The Plague Aunt & the Prodigal
by @SirenCymbaline and @Featherstone
by @SirenCymbaline and @Featherstone
Ravenwood Academy: a name that sounded as though it were out of some long-lost fiction on the back shelf, with yellowed pages and a rumpled paper cover, inked words blurred and the scent of it reminiscent of some library that had since been left to fade into disrepair. Tucked away in the forest of the United States' northeast where the owls raised young in old ravens' nests and the blue jays skittered about the duff. Where, for a short while, he'd made his home.
Dusk had been quick to encroach upon the place. The deep calls of the great-horns echoed through the trees, punctuating the twilight's descent. Grey cast itself over the place, the blanket of a muted betwixt. The only truly vibrant color was the titian tip of the cigarette that Cornyx held between his fingers, illuminating the sharp angles of his aquiline countenance, reflecting in those dark and owlish eyes. Gazing towards the building. Unless the schedule had changed since he'd last been here--which it very well could've, with the twenty years that had passed--the children would be on their break and it would've been largely abandoned but for what few teachers opted to stay.
It was unlikely he'd be noticed unless he chose to enter, which was an option he entertained for scarce few moments before dismissing it entirely. Aunt Enid was the only person he thought he'd care to see again but the fond remembrance was tainted by the recognition of how things had changed. He would've much preferred that she remembered him as the boy who'd left Batman comics hidden in her office and left her with a badly-drawn-but-well-meant strip rather than recognizing him as what he'd become since those years. Besides, to him, she was one of the few teachers who saw him; to her, he was one of hundreds students over decades of teaching. She had no reason to hold the same value towards him as he did her.
The smoke seared through his lungs, burning down his throat, the taste of nicotine bittersweet on his tongue. His salvation as much as it was his condemnation. He sighed, the plumes of it billowing out of his nostrils, resting his shoulders back against an evergreen tree. Twenty years ago, he'd been the quiet boy with a stutter, the one in the back of the classroom who rarely paid attention yet read the textbooks in his free time. Who rarely kept up with what was happening but would argue literary analysis at lunchtime after ditching class or pretending he was injured to escape to the nurse's office instead. Where it was quiet, and where he could watch birds out the window. Where he'd deliberately failed classes to try to get them to keep him over vacation, a ploy that never worked, and where, eventually, he'd gotten himself expelled for his flunking grades and blatant disrespect of rules and habits of substance abuse and taking books without permission so he could re-read them when he couldn't be there. The last straw had been a fight, though not one he'd volunteered for or tried to get into, and then it was back to home sweet home.
He'd smoked then, too, although he'd been subtler about it. How many days had he crept into her office midway through first period, the noise of the teacher thrumming against his headache, because he'd managed to get ahold of some alcohol here or there and been an idiot the night before? It was harder to get into trouble at a boarding school in the middle of the forest but he'd managed it. He always did. Even when, for once, he probably could've succeeded.
He drew the last of the smoke in through clenched teeth, then tossed the butt onto the ground, crushing it underneath his heel and letting the ice creep out to ensure nothing caught. He would've left, but he didn't. Where was he going to go? The podunk town a few miles out to some dingy motel with cockroaches? Worse, actual home? He was an impure and dethroned despot in Hell, a beast and traitor in Heaven, a criminal and addict at home. Here, at least, he was just a stupid kid and not a monster.
Cornyx gazed upon the building for a few moments longer, then reached into his pocket and fished around for the cigarette pack. Although he'd grown taller over the years, of course, but in spite of his maturity, he didn't look all that much different. His hair was longer, pulled back into a ponytail, and he was now nearing six and a half feet with no sign of stopping his growth any time soon. A few strands of white had crept into the black and his eyes were tinted slightly blue. The edges of rose petals inked on the side of his hand were visible just jutting out of his sleeve. He was less afraid, now, or came across as it, but tonight there was a melancholy about him that he'd almost forgotten. He'd sacrificed everything for avarice, in the name of instinct and fear and the illusion of fulfillment, and now that had been taken from him. Now, he was nothing more than he'd been the day he'd come here. Lost. Alone. The weight of his sins heavy on his shoulders.
He set the fresh cigarette between his lips, bringing the flame of his lighter to life beneath his fingers. One more. Then he'd go.
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