MISC «morose! morose! morose!»

XIII.

XIII

Romanstoff was devoid of student dormitories.

At one point, they saw it as a drawback, a lacking characteristic. Students from all over the world were there... The architecture was Roman, as was laughably its name, and when Beverly passed through the garlanding gardens, the ivory hallways, the many beautiful narrow passages designing a labyrinth of paradox, she knew her journey had came to this. It'd turned, undoubtedly, perilous.

She was suddenly thankful to Jesus for having a devoted father insist "he must walk her in no matter how embarrassing it is"... Her tightened grip must have had her father's attention, for he squeezed right back, mistaking her fear for social anxiety, the kind that almost all heroes get over by the end of movie.

Beverly Ange was no hero. She didn't strive to be.

During school years, her hair was stuffed with adorning love centring BL manga; a strange comfort she sought knowing the lust between two men, the endless promises of vulnerability that bind them, homosexuality and its simple principles... With a few passing years, her interest moved to action figures, not particularly Naruto or Pokémon, although that's all it'd ever be to many. Ignorance is Bliss.

Beverly had ignored quite a lot. Parties, teenage drama, Twillight, pizza, night out, psychosocial motives — and now it had come to this. Six hours out. Home sweet home a distinct memory.

Beverly clicked her tongue witnessing and seeing for the very first time the sickening motion of a pair devouring each other, next to the art room. If that's art, Beverly would have to have a sick soul before entering. She vomited twice upon being openly ogled by a bunch of hyenas on Romanstoff platter, none of which resembled the idea of bishonen, nor were they discreet.

A month passed without Beverly finding a clique. She did her homework, kept busy with doodling floral in diary, did nothing to upset seniors, practically bolted out of the main exit whenever the limo was in sight, even briefly. She made stories about her new friends, her apparent crush (suspiciously Subaru Sakamaki like), and the good reviews from teachers. They were feel good stories, obviously. Not a word being true.

Reality was a pain.

The weekend exposed her to the horror of bullying — a male fresher abused in the female washroom. For being gay.

Abashed, she screamed.

Needless to say, it didn't go well. The teachers couldn't recognise her because her identity card got mugged off; despite the elbow injury, the principal chose not to see her because "its just boys messing around", and to top it all, when she was in deep distress — the gay guy stole every valuable jewel from her. Wallet to ear rings to locket with engraving of " Angel " on it. The latter is ironic.

That evening, she skipped dinner. Cried a lot. Naturally, she didn't sleep either. Isn't moving fun? Why is fiction not the face of reality but a mask? Are humans trash? If so, she's even more grateful and in love with her folks for bringing tuitions to her.

She hated the outside world.

She colored her nails the next morning, half blue half green — like her eyes. Her mom was overjoyed to see little Bev engaging in... Girlishness. Moon ear rings, soft fluffy scrunchie, no high knee socks but high waisted pants, she was actually going through all of that.

Though it wasn't the change they'd presumed.

Beverly had sprouted.

Her room was bottle pink, cartoon panelled, dark with white minimalist furniture giving it a pink outlook. That way it stayed for the rest of her life. Others? Just taking new lights.