Ethereal | Twilight |

002

Isabella Swan, ensnared in the nexus of fear and fascination, grapples with the mysteries unfolding around her. The enigmatic golden-eyed boy casts shadows over her understanding, leaving her yearning for clarity. Stepping into the library, the aroma of books surrounds her like the gentle ripple of loons on a serene lake.

As minutes stretch into endless hours, her lips worn from ceaseless teeth-chewing, and her fingertips trembling with a feverish dance, her desired answers echo around her timelessly, consuming her little by little. She steps away from her spot, eyes distant and wondering, the cold ones, bewildering, perplexing creatures she knows nothing about—however, it could not be as legitimate as known to be. Such things couldn't exist, simply could not.

Her gaze reluctantly breaks free from the gravitational pull of daydreams, only to find herself on the brink of stepping upon a man, russeting, bare, ravishing limbs grasped under the gloaming dim, sunset beams ripe under the unraveling male. A gasp escapes her lips, caught in a chaotic dance of ballet, her lips fall agape, clamping, unlatching, closing, flaring, a crazed act of her lips running calamity as her pupils dilate from nerves igniting her under the fluttering eyes of the male.

A display of obsidian, somber optics glares at her body before rising to meet her eyes.

Bella takes a breath in before finally letting her apology fall from her lips, a delicate wisp. "Sorry." The male rolls his eyes, raising his upper body from his position on the floor, disturbed from his comforting nap as Bella takes cue, surrendering subconsciously, allowing her eyes to roam, writhe over his physique, firm ironed arms, flushed skin kissed by the dusk, and bronzed hues pulsating muscle from his shirt, seeming too tight for the male.

"Are you done?" Cherries drip from her skin like teardrops made of rubies, embarrassment unfurling. Lashes quiver rapidly, stepping back with a gasp as he stands from the floor, his height uncurling from the pits as he towers over her small, pallid body flushed with emotion, her gaze staying firm away from his eyes, suddenly cursing herself for her weakness to men a chromosome away from being a woman, divine, a glamorous being.

She flinches, hearing him sigh, suddenly feeling stupid, so heavily stupid. Her eyes catch the mess of papers, numbers, and formulas where his body used to be. Her brows furrow, "You were studying." She states a comment that seems to drag her into a greater hell of shame, embarrassment, feeling his observation above her grow annoyed, confirming her suspicions as she takes her second step away, catching the sight of his annoyance.

She couldn't blame him; she woke him with her loud steps, almost tripping from his limbs; she felt annoyed with herself too. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you. I can try to make it up to you—" Her look stutters, emotions creeping up her throat like ghostly tendrils threatening to engulf her entirely. A paper is pushed towards her sight, the numbers growing bigger in inspection. "Can you teach me this much?"

She nods, quivering from her sentiments. "Of course."
—

Sora saw many interesting, exhilarating, portentous things when he was over the moon, swamped under the seas of his high, a box full of his stash, messy and demented. He knew it was a bad idea, especially before school. His euphoric mind, unhinged and blitzed, hallucinated as the room began to buzz, ring with the neutral colors of his room darken, vestiges, shades long and stretched stand within his room, staring down at him in their husks and relics, smiles creeping wide, ripping through their mists of shrouds.

His hallucinations never did anything but tower over his body like fuzzed up umbrages, so he didn't mind. Their shadows lingered, and lurked close by, as long as his high stood present.

His mother hums at him a good morning as he passes by, his shadows walking behind him menacingly, something his mother doesn't see but him.

His first two periods waver around within hours that feel like prolonged ages. His high seems to stay dormant compared to the drooling heat lazily flickering to life, digging into the flesh of his temples, his body twitching uncomfortably as his body begins to cramp, a strained distress igniting his skin on fire. A blaze of heat laps at his body as the bell rings, a headache forming with resentment on his way to his locker, bumping into the shoulder of a nonentity.

"Fucking druggie." A crescendo of exasperation reverberates within him, his waning patience tested by the conviction that his ailment stems from the deprivation of a serene day in bliss. A handful of spectators briefly observe before averting their gazes, deriving amusement from the unfolding spectacle.

Yet, it seethes in the depths of his abdomen, claws at his throat, ascends from his ribs, and a tumultuous heart thrusts him against a locker. A vertiginous haze envelops him. He murmurs curses under his breath, caressing his parched, fissured lips, and elevates his gaze to encounter a duo of gentlemen merrily jesting by his locker, smartphones affixed to their faces, resonating memes with an audible presence.
"Excuse me."

Their eyes snap to his, one reaching towards the other to move away, while the other stubbornly latching his hands away from the hem of his shirt, a taut laugh forcing itself off the guy's mouth. "Beg for it."

Merely a week past, he might have soared in a haze too elevated to give heed, or perhaps not uttered a word, let alone retained recollection of his actions to amble away. However, his fever, a maelstrom within, coaxed forth a brand of sentiment that, on any other day, would have seemed trifling and juvenile for him to acknowledge.

Yet, not today, nor the week preceding it. As he senses his own digits probing the clamminess of his skin, a mere heartbeat transpires from the moment their eyes intertwine, and in that fleeting second, the calamity drops its corpses.

A fist against the guy's cheek crackles like thunder in the dead of night, echoing a spine-chilling resonance, heralding an impending storm of terror. Screams plummer the ground like tormented phantoms ripping through the ground, the very floor convulsing.

Teachers tear through the bodies, wielding beams of phones overhead like ominous torches, capturing each horrific second in a macabre documentary. "Move!" a student jeers, rudely shoved aside as the frenzied spectacle unfolds, the realization of doom settling in too late. Sora, a seemingly unassuming student, perpetually draped in an air of quiet mystery, transforms into a malevolent force.

His presence, normally discreet, becomes an inferno of brutality, each blow unleashing a symphony of cracking bones and splattering blood, turning the victim into a grotesque canvas of agony. Bruised lips rupture repeatedly, consciousness shattered beneath relentless pummeling, as Sora's hands orchestrate a malefic dance of destruction.

Teachers desperately pry him away, a futile struggle against the monstrous strength that seems to surge from some hidden abyss within him. Students, witnesses to this nightmare, are ushered to their classes amidst the chaos, attempting to reconcile the gruesome reality etched into their minds. The unconscious, battered figure lies sprawled on the floor, a haunting tableau of crimson, each cut a testament to the brutality inflicted by Sora's wrath.

—

Sora leans back against a chair, sighing with every minute that passes as they all wait for his mother to pick him up. He observes the scene, a cop staring at him in disappointment who he found to be called Charlie, a sheriff well known in Forks, a few miles away from the reservation.

"The information just arrived from Sora's mother," the teacher conveys with a measured tone, a breath of concern subtly escaping her lips. Standing with shoulders squared, hands resting on her hips, her expression reveals a controlled intensity as she processes the gravity of the situation. Another educator, maintaining a stoic demeanor, glances attentively at both Sora and Sheriff Charlie.

"I will handle the logistics. Take him yonder,"

Sheriff Charlie with distinct authority, he shakes his head. It's communicated that his mother couldn't make it. Despite the directive, Sheriff Charlie reasserts his responsibility with a determined movement of his head, "No, I'll take him. His residence is farther from yours than mine." The teacher concedes without protest, and Sheriff Charlie nods in agreement, maintaining a professional composure in the face of the somber circumstance.

The cop smiles at the rest in the office before signaling him to rise, and follow, a huff following his tone of voice. "You are in great trouble Mr. Sohl."

Sora curses under his breath at his fathers last name, the name irking him more than he thought it would. Not only was he suspended for two weeks but also had to sit in detention for more than a week. If it wasn't for the emotions that would bring forth from his mother, he wouldn't have cared, but unfortunately it did.