Lovers: Boarding School

_hurt

Reason why I haven't updated quickly (I've been making so many excuses recently FUCK): THERE'S A FUCK TON OF STUFF GOING ON IN THIS 6000+ WORD CHAPTER SO I WON'T MAKE YOU WAIT ANY LONGER SO GO RIGHT AHEAD.

WARNING: THIS CHAPTER IS NOT EDITED. I REPEAT NOT EDITED, SO FORGIVE ME IF THIS UPDATE WAS MESSIER THAN MY OTHER CHAPTERS Q7<

ENJOY!!!

A boy who loves pain.

A teacher who speaks in verse.

A step-brother as cold as the tundra.

A psychic who knows the "name" behind the "puppet" named "Violet Leigh".

Questions like phantoms have been spilling into her waking world, her dreaming state, her everyday. They would pile up on top of each other, layer after layer after layer after layer, until she found herself boxed inside her own head, buried under six thousand feet of unresolved mysteries. Unresolved secrets.

Unresolved truths. 

But the one question that had always remained, the one question that would look her in the eye every time she rose to face herself in front of her moldy, unkempt bathroom mirror at 3 in the fucking morning was:

Why was Violet staring at the decaying art room's door in the abandoned arts ward of Amante Mortem?

Why, with her hands pulsing from a night of "getting off" jugulars, was she standing in front of the door in a world--in a game--that has dragged her through mud, through fire, through rose spikes and has left her bleeding, sore, beaten--and wanting more?

Why did she continue doing this to herself when Violet knew it will end with her having wounds dressed in honey and scars trimmed with flowers?

Why did she click continue when she knew, like a psychic with a spread of painted cards sired in silver and gold, she will without any doubt get hurt?

After you get used to it for a while, the pain starts to feel good.

Violet stared at her feet adorned with the heels Jack said were his favourite.  Strappy patent black leather red bottoms. Three inch heel. Closed toe.

They suited the rebellious seductive school girl aesthetic the same way a heightened skirt and four buttons off the top of a blouse did to the allure of a young girl on the cusp of realizing she was capable of ripping out the hearts of boys with feathery whispers, stolen glances, and spread open legs.

But Violet didn't think of how heels increased her already latent sexual appeal. All she could think of as she stared at her reflection in their patent leather surface was how Jack could afford these shoes when his place in this school depended heavily on his "humble" extra ordinariness.

Violet glanced nervously at the rusted knob of the door.

Relief didn't come to Violet so much as it dropped in, waved at her, and left her at the front door of a hideaway she once thought of as a home. A sanctuary.

She was glad that her return to Lovers: Boarding School was not greeted by a jock collared with bruises around his neck and violent delight burning in his eyes.  After having been plundered raw by his carnal need for affirmation, Violet agonized at the thought of having to "wake up" in bed to an awkward, stilted confrontation or a continuation of the wild, crazy night that fucked her brains out in more ways than one.

At the same time, Violet didn't want to be in his domain. She didn't want to tempt chance and cross paths with the devil slicked in silver on his tongue and eyes. She didn't want another tumble through the rose bushes and having her still healing scars wrenched open, even if he did cross her thoughts more often than she would like.