THE FETISH CLUB

1.4

1.4

[agora]

    I've summer cold probably. In essence, I'd it on since summer but my nose is starting to tingle now, in monsoon that is. And, boy am I prepared.

Monet isn't exactly bad (for a boarding school).

Sure, I still write hate emails to Casen for what he did, yet I'm enjoying my stay. Did you know most things here are free?

The embroidered tissues... The make up kit... The  nailcutter... The fancy college backpack... The sunlit room equipped with everything I can possibly need? I've a roommate. She's the one who eventually stopped giving me weird looks until and unless, I'm on her side of the room. Her window's always covered with newspaper scrapes taped together.

"Saylor! It's time to rise!" I say giddily.

"Oh, would you look at the time? Eight past! Class starts -"

"- in fifteen minutes," the sullen speaker peeks over blanket, "I get it, you're hyped."

"I'm not just that."

I wait for Saylor to hum along but she never does. Instead, she disappears. Into the washroom that is. She's a soft baby kind of beauty. Lips bee stung, fuck you written all over her face (especially resonated in her lifeless, grey eyes) and not to mention, I take care of both of us. "I can't find my body wash!"

"Top shelf!"

No response.

She's a daughter to some multimillionaire. Her bed has maroon sheets, mine has white, well half white— "which one? I like the maroon cause it's so badass! Don't you agree? It's got the shine? Know what's shiny? My bed." said Saylor the time I moved in. I was in awe. Her enthusiasm seemed natural. "Can I get you something? I'm ordering," she was on the phone then.

"T-Towels," I said.

"Color? Length?" I part my mouth in disbelief. "Never mind, I got it, girly."

The creature that strolls out has my mouth hanging. Figuratively. She's drying her hair with (my) fluffy towel, features maddeningly attractive. Depressed, she side eyes while getting ready. A sweatervest—blue—soon fits her tiny, slime figure over a light colored shirt, as she's buttoning her skirt—scottish, maroon— I glance off. The mirror holds me a culprit nonetheless.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Subjects.

There's... History, geography, physics, seducer's, algebra, psychology, drama...

"Hey bestie. That seat mine?"

I meet up with Saylor much later that day, while I'm on soy latte carton, "you have a little something on you!" She says.

The lengthy tables, under cream-color fluoresce, were empty as a skull. Yet, I see the dark haired colleague jogging towards me, stopping to adjust her branded flip-flops before sitting across.

She bends, cupping my face - for moments, I feel the lingering like she's going to comment on something, something on the subject applications, my taste in coffee, the careless ponytail she's sporting on me...

...but she never does.

"Can I see?" She chirps against it.

"Be my guest," I monotonously speak.

With sparkling interest, earnestly so — she lifts up the form, "you know," she's sitting and dangling legs, as if on a swing, "Monet's got teachers. They can help you figure out this shit." I hum. "And, what's more, drum rolls please —" she's gulping —"some teachers are so young, they also take classes!"