vengeful youths [ongoing]

V ; The Feyler-Clock

Written on February 1, 2022

V ; The Feyler-Clock

Vanilla's breath steadied as she watched the bronze Feyler-clock. She had been pacing inside the metallic walls of her dorm for hours, forebodingly filling her head with every doomsday scenario possible. It was only two hours until boarding time, when she would be shaken by the cold burns of reality as she made her way to momentous salvation. 

Her parents had already left, having bid a tear-ridden farewell earlier. That very dawn had Vanilla watched their crimson faces fade into the mist of the booming rurality. Their train had been a corrosive red, covered in the very dust that speckled itself through every route and crevice the vehicles took, spreading smog and dismay with every spray.

The mist in Vanilla's raging pupils calmed, cessant as she remembered the way her mother caressed her cheeks lovingly, swearing that this would not be their last moment. Her parents had been so caring, so true, and so Vanilla knew that she had to press forward, if not for herself, then for them. 

Lips parted, she closed her eyes and breathed a breath of haunting ghost, lungs expanding as a scarlet aroma puttered into her nose. Such was the Feyler-clock, almost imposing in it's presence, yet a penetrative reminder that the young lady was not alone, that she was born for destiny, filled with animosity innate. Her worries, her pacing feet, chemically kissing the perspective of a martyr, would be soothed by the very ticking sound of this old clock.

Boarding time was set for 4:00am, and it was already 2:25am. Getting to the terminal station from her downtrodden dormitory would take an hour in itself, so Vanilla stood her ground, grabbing her items expeditiously. 

All her belongings had already been stored in two chamomile-scented beambags, each one stacking vertically on top of one another. The lower beambag held a nightsuit and blue, fluorescent top, as well as an old, featureless terminal and three bright neon eyeliners. The top beambag held a sketchpad and a bag of plantain chips. Vanilla did not have much, and could most likely fit all her items in one beambag, but took both in the raw esperance that her life would bloom, rewarding her with presents along the way to new worlds.

A quarter to 3, Vanilla bid her final parting vows. This disheartening yet homely abode, the minuscule walls of her dormitory, had been her home ever since her parents began the refugian process. It had been a year since that moment, when this youngin, 11-years-old at the time, had moved in alone, wavy hair humid and warm brown skin shuddering. 

Since then, she had grown in ways that a 12-year-old should not have had to, learning to fend for herself and steady her breaths, looking at the infamous Feyler-clock. Vanilla was unsure whether she would miss this place or not, but she buried it properly, bowing at the clock with her head to the concrete ground, tears beading at her seams.

Author's Note — This one is significantly more recently-written than the last. I wrote it in my senior year of high school, earlier this year. Vanilla is a character is extremely special to me, more than most characters in this whole crevice of creation. I have had her story in the back of my mind for years, but finally put it to paper in this big year of 2022. May stars follow you on your journeys, VNEXXA.