Snakes & Scoundrels

01: ravenford

Snakes & Scoundrels, the actual story, starts from here. It's set one and a half years after Pencils & Polaroids ended. The story will primarily be from the perspective of the female protagonist, Park Mellon, but there could be glitches here and there. Consider this a warning. 

. . .

One year later (Present)  

Harper Raven monopolized an entire film fraternity with the saying "Be your own daddy, make your own sugar." Those eight words account for why he fits one of my three late role models. 

The other two are undoubtedly Hitler and Stalin. Harper Raven had vision and execution but he lacked what the real world most importantly needs in order to be under someone's rule—anger. 

And by anger, I do not mean the kind that is provoked when your sandwich gets stolen, or your best friend leaves the country, or an entire batch of school students bully you for six years of your life. All that is baby anger. It definitely is a start but it can also be easily manipulated into getting erased. 

When I said anger, I meant the kind that changes you from within. The obstacle that doesn't let you sleep, eat, or live in peace. The constant needle pricking your heart, your mind, your every breath, reminding you that there is something in this world for you that you are yet to avenge. To wrong a right. To rewrite the already written print. To change, to get control, and to king the empire. 

That's the kind of anger Hitler and Stalin had. But unfortunately, they lacked proper vision and execution, and let's be honest, the fucking arms. If, and only if, either Harper Raven or I were alive at the time, the world today would have been a different story. Nonetheless, my avenging schemes are lesser in the target area and more particular to one beast. 

Today, after a year-long wait and post-multiple events and work adventures to sparkle up my resume, I'm entering a place I've dreamt of for the longest time of my life—Ravenford.

My eyes do a double-check in the rearview mirror. Eyeliner's got the it-swing, mascara is perfected to the roots, my gold hair's got the salon finish, and as my stylist in an ad shoot told me eight months ago, my red lips do play a mega role in highlighting the contour of my cheeks. 

Grabbing my shoulder bag, I step out of my Mazda 3 hatchback (in pride, because I bought it with my money) by first keeping my black cut-out heels and then upping my body draped in a black jumpsuit. 

The air here in Los Angeles is different. It's not Santa-Monica-chilly. It surely isn't Cross-Academy-polluted. Also, it's the middle of May, and May in Los Angeles means bright blue skies, dark orange sun, and forever fragranced with the smell of lavender. 

Either the thrill of Ravenford is getting to me or I've been too homesick, traveling every other week outside of home for a while now. 

As soon as I close the door of my car, heads snap towards me. It begins from the nearest radius around me and then it spreads. Murmurs, whispers, huddles, and the obvious googling to discover who I am. I'm so used to this by now, that I can predict their next moves with a yawn. It's boring how some human tendencies are the same no matter where in the world you go. 

Nevertheless, I focus back on the royal architecture in front of me. The estate strikes better than any Ivy college in the world. It looks like two castles combined. Monolithic with pointed arches and pseudo-gothic buildings with a shade of wooden brown pallets shaded across the boundaries. The green grass adds to the perfect summer morning under the brightest of the blue skies. 

The parking lot is filled with luxury cars. The sports cars rank the highest majority. Then the hatchbacks, a few vintage cars, and some limited edition ones. The arena looks like a high-end car showroom.