Town of Split Personalities

Chapter One - part one

Northwich, a town of civil war and the unknown. In the east: the rebels, the hoodlums, and the outcasts roam. In the west, the preps, the perfect, and the royals rest. The only thing keeping the two sides at a balance, are the two richest families in town, the Ashes from the west and the Zimmermans from the east.

Located right in the heart is the only high school in town, the infamous Centerfield High School, the closest thing to actual Hell (I would know, I've been there). One thousand kids, five hundred from the east side, five hundred from the West side. One could only imagine the horror and bloodshed that goes on behind those walls.

But I witness it all.

From the rivalry between the Ashes and Zimmermans brought separation between the two sides of town. Despite what I mentioned earlier, the east and west aren't really that different—two sides of the same coin, you could say.

To even further emphasis the rivalry, Centerfield has two football teams, the Western Hawks and the Eastern Greasers. (Reason Number One why I love the east: their pop culture references.) The separate teams are supposed to be for "healthy competition" and to make up for the lack of other schools in the area willing to play against them; but, honestly, kids get killed over the stunts those motherfuckers pull.

I was a freshman last year at Centerfield. I wasn't bullied too much; I only have a few visible scars on my wrists from when I was called a faggot every day for three months by a Western Hawk. I'll spare you the details of all 704 mental scars I got during that school year.

Now it's summer and I have no fucking clue what to do. It's only been a week, and my foster family has driven me crazy so I've been forced to wander the streets in desperate search of something to do. Today, with my hood up and Gives You Hell blasting in my ears, I avoid all eye contact as I walk through puddles. My destination is a shooting range in the east side of town, owned by the Zimmermans, and the only place I've ever felt welcome in this shitty small town.

As I walk up to the building, I pass by a group of eastern hoodlums, backs leaning against the walls of the building. A girl with dark crimson lips pops her bubblegum in my direction and an Eastern Greaser is at my side in a second. "Whatcha listening to?" He pulls back my hood and I stop short to avoid being choked.

When I don't respond, he yanks my earbuds form the audio jack and Death of a Bachelor explodes from my phone. The football player chuckles over Brendon Urie's vocals.

"I didn't know you westerns listened to emo bands," he booms and his gang laughs with him.

"They don't," I mumble and pause the song, shoving my phone back inside my hoodie pocket.

"Hey, we're not looking for any trouble here, alright? So why don't you just get your ass out of my part of town before I make you?" the Greaser hisses.

"Strange. I thought this was my part of town. My family does own it after all," a voice echoes off the tinted windows.

All eyes turn to Leo Zimmerman: a young god, eldest son in his family, ready to inherit his family's wealth. He smirks at me and walks over from the patch of wall he was leaning against, arms crossed. He snatches my earbuds from the Greaser, who stumbles away.

Leo's attention is suddenly on me. "Name," he demands.

"River Oakley," I mumble loud enough for only him to hear.

"That name sounds familiar," he smirks again.

Flash back five years to this very same spot, the very same scenario: me about to enter the shooting range for the very first time, Leo stopping me and demanding my name. Only differences are now there are other people glaring intently at me and Leo has grown up. A lot.

I can't help but notice how well puberty has down him, His blue eyes are icy sapphire and are lined with long, black eyelashes. His chestnut hair is slightly wavy and falls perfectly around his face, sticking up in the back. Freckles are splattered across his cheeks bones, nose, and broad, sun-kissed shoulders. It doesn't help that he's wearing a tank top and a leather jacket around his hips. Of course, I noticed most of these things from a distance last year, but somehow seeing him up close was much more overwhelming.

I swallow hard and focus on his Air Jordans, strangely smaller than my Chuck Taylors.

"Hey. Look at me when I'm talking to you," Leo says.

I look up at him, realizing the height difference between us. It's strange, considering how average height I am, and how, stereotypically, he would be six foot, all muscle.

By the time I realize I wasn't paying attention to anything he was saying, I decide that none of this was worth having walked all the way over here anyway. "Can I have my earbuds back?" I ask politely, pointing to them, which Leo is swinging around like a madman.

"Oh, sure," Leo mumbles and tosses them to me.

I catch them and it takes everyone a minute to process what just happened. It was so casual, not something a god of the eastern hoodlums should have with someone like me.

Leo freezes and I worry he might stay that way forever. But I take this opportunity to rush back the way I came without anyone noticing. Before I know it, I'm sprinting like a fucking Olympic athlete on steroids.

The sun us going down and I can see the ripples of tiny rain droplet in the puddles as I splash through them. I yank my hood over my head and pull my fits into my sleeves.

What was wrong with me anyways? Why did I think I could just waltz up the joint and walk in like nothing happened? I haven't even been to the west side of town in like two years; and I never planned on returning, so what made me decide to go today?

My mind drifts back to the last time I saw Leo, two years ago, and the last thing he ever said to me . . .

I push away those thoughtsand listen to Where's the Revolutionas I run back to my foster home, tears burning in my eyes, my scars starting toitch.