The Elites

11 | phasma

Chapter XI: Phasma

Why is Elijah quiet all the time? Whenever I'd come to the table, he would immediately stop speaking and study me carefully, as if I was this difficult equation. He never once said a word to me since sitting with the Elites, I don't think I've ever heard him speak a full sentence when I was around. You also never spoke much about him; I don't understand why.

Winter Formal is coming around. I know you don't like to talk about it. It's interesting seeing how the pupils in Harrington prepare for the function, you never talked much about it. Don't worry, I don't intend on going. I don't know how long I can be around them, Scar. It's exhausting, I'm not as strong as you.

Sent by Candace at 8:00 A.M.

***

MY MOTHER WOULD tell me about the monsters that would hide in the dark. She would tell me to be careful, to trust no–one and that even those dear to you could betray your trust. People were selfish and evil, they lusted after supremacy. It was addictive, like a drug: the more that got within your system, the more you craved the twisted high.

Humanity was questionable. And Elijah was a clear example of that.

Harris didn't speak, his head down casted and shoulder slumping as if they held a vast amount of weight. It was most likely the guilt. No matter what he was told, he was always going to blame himself for the cause of Florence's situation. I understood that feeling, I felt it almost every day since Scarlett. We sat quietly around an empty table, far from the view of any curious onlookers, basking in the melancholy silence, my words stuck in my throat, my tongue felt restricted as if it was being held down and fatigue overwhelmed me.

It was burdensome to speak; I was in a loss of words because I didn't know what to say. My heart cried for Florence, she was too young to be forced to grow up quickly, she didn't deserve this. I sighed, running my hand over my face.

"Is she okay?" I winced once those words tumbled out of my mouth. Of course, she wasn't okay. What a stupid question to ask.

Inhaling sharply, he shrugged. "Some days, I see her smiling like her old self, but I know she cries herself to sleep. It's been a year and I know she still hasn't moved past it. I mean, how could she?"

"Does she still attend Harrington?"

He shook his head. "My parents pulled her out, they were adamant at first to keep her home-schooled, but I knew that would only make things worse. Florence was actually the one to suggest moving to Canada were our relatives lived. She's been there since."

"I'm sorry, Harris. She didn't deserve that, no one does," I mumbled, his eyes flickered over to me. "Did you tell someone?"

Instead of answering, Harris asked me, "Who is he, Candace?"

I frowned in confusion. "Elijah Astor."

"Exactly. Elijah Astor, the only son of Mr Astor, one of New York's top lawyers. A merciless man, a man that could even find a victim guilty. And Elijah was his son," Harris chuckled cynically, an underlying tone of pain lingering, mirroring how he was feeling within. "You don't think we tried to tell the police, to report it? Mr Astor couldn't have anyone ruin his or his son's reputation. Imagine that, a man fighting for justice has a son who sexually assaulted young girls. He'd be a joke."

I sucked in a sharp breath of air. Something Harris said caught my attention. Girls. Which meant Florence wasn't the only victim to Elijah's actions, that there were other girls who faced the same situation, who were also stripped away their right to say 'no'.