start a fire, watch it burn

gasoline

Claire pretends everything is normal; so long as her eyes remain close and her ears remain deaf, everything is perfectly normal.

But—

Bloodied hands. Golden eyes. An unconscious student. A smile that sends shivers down her spine.

John is a sledgehammer to her glass castle, and in that moment under the sun setting behind the sandy dunes, the warm breeze of summer nips at the goosebumps on her skin, she can see the cracks. Her kingdom is breaking.

Claire pretends everything is normal, but the more she turns a blind eye and let the whispers fall on deaf ear, the harder it is to ignore the truth: John is unstable and it is showing.

The glass castle is breaking and John is falling into pieces, drunk on power and anger and hate. He will lead this school to hell.

Claire's eyes are wide open and she listens.

××

You are an unknown variable thrown in the midst of her conundrum. Fear rises, she wonders how you wear your mask so well.

××

"You should be careful, John gets angry easily. You might get hurt." Your smile drops, a pout on your lips as throw your arms over her shoulder, chin resting on top of your right arm and just tilted to the right angle where your hair falls over your face and cast shadows over your eyes.

"I think I'll be fine! Besides, you shouldn't say mean things like that, John wouldn't hurt us, we're his friends after all." Your words are soft and gentle, your smile saccharine sweet, but your eyes are ominous and vibrant underneath the shadows. Claire swallows her fear, nodding her head.

"Right, of course he wouldn't."

You pretend you do not notice the stiffness in her posture and the false cheer lacing her tone, instead you stow the observation for later. Something is brewing in New Bostin.  Someone is pulling the strings and it is not you; but that's alright, why play with puppets when you can start and fire and watch it burn. You pull away from Claire, walking ahead of her.

"Let's go, I'm sure John's waiting for us."

××

It felt like drowning.

John suffocates on the pressure pushing down on him, sending him spiralling deeper into the abyss. They pull him apart till there is nothing left but anger and hate.

Monster. Monster. Monster. They whisper, they point, they judge—John sees red and he swings his fists, feeling the crunch of bone against bone, knuckles smeared in blood. It is not enough. His rage does not quell and he swings his fist down again and again, vision narrowing down in that single moment with such precise focus and clarity that it's almost staggering.

He does not apologize as he stands and leaves the student a bloody mess on the floor. One glare and the students scramble away, fear gripping them like claws sinking into their skin, razor sharp and deadly.

Too absorbed in his own thoughts, he doesn't notice you watching, eyes glimmering.

××

"So why did you have to run off yesterday?" John asks as you walk side by side, fingers nearly brushing with the little distance between you both.

"My uncle wanted me to do some cleaning, apparently we have a relative coming by." You reply, the image of the bloody corpse, empty eye sockets clear in your mind's eye.

"Sounds like a bummer."

"It was."

Side by side, fingers nearly brushing, an idea comes to mind. You grab his hand, pulling him with you as you break into a run. John stumbles at first and you laugh, glancing at him only for a moment as you push on, fingers intertwined.

"Let's go get some Boba, I promise you, it will change your life." You say, smiling at John as you turn to briefly look at him over your shoulder.

"I'm sure it will." Was his sarcastic response, but the smile on his lips is undeniable. He follows you, holding on just a little tighter.

From there, going to Woaba Boba has become a weekly ritual.

××

"How's your progress with that boy?" Nathaniel asks, raking his fingers through your hair.

"Much faster than I expected. However, I'm not sure if we can recruit him right now." You reply, closing your eyes as you lean into his touch, better to be compliant than defiant, a lesson taught to you in the most brutal fashion. Sometimes you feel as if your ribs still creak at the slightest of movements, and your fingers broken, the phantom pain occasionally creeping on you in times you least expect it to.

"He needs to be further broken down?" He asks, thumb tracing the soft lines of your jaw. You nod.

"I see, well, do whatever you need to. He'll be useful."

You stay with him that night, cradled like a porcelain doll in his arms. It reminds you where you stand, although he favours you and treats you like his surrogate daughter, you are nothing but a pawn in this drawn out game of chess.