed angel she had witnessed back when she was a kid.

And angels do nothing wrong...right?

So, why did her heart leap into fear everytime she met eyes with him? Why did her body stiffen when he touched her thighs on the dining table? Why did her skin crawl when he whispered dirty secrets in her ear.

It irked her soul but her mind couldn't place a problem in it.

Where would she go if she left the Wisterias? What would she do after offending a political family? Where can she even hide? Would he find her...?

Rain soaked, one night, as she was returning to Wisteria mansion, a drunkard arguing with a tree caught her eye. He debated with it, caressed it, slurred his words of affection for it before hitting it with his fists. 

The droplets ingrained the incident in her memory and the next time Dylan came over with a knife in his hand, she offered him whiskey and wine. The summer of her eighteenth was spent hiding in a mansion while trying to evade a drunk friend who was running at her with a knife. 

"C'mere! I'll make you look so pretty in red! We'll match and be lovers! Don't you wanna be pretty for me? Don't you love me?" 

His shouts were deafened by the rain pouring beyond the imperial windows she ran past. 

"How long will you run Ellie, is this a game we're playing? I just wanna hold you and make you red for me. You know I am always red for you!"

His words haunted her as an echo as she ran up the spiral staircase and flung open the terrace door. A cold gust of wind burned against her adrenaline powered scorching body. 

"Why are you so obsessed with making me red?! What is wrong with you?!" Ellie shouted as she backed into the rain while he neared the terrace door. 

"I just...I used to hate the red on me," he cried as he raised his hands and took off his t-shirt to reveal a scarred body, "But then, then, you, the prettiest girl I know, you said that red looks good on me...so, I just did it. And because you liked it so much...I wanted to share!" 

"But it hurts me, Dylan, you know that. I don't like this red! It's bad and hurtful!" She shouted. 

"But I like it and I want to see you in it." He ran towards her, she backed up for a few steps before crouching down and rolling to the other side. 

As Dylan ran he slipped and tripped, quite like Ellie when she was five, but instead of falling on burning ground his body crashed down many-a-floor, meeting the water he represented. Embracing the red. 

ill timed — 3

Ill timing of a fangirl's bite — chapter 3

"Your name?"

"I—uh, um…don't know…?"

Headmistress Lissy tipped her navy beret an inch overhead, watching through her cat-eye glasses the audacious presence of a stinking child soiling the beautiful teal velvets of her wingback chair with her soggy arse. "Peculiar," she worded out with utmost resistance. 

Henrik turned to stare at the girl, almond eyes widened as if to say 'it-is-no-time-to-conceal-your-identity-when-confessing-will-let-you-off-with-detention.' In the sophisticated blue and gray palette of Headmistress Lissy's office almost glaring at Henrik's cherry bomber jacket and neon chunky sneakers coordinated over the plaid blues of his school uniform, the small boy pursed his lips with utmost submission, while his mind mused 101 ways to get rid of Kairos Rodrigo without leaving evidence. 

 

Way one: hiding his best friend's body in a trashcan and closing the lid shut.

His murderous reverie was interrupted by the trashcan girl's curious explorations of the stationary placed on Headmistress Lissy's woodcarved tabletop. Her dark eyes greedily took in all curious details, rubbing her fingers over the intricate designs on the table edge and sniffing the fake lilies bottled atop. 

To ask Henrik if he felt more embarrassed than betrayed would be too obvious of a question. 

"What happened to you?" Headmistress Lissy narrowed her jelly-gold eyes at the form of trashgirl's face pressed against her aquarium. The girl had sucked her cheeks in and pursed the ends of her lips to form a fish pout. She hid the fishes from perspective with her big head and aligned her wiggling lips to fake the sight of blowing out bubbles from her mouth.

"Hehe, look, I'm making bubbles!"

Henrik, in that moment, decided to never acknowledge this strange creation even as an acquaintance. They shall remain strangers, forever. 

Headmistress Lissy was taking this ill timed intrusion, rather well, against her reputation of damning a child with detentions at every breathable misconduct.

"How did you reach Crestmoore Elite? I understand that you were found in a trashcan by the East Crest Soccer Stadium, but, how did you get inside the premise without proper identity credentials?" Headmistress Lissy gestured her assistants with her piercing bespectacled gold gaze.

Henrik slithered to a safe side as Headmistress Lissy's assistants gloved their hands with medical gloves. While one of them held the girl's wrists hostage, the other conducted a thorough search of the girl's tattered shirt, brown plaid skirt and ruined socks. She resisted with minor pursuits, but eventually gave up when she spotted a poster of Yasin Hadid pinned next to a door.

He was in his soccer jersey with a headband reading C. E. A. His mouth was pulled in a wide grin as a soccer ball was tucked under his right arm and his left arm was extended in a big thumbs-up gesture. 

"Who is he?" the girl asked with bubbling glee, her knees had gotten jittery and dark eyes pooled genuine prying.

"Why do you want to know?" was Headmistress Lissy's crisp reply.

"He saved my life. I am in love with him," was her straightforward clarification.

Henrik, who was sat on a chair with his legs crossed over his knees, scoffed just as audibly as Headmistress Lissy snorted. Disney certainly was not lost to her. 

"You don't know your name but you know what love is?" Headmistress Lissy sounded amused, the skin around her small eyes crinkled as she placed her elbows on the tabletop and cupped her chin in her palms. Her thin peach lips stretched to a smirk, intrigued by the person standing before her.

'Is she hiding information to avoid punishment? Or...a spy, perhaps? Intresting, nonetheless.

 

"Irrelevant. I just needed occasion to use all these words in my head. Decapitated. Why is that in my head? Hallucinogen? What even? I don't know. But, what I know is, that, he is handsome and I want to know him." The girl's index finger pointed sharply at Yasin's smiling face. Immobile. Unaware. Henrik tsked a little sound of pity for the soccer player. 

Headmistress Lissy frowned at the girl's odd selection of words. Someone who looked eight could possibly not have the word 'Hallucinogen' in their vocabulary. 'What had happened to this girl?' 

Headmistress Lissy's assistants backed away from the girl's body, empty handed. They had found nothing that would not have been visible to a naked eye. Her eyes travelled to Henrik Stratford, son of Jung and Mina Stratford, owners of the biggest Law firms in Crestmoore. Her eyes skipped to the paper in front, reading in bold, the names of Kairos Rodrigo and Yasin Hadid. 

The finest kids Crestmoore had to offer. 

 

'Such a strange gathering of elite folks around a trashcan, finding a missing person… with no memory…did they find her…or was it all a scheme?' Headmistress Lissy's brain ran a mile a minute. 

Henrik's brown hair were stuck up in an odd angle, curtsy the girl's vomit. His face too was smudged with dirt and he too stank of rotting breakfast and misfortune, just not as badly as the girl. He had an air of nonchalance, as always, he sat with confidence and there was no physical giveaway of him having possibly abducted a girl around his age and having shoved her in a trashcan of his school.

'The son of two immensely successful lawyers would know enough to comprehend it a bonkers plan to begin with.'

'Also, there was no motive.'

'Right?'

Headmistress Lissy pondered in her head as the girl had jogged up to Yasin's poster and tried flipping it over, to check out the back side, all the while Henrik's soul abandoned him slowly for he tried crossing his hands at his wrists, whispering, "No! Trashcan! Don't touch it!" and even fell off his wingback chair to gain her attention. 

All of his efforts were vain to her. 

His knees rubbed against the rough carpet underneath and tingled with burns. Instant regret 101 by Henrik Stratford. He sucked in an agitated breath, caressing his poor sacrificed knees over the silky fabric of his uniform, while giving the girl a stink eye.

 

The alleged villain of a girl stood grinning in front of the poster, head empty and all thoughts abandoning self concern. Her eyes only registered the pinned smiling face looking down at her. She in her ragged clothes, he in a uniform that belonged to him. She with no identity of her own, he whose achievements shone as bright as his kind smile. Worlds apart. Yet, for a moment, he had held her whole world in his small hands. 

At her moment of eight, spinning controllably like an abandoned ball, he was there to hold her still.

Unintentionally so.

KNOCK! KNOCK!

The door clicked open and in walked the man of her dreams, pulled by his reddening ear, curtsy the chubby hands of Mr. Plod, along with a wave of nasally, "Ow, Ow, Ouch! Why! Ow! Wow! Why?! No! Wow! Ow!"s in tow. Quite similarly, but much calmly, followed the dragged, lanky, form of Kairos Rodrigo with an upturned smile.

The girl's newfound heart almost lurched out of its cage. She may not know much about the world. She may know nothing about herself. Maybe her mind was plagued with random gibberish like, 'Oral,' 'Amity,' or 'Syndicate.' But the only anchor in her memory is the face of Yasin, who helped her. Whom she must be loyal to. Whom she must protect. 

"Caught 'em sneaking inside the Main Crest Hall," Mr. Plod announced with his smug, thick accent. With a boy to punish on either side, his heart swelled with pride. Henrik, too, cheekily poked his tongue at Kairos' don't-say-anything-i-have-given-up-on-you face. 

The girl, stupefied by the harsh treatment of her newfound idol, rushed to the best, sanest, possible conclusion one could attain instinctually. 

She jumped at Mr. Plod like a spirit from the jungle. Like a true descendent of the monkey ancestors. Like a squirrel at its nut. Like a proper wild animal out of its natural habitat. Like a beast hungry for revenge. 

And bit off Mr. Plod's hand from Yasin's ear. 

ill timed — 2

Ill timing of a picture, ball and perm — CH 2.

[IF YOU ARE EASILY NAUSEATED BY THE MENTIONS OF GRAPHIC TRASH, OR VOMITING OR ARE OFFENDED BY CRUDE BEHAVIOUR THEN THIS BOOK IS NOT FOR YOU. I WOULD ADVICE YOU TO CLICK BACK AND DO SOMETHING BETTER WITH YOUR TIME. G' DAY!] 

A stink.

Something rotting.

Something wet, boldly soggy and awfully sticky.

Numbness in her nether regions.

Her eyes opened to darkness.

Well, not darkness per say, but a strange dirty yellow.

'Am I in a box?'

'Why is it so uncomfortable?'

'Why don't I feel my feet?'

'Ah!'

The upturned stance, feet sticking against a plastic wall and wedged between two closed plastic flaps. She raised her hands only to spot the white fabric of her shirt stained yellow, blotched green and tattered around her elbows. The space was confined and nauseating. She wanted an out.

Miraculously, there was a shriek outside. Two fingers slotted between the flaps, that engulfed her feet, and pushed them up. A pair of blue eyes, astonishingly withholding the same serenity as the hidden skies, greeted her face.

"Uh…everything alright in there?" his question was genuine, his voice was deep, his concern was evident and his awkwardness was conveyed. His eyes kept wandering around, unknowing where to focus. On the smooth, freckled expanse of legs in his direct line of sight, or the tattered shirt smeared with grease and rotting adversities screaming for a desperate wash or the disheveled mess of hair and limbs lying in a trash can that he found on a Monday morning, on the premises of his new school. Crestmoore Elite.   

"Quite upturned of all alright…ts? Is that a word? I can't seem to remember. Could do with a little help." 

Another head pressed itself over the shoulder of the blue-eyed guy. He was a brunette with a boxy smile and much to say about everyone around him. "Let the solar eclipse blind me before I unsee this, lord's holy breakfasts, Kai, you found a girl in a trashcan!?" his voice was husky, his thick eyebrows loved merging with his hairline as he slithered his arms around Kai's shoulders and tip-toed to get a better view inside. Whilst Kai looked taller and leaner with a calmer aura and distinctly dashing features, the other guy seemed to be a tad shorter with broad shoulders and muscular thighs. His face reeked of unchecked enthusiasm. 

"Yeah, surprise! Now, why don't we relish in the marvels of this strange discovery after I am pulled out of this misery? Is it too much to ask?" the girl questions with thinning patience and growing annoyance. The trash underneath felt turning soggier by the second; the wetness seeped through the thin fabric of her shirt and clung onto her skin. It made her squirm with disgust. 

"Why are you in there? How did you get in?" Kai questions curiously, raising his right eyebrow while staying sturdily grounded. No hands moving for help. 

"Is that really a point of concern right now?" her left eye twitched unceremoniously. 

"Wait, let me just—uh, gotcha!" the brunette behind Kai struggled to find his phone in his pant pockets. When he did, he pulled it out and clicked a picture, eternalizing a memory of a scornful reluctant girl he and his best friend found inside a trashcan. "There! All done, hah!" 

"Did you just--!"

"Henrik, that was an asshole move. Will we trend if we post this?" 

"Probably, but we will have to blur out her face, consent and rights and such."

"But will we make money off of it?"

"Depends on how we use—"

A slimy banana peel smacked Kai's face with precision, snogging his nose with its overwhelming rotten-ness and slithering down his lips line leaving a rotten trail over his face. He wheezed internally, soul cringing and body momentarily freezing with unfathomable disgust. 

Henrik let out a low whistle, sliding lower and hiding behind Kai's back now; his eyes peeking over Kai's elbow enough to spot the angry looking girl inside the trashcan. "Man had it coming, I tell you," he points at Kai's head, "How outrageous of him to not help you! He was lost to all Disney, I tell you, and he has no sense of chivalry or concept of damsel in distress. Talking of damsels, you throw quite accurately for someone in distress, are you a sportsperson?"

But before the girl could open her mouth in reply, a soccer ball swooshed in perspective and crashed against the trashcan with an audibly courageous THUD!

Kai shrieked unceremoniously in shock. 

The yellow trashcan wobbled on its circular edges due to unprecedented pressure and eventually toppled over, rolling on the cobbled pathway. The girl inside choked on her words and resorted to screaming, "AAAAHHH!" instead, as her world literally rocked on its axis and was now turning upside down. Over and about. Whatever. 

Distant hoots and whistles from the soccer field filtered their way in Henrik's ears as his lips left a wailing exclamation, "The trashcan has a person inside! Stop it!"

The yellow world of litter-glitter heeded no calls of concerns as Kai with his lanky limbs ran after it and Henrik with his more rested stance (having created a distance from disgusting Kai by leaning over a tree trunk as his friend participated in a guilt ridden wild goose chase) and obnoxiously well trained vocal cords screamed it to stop in the name of Law. 

It didn't.

And the girl felt her gut spiraling back into her throat, but right before she could even concoct a thought to throw-up, her world came to a standstill against the wondrous miracles of Yasin Hadid's arms wedging the trashcan with his body. 

"Crawl out please! Or it would roll off again!" his voice was a tad nasally, cheeky, as if he was talking in a pout. 

The girl nodded to herself as she tried to scrape her heels on the cobbled pathway in an attempt to push herself out. Help came in an embodiment of a visibly panting Kai who huffed and puffed between his words, "Wait—," huff, "—I will-ll," cough, "—I will—," wheeze, "—help!" 

He grabbed onto her legs and pulled her out in a swift motion, along with some accompaniments of trash in service. The girl coughed ravenously, finally getting a breath of fresh air in her trash congested lungs. She spread herself out on the floor and coughed bitterly and so did Kai but for all different and unhealthy reasons. Yasin picked up the trash can and placed it on the side of the pathway, out of possible stumbling reach, and walks back to them to question, "Are you guys okay?" 

The girl opens her eyes to face her knight in shining armor. Morelike, the guy in a soccer jersey with sweat-slick blonde hair, lovely slanted eyes, and plush lips that always seemed to be in a pout. Exactly the savior sort of a person. 

"Yeah, obviously they're okay, I was overseeing them. What is the worst that could happen, huh? With me on the watch, absolutely nothing! Though Kai could have busted a lung or two in process, but that's all internal grievances, not my line of expertise, not my concern, right?" Henrik with his boxy grin casually walked into perspective. 

The girl, if she had energy enough, would have had poked the guy's eyes out. 

Kai, as dying as he was, still had enough life within himself to strike his shoes against Henrik's shin. Vengeance was well served with the pleasure of Henrik's agonized scream. He skipped on one leg, hugging his shin to his stomach and frolicking multiple 'Ouch' and 'ow's before he tripped over Kai's foot and fell.

Face first.

Over that girl's very dirty, very fragile, stomach.

Yasin's hand hung in air due to the missed catch.

The girl doubled over, in uncomfortable shock and puked all over Henrik's suffocated head and fluffy brown hair. "Much better," she rasped out, gargling, as the wetness of her vomit seeped through Henrik's dry scalp and reached the red-hot tip of his ears.

As if diving face first on a girl's belly was not horrible enough, he could almost feel his $250 perm being washed over by the said girl's stomach activities. "Not—my—hair!" he all but shrieked out, jolting up and trying to deny the obvious.

"It's not there, is it?" his husky words were pleading, pretty face contoured into sheer agony as his eyebrows drooped to the side of his cheeks. 

Yasin shook his head in affirmative. 

Henrik enthusiastically slotted his fingers in his hair.

Lest to say, the result was not the most promising hair he had touched in his life. It was lively, though, for sure. 

"You!" Henrik ruthlessly pointed at the girl with his vomit covered hand. 

"Oh shut up you dramatic hooligan and let the cats live."

"YOU WILL PAY FOR THIS!"

"I would love to if I knew the currency of incompetence and tomfoolery. Though I am always up for a lesson, can't say I'll catch up to your level of petty…or stupid."

"I WILL!"

Kai rolled his eyes away from his best friend's dramatic shenanigans only to spot the bald Mr. Plod raging his way towards them. Looking absolutely furious with his chubby cheeks puffed, Kai knew it would be a blotch on his annual report if he got caught. He was Kairos Rodrigo, the son of Crestmoore's Minister, for crying out loud, if the words were to reach his father—he'd have his social and physical life hanging by a thread. Quite literally. So, resorting to the best possible option, Kai slowly but swiftly dragged him out of the chaotic scene and ran until he was unseen.  

Yasin, intrigued by Kai's peculiar disappearance, spared his eye an investigation. Spotting Mr. Plod, the P.E. teacher of Crestmoore Elite, a notorious gossipmonger of a narcissist, infamous for ratting students out and earning money out of a kid's scandals, Yasin spent no second to fathom rhyme or reason. He was Yasin Hadid, the son August Entertainment's chairwoman, even the tiniest misconduct on his behalf would have the future of a billion dollar company on the line. They were always being watched. Stared at until they break on the verge of a scandal. Make the markets crash and bring shame to the Amity Alliance of Crestmoore. He could not let it happen. So, he jumped over the lanky, spread form of the-girl-from-the-trashcan and ran into the distance as fast his soccer legs could carry him.

Mr. Plod, spotting Yasin's blatant escape, pulled his whistle to his lips and blew so loud that Henrik had to give a pause to his dramatics for once, just so he could snap, "Rude much? We are trying to hold a conversation about my ruined perm, please. It is important!" 

Only to realize who he just snapped at. Mr. Plod's chubby silhouette at hand's distance. Henrik's face grew so pale, the girl could almost consider his brown hair go red for a moment. Curious, she asked.

"Who's he?"

"An adult of authority who has power enough to suck our childhood, teenagedom and adulthood into a deflated shell of poverty-stricken misery and incompetence."

"Big words," She huffed out, narrowing her eyes at the bulging stomach threatening to plunge, with every step, out of the blue dress shirt Mr. Plod had on.

"Small word, run!" 

For an encounter as cold as December and as random as February, his vomit stricken hand pulled her dirt ridden one into his, almost like the pleasant warmth of May. And they ran, across seasons, through time, unknowing of the places they held in the world and the crossroads they would eventually stand on. Meeting a stranger, holding their hand, one welcomes not only them—but the past, present and future they carry along. The seasons they saw, the summers they felt, the winters they survived and the springs that are yet to come. Holding a hand is accepting someone's life in yours, even momentarily so, you're both one in the present. 

And it is the time where all good things happen. Though, they're not always obvious. 

Being caught by Mr. Plod's chubby fingers as Henrik blamed her for 'incompetent running' and she blamed him for being a 'conceited hair ranting,' they stood in front of Headmistress Lissy's office. In the strangest of beginnings at the age of eight, in the strangest of September, they stood before the council where he said his name.

But she did not know hers.

"Name?" 

"Henrik Stratford."

"Your name?"

"I—uh, um…don't know…?"

                                 --- fin ---

ill timed — 1

All Good Things Take Time — Chapter 1

All Good Things take time: if and when one is earnest enough to invest their last shred of Hope and a progressively receding Will-to-survive into a fresh brew of dire discomfiture. One must hold on in pursuit of 'A Better Tomorrow,' a strange concoction of raging optimism garnishing your dish of Hope 'n Will with a smidge of Patience on the side. 

A big nom leads to All Good Things!

Unfortunately for little Orielle, the ingredient list seemed out of bounds in the confines of the huge trashcan from the open mouth of which her stocking covered legs dangled in a to-and-fro motion. Her immediate, dare I say, respite… consisted of a week's worth of lunch, more abundantly rotting spinach, eggs and bananas, swarming over her dull brown hair. The stench emanated from the aforementioned participants lingered around her with constancy, bordering memory…or far worse, nostalgia.

Through her dull eyes she could see the yellow plastic of the half open trash can, delightedly beaming under the presence of harsh sunlight. 

"Yellow is a happy color, my students! Color the sun yellow so that your drawings will be a happy place!" Ms. Prisms, her art teacher, had once said. The memory evaded Orielle's brain, along with an afterthought, 'So, is the trashcan my happy place?' that was not strong enough to reach her lips. It sure was peaceful though, inside the trashcan, away from people. 

Her little feet rocked to a beat of their own before strange giddy hands found their way to her buckled black shoes and unstrapped them with a swish. She squeaked an unpromising protest. 

There were laughs.

The voices brought familiarity she despised, a hiraeth she did not long for. Her thumbnails greeted her index finger with sharp caresses, teeth digging into the flesh of her cheeks as her brown eyes blew wide in fear, panicked irises, stomach rumbling, feet freezing and heart racing against time itself. 

"Guys! Look! Orbin's in the trash again and she got no shoes!"

"Ha! Wait till Mr. Smod catches her and makes a spectacle of her beating!"

Her breath hitched, she sunk her teeth harder, dug her thumbnails faster into her fingers, succumbing into herself. Her shoulders curling inwards as she tried to make herself smaller, further seeking refuge in the burial hosted by rotting food.

"Do not make haste; there is something better I can do!"

A snip, a tear, and Orielle could suddenly feel the sunlight attack her bare feet like hungry leeches to a fresh body. The yellow trash can felt like a happy jail. It protected her with the dregs that resided in it. 

"Look! Orbin has got holes in her socks! Torn socks! What rags!"

"I know, let's call her Orag! Or O'binrag! Oh! I know an even better! Binrag!"

And they laughed again. 

And she felt miserable again.

Oh! It was a cycle, a dreadful one, but it would soon end for the better. 

After all, All Good Things Take Time.

Unless you lose all sense of it.