wicked games // michael clifford [au]

// chapter one //

<< rory's pov >>

"How was your first day at school, dear?" My mother asks as she strategically moves around the flowers in her vase, as if it made any difference which angle they fell. 

Glancing up at her over my spoon full of cereal, I flash her my most unamused look possible. She's too busy humming to herself, stuck in that idealistic little world she lives inside her own mind. I roll my eyes, knowing very well that she isn't going to listen to a complaint I have. 

As I shovel another spoonful of Lucky Charms into my mouth, my mind wanders back to my day. And here I thought school couldn't get any worse. Then I move here and go to hell on earth - a.k.a. Saint Phillip's Catholic School for Girls. 

I've never met more utterly and completely fake people before in my entire life. Each girl came to me and talked to me as if I were sent there from Jesus himself; an opportunity for them to show how incredibly holy they are. 

It was disgusting. 

My old friends, back at my old school, told me that I'd find new friends quickly. They claimed that in Catholic schools like that, there's always a group of kids that live for rebelling - my kind of people. But I didn't find a single person in that entire ancient school that wasn't kissing the ass of every nun and crucifix in that place. 

"That's good, honey," Mom smiles to herself, not having any idea whatsoever that I hadn't uttered a single word. 

Gritting my teeth, I push myself away from the kitchen counter, abandoning my bowl of cereal, half uneaten, feeling sick to my stomach.

"This move will be good for you, honey," 

"This move will be good for our whole family, honey."

"Everything will get better, honey."

I can still vividly remember the day my parents sat me down and told me we would be moving half-way across the country, as if that were going to fix me. They say there with their oblivious cheerful smiles, feeding me promises after promises that I knew weren't going to be fulfilled. 

They still have no idea that they're the reason behind half of my troubles. Isn't that often the case with parents? They bring you into the world only to shower you with problems, thinking the more people there are in the family, the less weight they'll have to carry upon their own shoulders.

I clomp up the creaky spiral staircase, ignoring the confused calls from my mother as I head back into my bedroom, ready to close myself off from the world once again. It's the only quality I inherited from my father, whom I suspect is closed up in his brand new den, reading some other shitty self-help book. 

I don't bother slipping out of my black boots two sizes to big for me, forcing me to wear several pairs of woolen socks to keep them from slipping off of my feet. I shuffle into my room, freshly unpacked and looking nothing like my old room.

When we moved, my mother insisted upon leaving all our old belongings behind. She claimed that it would help us recieve that 'fresh page' we all needed so badly. I figured it was another excuse to empty out my father's bankaccount.

Feeling rather restless and exhausted at the same time, I take a seat at the bay window - the only thing I actually quite like about this old, ancient house that looks as if it had just stepped right out of a horror movie. 

Pulling my legs to my chest, I sit down, staring out into the backyard. Yet again a smirk plays on the corners of my lips as I stare out into the most fitting site I've ever laid eyes on. It's as if fate has threw me into this situation, only to laugh at the irony waiting for me at every corner.