Unorthodox (BOOK 1)

Chapter 4

~Vesper~

Today is the day, hated worldwide. Where mugs are plastered with hater comments and t-shirts are sold, advertising the strong dislike. Even if you  are a morning person, you groan when the light of the day demands you to get up.

Behold Monday. The day dedicated to hell.

The same applies to me. I have to get off the piece of furniture that actually loves me, crawl into my garments and go to The Place of No Return Until 3 P.M. I, honestly don't know what we, the kids of the twenty-first century generation, did to deserve this. Parents should at least know the problems the child will face at school. They spitefully expose you to failure, bullying and embarrassment, knowing that there is a 50%-90% chance you will turn out the worst. I argued this with my mother.

She doesn't care.
"There is always a 10% chance you'll excel, " she says as she kicks me out the car, "and trust me, it's worth it."

It isn't.

So as I walk up the stairs of Newbourne College, hopping over legs that try to trip me and dodging the football always aiming for my head, I prepare my body for the bruises of the day.

With darting eyes, I scan the hall for the dreaded face. None seen; all clear. Maybe not.

Shut up! You'll jinx it! My thoughts whispers harshly.

I open my locker and​ look for my paintbrushes. Art is my first class; my favourite since my teacher believes that I can turn out to be one of the best artists this school could provide. Maybe the country. I know it's a bit far-fetched, but a girl can dream, can't​ she?

Just when I was about to pick up my sketchbook, my luck collapses. Footsteps fall. Children freeze; leaving their conversations abandoned. Silence is the only sound. Except for the falling footsteps of doom itself. I count down, knowing that my doom is unavoidable. I can't run. He will catch me. He will always catch me.

One... Two... Three... More footsteps. His disciples are with him.

Four...Five...Six... Lockers are slamming shut.

Seven ... Eight... Nine... My knees buckle underneath me pathetically, trying to support my weight and fear itself.

Ten. Times up.

"Hello, DreadHead." My locker slams shut. My hair almost catches in the locking space. I bring my eyes to the callused, yet youthful hand that makes the next dent on the locker door. My throat closes up, cutting of my breath for a second.
"Look at me when I speak to you, Freak!" the rash voice demands.
I don't know what made me do it, but ignoring my dream of living, I look up to the dark eyes filled with hatred. It's Lance.

"Nice day, isn't it Dreads?", he sneers,"A pity you won't enjoy it with me."

"Please, let me go for today. You can make it up tomorrow. Please! I'll be late for my class!", I beg.

"But you can't leave yet! I just came! We have unfinished business, remember?"

My face clouds in confusion. "What unfinished business?"

In a flash, he knocks my stuff to the ground. My paintbrushes roll across the pearly tiles. A mixture of colors pool on the ground and my drawings float aimlessly to the floor, where the spilled paint bleeds through the lines. They're ruined.

"Wretch!", he snarls, "Don't you remember stoning my girlfriend with meatballs on Friday?" He wraps is hands around my neck, slamming me into another locker. "DON'T YOU?!"

I look around, begging someone, anyone, to help me. They don't. Being the barbaric bystanders they are, they​ laugh, taunting me, egging on the beast that holds me prisoner in his grasp.