Dead Hearts

Author's note: This story takes place in two different times, NOW and THEN. Also, it is divided by parts as well (It'll be right above the chapter whenever it's necessary) Some chapters take place in the present, until signaled otherwise by THEN, which means those chapters take place in the past. Also, there ARE changes in points of view, hence "Mara" or "Aiden" right below the chapter. 

All events and characters are fictional. Any resemblance to reality is either relating the author's life or otherwise purely coincidential.   This is the first story I'm taking seriously, and so any advice would be greatly appreciated! :) Message me if you'd like me to check out anything of yours too! Please don't plaigarize, I've been working extremely hard :( and maybe you could quote any of it if you'd like, as long as you give me credit. Thank you for reading :) 

Chapter 1

Mara

Now

I stared back at my philosophy teacher unwaveringly, though unwillingly.

“That’s it for you, Mara. You’re done for the day. Detention for the whole week.”

Bullshit, I thought. There was absolutely no way I was going to stick around after class to endure an hour doing nothing just because I spoke my mind; speaking my mind is what Philosophy class is for, isn’t it? 

It’s not my fault his opinion is full of shit, and I happened to be the one to enlighten him on his idiotic remarks.

I sighed, and, thanks to some outer universal force that somehow rooted for me in that moment, the bell rang, and I hastily picked up my books and shoved them impatiently in my bag.

I left the room with my head held high, thinking this was all just a massive waste of my time, and how I’d much rather be somewhere I was irrevocably in love with; some interesting, faraway place like Dubai or New York, San Francisco or Montmartre. You know, some of those places where all you ever need is just breathe in a little, and things get better, everything is golden and impossible, and you feel so full of everything around you that for one second, you aren’t afraid of anything, and it’s alright.

Yet this was my one existential problem.

I was afraid of absolutely everything.

I am not afraid of things specifically; you could dangle a spider in my face or tell me I had detention for a month, and I wouldn’t be afraid of the spider nor of what kind of reaction my mother would have to my detentions, but ask me to do something like jumping from a cliff into the ocean, or go on a hiking expedition somewhere unknown, and I will most positively go crawling back to my familiar places, my room, my house, my bed, my school, even.

I was not built to be carefree and spontaneous; I was built to worry about consequences that led from doing things that were not safe. Risks were not safe, and therefore, I lived a pretty harmless life. Sure, I could be grounded and yelled at and told to do the right things, and I did; I did everything that was required of me to do. Except these times where I simply got sick of trying to do what was expected of me, hence my sporadic detentions, and the lack of attention from my mother. Seeing as she “totally understood me” and “was still proud of me” she never fully paid attention, and, looking back, I think that’s what made me the angriest. 

I have always known I wasn’t exactly made for this kind of world. There was just too much carelessness and too many famous people that were just famous for absolutely no reason, and gossip and tabloids full of, well, bullshit. I was tired of people simply existing, going through the motions of their grey, careful lives; but who was I to judge? I was just like all of them; merely, a part of the universe that would honestly not give a single fuck if I was to die or not.