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youngwrites-prompts · 3 years

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CHAPTER ONE

𝙻𝚞𝚌𝚊

"For there is hope in every heart." His mother's sickeningly sweet words oozed from her mouth like honey. She grasped his cheeks harshly, her perfectly manicured nails dug into his flesh leaving behind indents. "Wipe that frown, darling. It's only your first day." Her eyes shone with everything beautiful and gold (though sharing the same eye color, hers belittled his measly ones in comparison).

Wincing slightly, Luca removed her hands from his face. "What's wrong with me attending public school?"

She looked at him in exaggerated disbelief. "Darling, we're aristocrats now! We don't slump it with those below us anymore." She flung her hands in the air dramatically, almost hitting him in the process.

What she meant to say was she's sleeping with the aristocrats now. But of course, he didn't voice that out loud.

Rosalie Jones was -how shall he put this lightly?- an interesting woman with one goal: to survive. And though he of course respected his mother's goal, it didn't mean he approved of her demeaning methods. She'd do anything to shed her image from the past and if donning herself in satin dresses and adorning her neck with strings of pearls and sleeping with married wealthy men is the way then so be it.

Her latest lover, or more preferably husband was none other than Erik Coldwell. A dignified man of few words and even fewer virtues. One of the high-powered patricians that ruled West Mines with a fist of steel. And only just a few months ago became his new stepfather. He'd like to believe that he was simply moved with pity for them and took them in from the kindest of his heart. But he knew that would only be a lie, afterall his mother had him wrapped around her slender finger many years ago and similar to how she gripped his cheek, she also gripped this man's heart and held it in a tight grip of desire.

"But why a Catholic school? You don't even believe in God," His miserable pleas fell upon death's ear.

She ignored him and instead, frowned at his attire. Who could blame her?

In the full length mirror, he could clearly see a tall, lanky boy wearing a navy blue bucket hat and a loose fitted denim jacket. His converse were ragged and beaten up after years of owning them. "Darling, to be frank. You look like crap.Why couldn't you wear the lovely clothes I picked out for you?" She pouted, gesturing to the blazer waistcoat and jeans she laid out on the bed.

"It just isn't my style, Mom," He frowned.

She clicked her tongue. "Ridiculous! You would look marvelous, like a young Prince Harry."

Prince Harry is white, mother. Have you forgotten? Was on the tip of his tongue but a sarcastic drawl interrupted him.

"I do have to agree with your mother for once, Luca." Bright, cerulean eyes met his through the mirror.

Myron Coldwell snorted, "You do look like shit."

Heat crawled at his neck, nipping his skin like a fiery flame. He rubbed the back of his ear, turning away from the mirror, not wanting to see his image anymore.

"Language," His mother reprimanded.

Myron's eyes darkened, and his mouth pulled into a thin line. "You may have forgotten, Rosalie but you're not my fucking mother."

Rosalie pulled back in dismay, her hand meeting her mouth.

Rarely ever experienced, anger enveloped Luca in an overbearing embrace and led him blindly towards the oblivious Myron. Hands holding onto the material of his shirt,he lifted him up to meet his eyes. He gritted out with clenched teeth. "Don't ever disrespect my mother that way." Myron's nose flared, and pure resentment danced in his eyes.

Rosalie touched his shoulder. "Darling?"

He released his hold and Myron collapsed to the ground, coughing. He picked himself up, brushing at his trousers. "I didn't think you had it in you, champ."

"It's me you have the problem with. Not her."

Myron let out a sardonic laugh. "I don't think you understand, you little shithead." He shoved his finger in his face, jamming his nose in the process. "The problem is with this entire fucking household."

The words hung in the air, the atmosphere tense and thick.

"Okay. Okay I believe that will be enough." A booming voice filled with power came from the threshold. Myron twisted his lips into an ugly scowl, with narrowed eyes he followed the movements of Erik Coldwell making his way to the middle of the room. The persian rug softened the sounds of his loafers clad shoes as he paused at Luca's side, laying a firm hand upon his shoulder.

"What's going on here?" Though the question was directed to all, his attention zeroed in on Myron.

"Nothing," Luca said.

Myron huffed, and stubbornly looked away. In that exact moment, he reminded Luca of an edgy poet with a wicked gleam in his eye, tousled hair, ink-stained fingertips and a black turtleneck. What a troubled boy.

"Luca and Rosalie are family now, and you will do everything in your power to treat them with the respect they deserve," Erik said.

"Funny, where was the same respect for mom?" Myron snarled, tremors running through his body, hands clenched into fists by his side.

Erik folded his arms, voice stern. "Do not bring your mother into this mess. Let her rest in peace. You will not sully her name."

Myron shook his head in disbelief. "God, I hate you."

Erik didn't even falter. "You will bring Luca with you to school, this is all that I ask."

"Fuck you." He barrelled past them, almost knocking Luca off his feet.

Erik sighed, pulling his mother into his arms. She kissed his cheek, wrapping her hand around his waist. "I want to apologise for my son's behavior, Luca. He means no harm. He's in a very reckless phase in his life."

Luca didn't quite understand how Erik was so placid after losing his wife only a couple months ago. Luca almost pitied Myron. He forced a smile to slip on his face and waved it off, "It's okay."

"Darling, you should hurry before he leaves," His mother said.

"If he hasn't already," Erik sighed. "I won't be surprised."

Surprisingly, Myron did wait for him. He was leaning against the side of his car, an impressive sleek black 1967 Ford Mustang. He had a lit cigarette stuck to his lips and twirled the keys around his finger. "Stop gawking and let's go."

To ease the tension, Luca gracefully slid into the backseat. He started the engine and the car purred to life.The early morning dew crept on the surface of the glass fogging the window. Luca wiped the glass with his sleeves. Alabaster clouds idle lazily in the soft skies, wisps of saffron yellow mingling in the midst of gentle strokes of blue;a quiet destruction.

Rage over a lost penny by Beethoven played through the stereos, this came to a shock to Luca since he didn't peg Myron as the type to listen to classical music. The symphonic music continued to fill the air, the faster the tempo increased, the harder he pressed the accelerator. Everything outside becoming a blur.

The academy came to view, and it rendered him speechless. Myron maneuvered the car through a small pathway that encircled the school. As they drew closer, he marveled at the prehistoric beauty the academy seemed to possess. Gracing his sight were twin ivory towers that stood imposing up close. As they neared the parking lot, students hurried along with tailored, pleated trousers, foggy glasses from the early morning dew and leather bound bags crammed with textbooks and notes.

"Close your mouth or you'll catch flies," Myron said, eyes flickering to the rear-view mirror.

Though his mouth was closed and in fact, not gaping wide open like he'd just stated. The familiar heat crept at his neck at the derisive tone in his taunting remark. "It's beautiful," He said, and he meant it. Romanesque architecture was an architect he admired deeply.

They pulled into a parking lot filled with 1957 Corvettes and Volkswagen beetles. He parked his car into an empty lot supposedly reserved for staff. Myron tilted the rearview mirror and ran his fingers through his hair. "Let's make one thing clear, Jones. At school, we're strangers. I don't know you and you don't know me. Capiche?" He twisted the rearview mirror back in place meeting his eye.

"Yeah," Luca mumbled.

"Don't speak to me and don't make eye contact with me in the hallways," He continued, "Now get out of my car before people see us together."

When Luca didn't leave, he cocked a brow. "Well? Fuck off." Luca hurriedly unbuckled his seat belt and exited the car. Without a backward glance, he left Myron behind.

Luca longed to twirl on the balls of his feet like a graceful ballerina under the grand ornate chandelier hanging loosely from the high ceiling, glimmering like thousands of refulgent stars. But instead, he tightened his grip on his denim jacket- already an outcast from the sea of affluent scholars dressed in vintage clothing.

"You must be Luca Jones. Welcome to West Mines Academy." A fiercely beautiful, dark skin girl stood before him.

"Uh, yes. It is I." It is I? Luca slightly winced. But either the girl failed to notice or she simply didn't care.

She smiled in amusement. "I'm Olivia St.Moore. You can consider me somewhat of your guide today. Let's hurry along, shall we?" They interlocked arms and walked the halls of West Mines Academy.

She told him everything at once until it left his head swimming. She spoke about their history, (something about an European traveler laying claim to this land to an ecclesiastic declaring it as a church many years later then remodeling it to become an all boy's Catholic school then finally, opening their doors for women decades later- she stated the latter with a proud gleam. "Equality shall reign," she had said.) the students activities and went over his class schedule.

"I know it's a lot to take in but you'll get the hang of it. Usually the headmaster does this sort of thing but.." Her sentence trailed off.

He'd already know what she meant to say.

"Let me guess, he wouldn't waste time and energy on someone like me? Am I right? Someone that's not filled with riches ."

"I'm sorry, Luca. That's just the way it is," she winced.

She brought him to the right wing through a deep archway that led to a hallway of lockers. She paused in front of a locker and dutifully handed him a paper and written in the prettiest calligraphy was his locker number and code. Olivia unlocked her locker and pulled out her textbooks, gathering them into the crook of her arm.

She slammed it shut and pursed her deep fuchsia colored lips. "Our town is quite an interesting one, wouldn't you say?"

Luca cocked his head to the side. "I would like to think so?"

She sighed, tilting her head slightly in his direction. "Our history is quite a complicated one. One I promise to tell you all about when we have the time." She looked down at her diamond-rimmed piaget watch adorning her wrist. "Why don't you hurry along to your first class before you receive a demerit."

With that, they walked briskly to their assigned classes, departing ways. And for some reason, it left a hollow feeling in his chest. And he realized that feeling was loneliness.

──────

His day flew by quickly. The highlight of his day however was gaining the attention of his eccentric english teacher. It was after class and the peculiar professor had their feet propped on the desk, reading an underrated classic that he'd favor since he was a young boy:The Cask of Amontillado by Edgar Allan Poe. When he pointed it out, they jumped out of their seats like their pants were lit on fire. They leaned forward, their eyes dancing with excitement.

"Ah! What a deliciously disturbing work Poe had bestowed upon us, wouldn't you say, young lad?" They sing-songed.

"It must be understood, that neither by word nor deed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt my good will," They continued, "Do you truly believe this is a tale of revenge as he states to us in the beginning, or is it a tale of jealousy fueled by insanity and madness?"

Luca pondered, and decided to say, "I believe it's rather an eloquent book that Poe wrote and refreshing that he has the ability to delve into the taboo and twist the reader's mind with such macabre writing. The narrator in this story is undoubtedly an unreliable one; therefore, who are we to take his word for it? He may have vowed this was a tale of revenge, but his actions led me to believe jealousy was truly the stem of it all, as it is mostly the case."

They clapped madly, startling the students coming into the room for their next class. "How splendid! A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong," They said. "My my my, Mr Jones was it? What a marvelous young man you are. My word will reach you soon."

Luca left them with that final statement, bemused. It was only a few hours later, he had understood what they meant. He was in the main wing, leaning against a pearl statue of Mary Magdalene. Whispers of new students and family of new money tickled his ears yet he had yet to come across the supposedly new students. The teacher's word came in a form of a dainty girl with long, mahogany hair framing her elfin face. She wore a beige cardigan tucked neatly into her vintage check pleated skirt.

Tucking her hair behind her ear, she murmured. "Pleasure to meet you." Up close he saw a little cherub pendant dangling from her slim neck.

"Hello," He said.

She slid a slip of paper into the palm of his hand. "From Professor Bishop." And with that, she waved him goodbye and walked off in the opposite direction. Luca stared at her retreating figure in wonder, then looked down at the slip of paper, his fingers tingling from the skin on skin contact. The paper gave a cryptic message, it read: ‎St. Michael the Archangel wing, Room 113, 3pm.

Call it curiosity if you will, but whatever it was led him to his current predicament. Sitting in a circle, he sat amongst an odd group of pretentious scholars that looked like they belonged in the 20th century, England not the small quaint town of West Mines, in the 21st century. They wore cardigans and sweaters vests in muted colors and tweed trousers. They smoked cigars and smelt of black coffee. They debated philosophy and read prose, and discussed french revolutionaries not everyday mundane topics.

There was Alaric Sebastian Watson (he preferred to go as 'Rick', he said Alaric was too iffy), an orgulous lad with bushy brows and ash freckles peppered across his face. Then there was Cyrus Rothschild. His handsome features sharp and hard like a cut diamond in the rough. Thick lips shaped as the curved body of a bow. Perched on the chair with crossed legs and fingers thumbing through the sepia pages of a foreign novel, the title written in Latin, forbidding Luca from understanding.Then, Luca's eyes bounced to the girl he met earlier (he learned her name was Aspen Berkshire) sitting elegantly next to Cyrus. She was leaning against his shoulders, her hands alighted on his knee. She felt his eyes upon her and she looked up, giving him a half smile. Luca quickly averted his eyes and his attention strayed towards the narrowed eyes of Myron. It surprised him immensely when he'd found out Myron was here. Myron, as expected, was not too happy about his presence either. He swore Luca did this to spite him. Then lastly, was Olivia St.Moore. She stood in the centre, head raised in poise, giving her the air of a regal queen.

"First and foremost, I would like to welcome Luca Jones not only to the literature club but to West Mines Academy."

Literature club?

Myron stifled a yawn, Alaric gave a haughty laugh, Cyrus merely lifted his bored gaze for a split second before lowering his eyes back to his latest read and Aspen, oh sweet Aspen clapped politely.

Luca's face burned red.

Before he could open his mouth however, someone bursted into the room, slamming the door open. Luca almost jumped out of his seat, yet the other students obviously used to this merely sighed and one person muttered under their breath: "Here we go again."

"My apologies, everyone." Professor Bishop Shawford scratched the back of their head, their wire frame glasses slipping ever so slightly. They hurried to the blackboard, however their satchel somehow caught at the edge of the desk, causing their notes to scatter.

Aspen sighed, and bent her knees to pick up the scattered notes. "Oh heavens no, what a mess! Thank you my dear. Ah." They surveyed the room until their eyes fell upon Luca. "Mr. Jones, you've arrived. Welcome, so glad to have a new member. This calls for a celebration." Suddenly, they went to a backdoor Luca hadn't seen before, then came back wheeling in a small cart of victorian style tea cup sets.

"As you already know, I'm Professor Bishop Shawford, you can please kindly and respectfully refer to me as they/them pronouns." They passed along chamomile tea to each of them, already familiar with their preference. "Milk, honey?"

"Honey, will be fine," Luca replied.

Bishop continued, "Not only do I teach here at this academy, but I work as a college professor at the St. Catherine University in the next town over."

"Yeah they teach humanities, philosophy and intro to ethics," Aspen piped in, over her cup of tea.

"That's nothing," Alaric smirked. "My cousin, Walsh? You remember Walsh right? Anyway, he teaches ten courses at Harvard. Impressive, if I do say so myself. And he has like three PhDs. How many PhDs do you have, professor?" He slurped on his tea with his pinkie raised in the air.

Olivia rolled her eyes. "Does it matter?"

Bishop blinked rapidly, their mouth opening and closing. "Well, just one." Then the familiar look of bliss fell across their androgynous features. "And I'm quite satisfied with it. Anyway, Mr. Jones, the literature club- don't mind the name, we're working on it, is simply a group of young students like yourselves who come together to discuss the fine language of english literature. Quite fascinating, isn't it?"

"I still don't get why he's got to be here," Myron muttered bitterly under his breath.

"Well Mr. Coldwell, our dear friend is here today because I couldn't resist! It would be such a shame to have missed this opportunity. Oh goodness me, I'm afraid I would have to cut this meeting short. I have a seminar I must attend to in the next fifteen minutes. My my my, see how the time has run. Ah but Punctuality is the thief of time. Any idea who said that fine line? "

"Twas Oscar Wilde," Cyrus answered, speaking up for the first time. "I am always late on principle, my principle being that punctuality is the thief of time. You best do to hurry up, Professor."

They grabbed his satchel and patted them on their heads. "Splendid! The meeting is over. I will see you all tomorrow. This goes for you too, Mr Jones." Luca nodded, satisfied, they left.

When Luca arrived home, he was beat. Today was a very interesting day indeed. Somehow he knew deep down that he would become like the strange individuals he met earlier. His mother was gone for the day, perhaps on her sixth shopping spree. He decided to work on his homework before it piled up on him in the upcoming weeks. Lofi music quietly played in the background as Luca flipped through his pages. Before he knew it, three hours has passed and through his open window night has fallen and the moon hovered anxiously like a coddling mother.

His door slid open, a sliver of orange light was seen. His mother popped her head in and she gave a soft, tired smile. "Darling, how was the school? The students? Was the school beautiful as the brochure showed?"

He answered her rapid questions: "Fine. Interesting. And the brochure couldn't possibly capture its beauty."

She gave a sigh of relief. "At least something good came off from all this." He didn't question what she meant, he could only wonder. She ruffled his head, and placed a kiss on his forehead. And with that, she left and shut his bedroom door shut.

It was 2 am when Myron came home stoned. Luca was looking up at his ceiling, deep in thought. His last cup of tea grew lukewarm on his bedside table. There was angry shouting and doors being slammed. Then the screeching of his car could be heard from outside as he departed. Then, silence. Pure and utter silence.

Luca pulled the cover up to his lips and closed his eyes. He couldn't help but think, what will tomorrow bring?

#dark academia #writing prompt #My writing

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