Olivia shakes her head a weak smile on her lips. “N-No… I-I-I ca-can’t-t d-do horror m-movies.” Just thinking about them made her blood run cold with fear. There had been enough horror in her life to last Olivia the rest of her existence. “B-But a-action movies are f-fun. I, um, pre-prefer c-comedies.” Olivia knew her limitations and had accepted them along time ago, anything horror related was one of them. “I-I’m not very good with bl-blood, any kind of blood.”
“To each their own,” Dia responded, shrugging, “Comedy does have a special take to it.” He wasn’t going to lie; he kind of liked the way this conversation was going. Maybe it was because she was so timid, in comparison to other people he had spoken to. Or maybe he was getting good at faking complacency, good enough to fool himself. “Ever seen 21 Jump Street?”
Olivia nods, she understood that. Movies could at times be better than books. “I l-like movies too b-but sometimes I feel like there a bit too…- too superficial.” She hoped she hadn’t insulted him, she wasn’t entirely sure what she said that could have insulted him but she felt as if she had. “D-Do you h-have a favorite m-movie?” She asked him in hopes of covering up her blunder.
“Not really? I do like action and horror movies,” he replied, “Maybe Poltergeist? Or, no, that one with the elevator. Y’know, where they’re all trapped in it and one of them is supposed to be the devil or something.. I like movies like those.” He couldn’t even recall any such movie like that, save blood and gore. Or had it been a movie? “What about you?”
Olivia blushes, he had such intense blue eyes. “I-I have m-many… I… I-I like anything by Sarah Dessen, s-she’s very b-big on empowerment.” Olivia loved anything she wrote it made her feel as if she could finally stand up to her grandmother but those feelings faded fast when her gaze fixed on Olivia with those cold dead eyes. “Are you more of a movie person then? S-Since you d-don’t read m-much?”
“I like movies better,” he admitted, “Less work for me to do in terms of visualizing everything.” That, and watching them sort of made him wish he had his own theme music. Or just a soundtrack, in general. His life, as it was, felt like a movie in itsdelf. Some elaborate plot with twists and turns that he wouldn’t see coming. “I guess I’ll look up Sarah Dessen, then.”
Olivia grins. “N-No…I’m m-more of into r-rom-mantic f-fiction.” She blushes. Olivia loved those books, where the girl saves the day and gets her man. “I l-like ones with a ha-happy e-ending.” She answers honestly, that’s why she never strayed from her favorites. “W-What a-about you?”
“I don’t usually read,” he replied, shrugging his shoulders, “Just felt the urge to do it today. Any favorites you have?” Maybe he wouldn’t be reading anything with a happy ending; even while watching movies, those didn’t sit right with him. Like there wasn’t enough conflict too through in the movie. Maybe this book would be much the same. Distracting himself from whatever train of thought he may have gone with, he fixed Olivia with an attentive stare as he awaited her answer.
Olivia grins, a small flash of pride flows through her when he spoke to her. She giggles slightly when he has to look for the name of the book. “N-No… b-but I g-get the g-general gist of it.” Her smile falls slightly. While Olivia was an avid reader, she didn’t stray from her favorite authors and was more into fiction.
Brows raised, he looked back at his book for a moment, checking the page number for when he returned to it. Closing it, he turned his full attention Olivia. “Not your kind of read,” he inquired, seeing the smile on her face smile slightly.
Olivia took a deep nervous breath, he had such a cool name. So he didn’t want to talk that was ok with her. She didn’t have to talk to him, not at all, no she was good with silence. “W-What b-book are y-you re-reading?” Olivia flinches the moment she opens her mouth.
For someone so absolutely terrified--and maybe rightly so--Olivia was trying. He could see it, hear, feel it even. So he’d humor her. Lifting his gaze from the page once more, he studied her for a moment. “I don’t even-” he cut himself off to read the spine of the book he’d taken from the library on a whim--”Apparently, The Life of Pi,” he responded, “You ever read it before?”
Olivia took a deep breath and gave the man a shaky smile. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Had she upset him? “Thank you, I-I didn’t th-think this p-place would be so c-crowded….” Deep breath, don’t cry he isn’t going to do anything. “M-My n-name is O-Olivia Young-b-blood.” She held out a small shaky hand her other hand gripping her hot chocolate in a death grip.
Dia didn’t do well with nervous people, or well, people in general. Not this version of himself, at least. He glanced up at the girl’s face before taking her hand and giving it a weak shake. He let go immediately after, returning it back to the table. “Dia Natyka,” he responded in kind before looking back to his book.
Remove herself from the situation.
Separation.
Avoidance.
That is how Ayden Abecassis taught herself to cope with her brother’s unrelenting anger.
And escape she did, to the only safe haven this duchess had ever known – alcohol.
It was but one of her myriad vices, sure, but make no mistake; Ayden never
allowed herself the freedom to relinquish full control. She refused to drink
enough to become severely intoxicated. No. Instead, this witch was yearning for the buzz
which would transport her into a state of white-hot bliss – enough to ease her terror
twin tension. Perhaps she would even be granted the luxury of receiving a negligible
amount of time to relax. That would be euphoric, something which, up until present,
Ayden found to have a tendency of coming up quite short.
The blonde sighed to herself, ordering her usual – GreyGoose on the rocks.
She made it a double – when she noticed a familiar voice resonating in the bar.
Upon turning to face the man, she flashed her signature, impish smile.
“Dia…” Ayden purred, retrieving her cocktail and taking a lengthy swig.
“I haven’t seen you since Vegas.”
Dia had only intended to get a few drinks in, maybe charm someone into taking him home, and possibly wake up with a hangover to repeat the whole cycle again. What he hadn’t expected was someone he didn’t know--or maybe just didn’t remember--calling his name. His first thought, devoid of a drink, was to be terribly peeved by the presence of this unfamiliar woman. And then he realized he’d be able to get a drink of her yet. But there was the matter of how she knew his name, if he didn’t know her.
“Hey,” he drawled, getting up from his seat to greet her, “I been places. Where have you been?”
Olivia hated herself. She should have known better than to leave her apartment and try to be social. She had a perfectly good coffee maker at her place, She didn’t need to go to the coffee shop that was pack with people. She should have at least brought her laptop as plan B. “H-Hi, um, i-is this s-s-seat taken?” She could feel her hands shaking.
Dia had a plethora of choice words for the person asking for a seat at his table. That is, until he saw the shaking hands. His words dissolved on his tongue, but his expression remained the same as he looked over the girl. “Sure.”
“Just one.” He couldn’t recall ever going to see a live stage performance in his life, though most of what he could gather from his phone and personal belongings when they found him made it seem like he might have. But he wasn’t about to leave his experiences up to a fault memory and doctors who weren’t totally helping him do more than stay sane.
They were classmates, peer. On equal standing. Or rather, not on equal standing, but that was beside the point. This unbelievably square-jawed, broad shouldered, dark-haired athlete had no real intention of harm. He was simply going with the flow, doing what was expected of him. Shoving smaller students out of the way of the star quarterback was no more an act of conscious thought than it was an instinct. It was a given, a required feat that every follower knows. And this follower was too devoted to take note of what he was getting himself into.
In terms of a social tier, Dia had seen himself towards the bottom. Not because of familial roots, but because the big boys at the top had decided he’d had a certain look about him. Some people might have known about the “devil worshippers down the lane,” but the Natyka family had a knack for moving around often. And leaving very few witnesses behind. But aside from that, there wasn’t much to condemn him to the dregs of the social barrel.
Maybe he was overreacting; it was, as he had understood, simply a force of nature. But it wasn’t like he enjoyed it. The predator, that had been heightened through a perverse education enlisted by his parents, was most definitely not pleased by this order. It was not natural. It was backwards; his location at the bottom was made to be a ruse, rather than a permanent fixture. He would not—could not—allow for such things to continue.
And the reason this was all easier was because who really liked a follower? The kind that bowed their head and had decisions made for them. Free will inclined to have their will be taken. How pitiful an existence. What Dia was to do was like an act of mercy, freeing the boy from the hell he’d created for himself. It was a kindness killing; no more, no less. And he wasn’t exactly killing, either. Receiving salvation was like an awakening, a rebirth.
Watching the world of high school hierarchies crumble as he pitted cliques against cliques, all with the simple disfigurement of a would-be star. They didn’t tear each other apart limb from limb like he might have wanted, but seeing all the social media and the blatant bashing was something else. Including when his lovely little customer had the blame pointed on him.
It’s something different when you hear a six-foot giant sobbing ‘til he couldn’t breathe. See him wither and die. Or, more accurately, close up. He was like a seed, ready to dry up and explode to the newness of life. Spread around.
Okay, so maybe things were going a little further than he’d intended. He hadn’t expected to see a goddamn manifesto shoved into his locker, like everyone else’s. Dia hadn’t thought the boy capable of such lengthy expressions of self. His role as a sheep in the flock had designated him with a very precise measure of intelligence. His ability to coherently form such grandiose logical leaps was astonishing really. Magnificent was his conviction that he was thoroughly screwed by his own societal position, that he was wrongly convicted by the merciless force that was the establishment of life.
And maybe Dia was whistling when the shots rang out. Part of the lucky few that survived such an angry, hateful event.
“Do you think that every president goes through a awkward first few weeks in office when they’re not sure when’s the right time to ask if aliens are real or not? Because I think they do – I know that I would.”
“...” Part of Dia felt like any answer would have prompted some sort of conspiracy theory from this guy, and he didn’t think he wanted any of that. So, he considered saying nothing, but the look on the guy’s face made him feel compelled to humor him. “I dunno,” he replied lazily, fiddling with his keys.
( warnings ) blood, death mention, corpse mention, implied murder
dreams can be revealing things
This could be a dream. This could be a nightmare.
It was hard to decide, when everything was so vivid and colorful. This must have been what the doctors and psychologists had talked about; those times when things would come back but they wouldn’t be the same. Or that they would just be exaggerated mirror images of what had actually happened. But looking down at the thing at this feet, the used to be person. Used to be. Had been. Previously breathing. Dia wondered how exactly one could exaggerate staring at a corpse.
Or why he was staring at himself.
Was this supposed to be a revelation, and epiphany? Was he supposed to realize that who he was before was dead and he had only the future? Or was it the death of said future and the return of the past?
“How’s it feel?”
All Dia had done was blink, but he was no longer looking at his own body or empty space. Instead, he was left staring at his reflection. It was more like something akin to a memory of reflection. He was clearly younger, with softer cheeks and dimmer eyes. Or were they bright; he couldn’t really tell nor did he care. But it wasn’t just silvery blonde hair he was looking at. They appeared as little flecks of red by his cheeks, then blooms of crimson hydrangea spreading over his arms and neck. Dripping, like leaky faucets was the blood, staining his skin.
“Did you like it?”
He felt his mouth open to form a response, but heard no sound. He tried again, with the same result. And he tried again, and again and again.
