a little bit of spilled ink

"Please be seated. We will be handing out the question papers in ten minutes," the voice of the Head Examiner boomed across the hall of chatting students who seemed to take the most time they could to turn to their seats.

For Rachel Mellark, the announcement was simply a stimulant for her already overflowing nervousness. She sat there, in her uniform, a long blue skirt and a white collared shirt with a blue coat, long socks up to her thighs and laced leather shoes, with her spine straight and rigid, one leg over the other as she played with her thumbs in her lap while her eyes darted along the hall that, at the moment, housed approximately 100 students for their AS Level CIE.

The subject was Mathematics, the bane of her very existence and as much as she wanted for this to be over with, part of her wished the paper would never make it to her desk. She rubbed her arms. 'Is it just me or did it just get colder?' she wondered. Then her pale blue eyes found another set of eyes, dark brown, looking back at her. Alexander Mason, one of the best mathematicians their year had to offer. He had helped her prepare for the exam for the last two weeks, spending half of almost every night in her dormitory. Study was not the only thing they had been up to either. Heat rushed to her cheeks at the thought as she brushed off a lock of blonde hair from her eyes and looked away.

The bell rang and the papers were passed out to the students. Her paper arrived to her desk, and she dedicated herself to it for the next hour and a half.

She stepped out of the hall onto the pavement and breathed in deep the fresh air, tasted the promise of the following months of ease. She felt herself going through the motions of her worryless routine to come, played it all in her mind, and then felt her arm being gripped, strong but gentle. She whirled around and her shout caught in her throat as she registered the black hair and dark brown eyes of Alexander Mason.

A thousand things came to her mind at seeing the look in his eyes but what came out of her lips was a startled, "Mason."

"I told you, it's Alex," he replied.

"Oh yeah - you did," she jumped from one thing to say to the other, trying to find the right combination of words to speak as though she was cracking open a safe, "So, you looking for something?"

'Damned fool,' her thoughts screamed at her, ''Looking for something,' are you kidding me?'

She was thinking of taking it back and changing the subject when he casually spoke, "Well, I wanted to have this sorted out as soon as possible and since our exams have ended, I thought now would be the best time to ask." He took in a deep breath before the words that followed, as if bracing himself for the possibilities of her reaction. Actually, it was exactly what he was doing. He spoke, "I wanted to ask... uh... well I don't really know how to ask this but... I guess what I mean to ask is... what are we?"

She was startled by the question, but knew immediately that he was thinking of those weeks in her dormitory, the words that had been exchanged between them, the personification of teenage foolishness. He wanted an answer, and she tried desperately to find one but came up empty handed. She forced herself to look into his eyes, and tried thinking of something to say but her thoughts only strolled back to a novel she had read recently in which the main character found herself in a similar situation.

The silence between them felt eternal and crowds of students streamed past, awkward glances being occasionally thrown their way. She felt her tension rising, her heart racing and an idea came to mind. It was childish, but had worked in that novel she read so she forced herself to break the silence, "I'll need some time to think about it," she said, "But I have an idea."

Alex's brows rose at that. "Three days from now, we both meet in front of our school's gates and exchange letters bearing our answers," she continued, "So, how about it? We'll meet at sunset."

A smile curled his lips and he simply nodded, then loosened the grip on her arm, which she had forgotten was even there. He then walked away and did not give her a second glance as he crossed the school courtyard and walked out of the gate, out of her sight.

She went home that day, exhausted beyond comprehension both physically and mentally. First it had been the stress of the examinations and now this. She just wanted to get it over with, but she was afraid of what to say. He had agreed to the foolish idea and she had managed to delay the storm, managed to prolong the calm, but what now?

'Three days from now...' she thought.

She grabbed an A4 size sheet, a plain white envelope, a black fountain pen and put her mind to work. She was going to search her heart for an answer and give it to him on the basis of one rule: no regrets.

Meanwhile, Alex sat at his desk in his bedroom and pondered over his own piece of paper, hands in his lap, slumped in his chair. He chewed on the back of his ballpoint, tasted the bitter plastic, and thought. He knew he wanted her, but how to say it was the problem at hand. Slowly, he began printing it onto the paper in handwritten ink, letter by letter.

It took all of three days for Rachel to sort through her thoughts, her heart, to find an answer, to find what she was looking for, what she wanted, what carried minimal regrets. She had just figured it out and was wondering how to put it into words that afternoon. Time was running short, and she felt every tick of the clock as sunset approached.

She forced herself to think, her mind screaming at her, "Think, God damn it." She lost herself in her thoughts.

The next thing she knew she was standing before Alex, the sealed envelope clutched tightly in her left hand, both of them dressed in casual shirts and trousers with jackets. She had come here in a haze, lost in anxiety. She was worried, worried as all hell. He, on the other hand, had come here clear headed, ever step reverberating through his whole body.

Then they both handed them to each other and opened the letters. Each second felt like an eternity. They both read their letters and walked away in opposite directions. Tears filled her eyes as she set on her journey back home by foot. What she had written on that letter rang through her head.

"Dear Alex... we are nothing."

She continued on, wiped the tears from her eyes and did not look back. "No regrets," she muttered to herself, as she let Alex's crumpled letter fall to the ground... "I want you to be my future, and I want myself to be yours."

The chill of the metallic, gold knob reached down to my bones as it fit within my gentle, callused finger. I twisted the knob, pulling the dark oak door open with a soft creak as the gentle breeze wrapped itself around me and revealed a soft atmosphere with an even softer smile waiting for me.

Her silver hair gleamed in the gold sunset, the slightly tall grass covering her white sneakers up to her ankles covered in blue jeans. My eyes trailed up as I took in the soft, comfy, red jersey up to that ravishing face and her smile… oh that smile… it makes me feel like my heart is going to burst out of my chest if I look too long. And the eyes… those light blue eyes containing all the magnificence of the sky above as if by a miracle. Aelin.

Here she was, merely a year into adulthood yet so breathtaking, my lover, beckoning me to take the step outside onto the unnamed grassy hill, my favourite place where I would spend nights looking at the star-glittered blanket above, pondering over questions few ask.

I took her outstretched hand, my callused fingers, from all the time spent in service, found hers: hardened, but polite and so very gentle. She pulled me onto the grass, and I shut the door behind me with a click as the soles of my joggers found the soft earth, the grass tickling my ankles. We walked until a slight slope where we laid down together and looked at the clouds above, fuzzy and floating like the most carefree beings to exist, the grass like a soft blanket beneath me, reaching up my combat trousers and black T-shirt.

I breathed in the fresh air, the scent of sweet apples and emerald trees and beautiful tulips and delicious honey and… it was magnificent. I felt free, so free, here, drenched by the soft sunset aura; here, with the love of my life by my side.

I felt strong here, felt relaxed and so weightless… this exhilarating feeling, I remember, is why I come here, why this place, this earth beneath my frame, is my haven, and why she is the cornerstone of this haven.

I turned my head to the left, my hands resting on my chest and found her staring from between the grass, so I raised my eyebrows, and she laughed so softly it was the loveliest thing, sound, melody I have every heard in my life. She met my eyes again and I realized that this time I was staring. I let out a low chuckle and she smirked. Something in me stiffened at that.

We looked back up at the sky, the roof now turning dark, the stars becoming prominent, and I thought to myself that this was one of the most wonderful moments of my life, so I saved it in my heart, to treasure it for times to come, and keep looking up and up and up.

I felt the warmth of the doorknob in my palm as I twisted the sphere and swung open the door enough to get in without letting much of the warmth out. The heat was welcome compared to the blistering cold in the corridors of the house. My nearly frostbitten, bare feet stumbled off the dark oak floor and onto the plush carpeting covering the expanse of my room.

I shut the door behind me and stood there for a few seconds, taking a deep breath, the faint smell of burning logs filling my lungs, and allowing the warmth from the fire in the hearth to curl around me like the fuzzy dark blanket sprawled and distorted on my bed, the red sheets still marking where I laid a couple minutes ago, my novel open and upside-down on the bedside table between the two oak-wood single-beds, one mine and the other my brother’s.

My brother’s bed was painted a dark shade of brown, with gold-painted floral patterns carved into the wood. We both had the same patterns on our beds, but where his was normal oak, mine was dark oak; his sheets and pillows were a soft shade of red, mine were crimson; his blanket was covered with bright floral patterns, mine was plain, and a brown so dark it was barely distinguishable from black.

I detested the floral patterns carved into my bed, but in a couple months the beds would change, having lasted us three years already. I owe that change to my brother who played so aggressively on his bed that it now lays below our standards, and it was made of some really sturdy wood.

My brother was not in his bed tonight, the eight-year-old was snoozing soundly with my parents in their bed, cradled between the two.

I made my way around his bed over to my book through the dimly lit room, my feet sinking into the maroon carpet, examining the room as I went, the bright wood walls, the four metres on the left of my bed covered with bookshelves seven feet high. The wall in front of my bed was just closets built into the wall, blending in seamlessly except for the silver, metal handles.

The room lacked pictures, once again because of me, and it lacked a bathroom, that was not my fault, but part of the architecture. It was right outside my room, a door in the wall. I passed by the hearth, the logs cracking, a sound I found comforting. The cobblestone amongst the wood walls seeming odd but nonetheless remarkable. It had a very low railing, bright gold in the light of the fire. I moved past.

My gaze found the study tables, one for my brother, one for me. Modest tables, the flat top light brown and polished, while the rest was painted a dark shade of brown. It had no carvings nor designs. Two drawers rested in the table, one significantly wider than the other, the remaining bottom empty but walled on all three sides leaving the front. Our chairs were also identical, like the ones found in a computer lab, I always struggled with describing them.

The desks were set up parallel to the wall adjacent to the bookshelves, my brother’s next to mine, both desks currently bare.

As my hand now reached for the book, I looked up into the mirror hung flat against the wall, its base touching the table as though it was propped up on it. It was intricately made, with a wide top, narrowing as you went lower. The mirror, too, had no carvings nor designs.

I looked at the clear glass framed by the dark wood, and the boy stared back at me. He had dark, rough hair, and sunken eyes, once a bright, blue ocean. There was a light stubble on his chin, and his lips were completely dry. Light acne dotted both of his cheeks.

‘Teenage,’ I shrugged, and grabbed the book as I collapsed onto my brother’s bed, picking up where I had left off from between the around 500 pages. It was one of the novels I do not speak about, as I tucked my, now much warmer, feet into my brother’s blanket. They were aching from that bare foot expedition to the kitchen for a glass of water in the cruel rule of winter, but the ache was wearing off.

As I read on, I made a mental note of wearing my slippers the next time I felt like braving the cold.

The twinkling sound of the ice-cream truck flooded my delicate brain, damaged from all the past incidents and soon to die from the ones about to come.

The two-story, oak-wood mansion with luscious, green grass on all sides, always well-kept, would seem like a dream house to many, but for me… this place was nothing less than hell on earth.

My uncle, with whom I have lived for a year now, is the cruellest man I know; his name alone sends a chill down my spine: Alexander White. My aunt… is the coldest woman I know: Margaret White.

My ears are ringing.

They took me in the day I lost my wonderful parents, pouncing at the opportunity to make our fortunes their own. I was used as their stress-relief toy, a subject to their endless torture.

The ringing is growing louder.

A couple in their forties torturing a young girl of mere fifteen… what a horrid imagination, but here it is reality.

The twinkling of the ice-cream truck reached me through the ringing in my ears, a bringer of bitter-sweet memories. Everytime I heard the ice-cream truck it reminded me of home. Memories came flooding back to me in waves, and I surfed along.

“Nicole, hurry up and choose already.”

The words belonged to a petite figure, golden hair flowing down her shoulders like a river of molten gold, her bright blue eyes seemingly summing up the entire ocean in centimetres. My mother.

She was speaking to a young, slender, dark-haired 14-year-old, brown eyes scanning the menu having difficulty choosing. Me.

Both of us stood next to each other, 5-and-a-half feet tall. A 5’10” figure stood behind us: handsome, dark-eyed, with jet-black hair. My father.

Both my parents were enjoying the last of their 30s.

“This one!” I exclaimed, pointing to the picture of a smooth, chocolate Magnum. The main in his signature uniform took it out and gave it to me.

“Honey, I forgot my purse inside. Be a darling and bring it for me. Oh, don’t run like that! Careful!”, she said after me as I left the shade of the umbrella attached to the truck, and bolted across the tarmac, through the garden, and into the living room where I had last seen it.

I found it on the couch, and hurried back, but upon reaching the doorway I was knocked back off my feet into our humble home, my ears shocked. The heat from the blast burnt my skin, and I sat there on the floor, paralyzed by what had just taken place before my very eyes, leaving a forever scar.

The ice-cream truck had exploded, taking my parents with it. Smoke filled my nostrils, tears filled my eyes, a scream lodged in my throat as my ears rang and rang and rang and-

“Nicole! Get down here this instant!”

The cold shrill of my aunt’s shouting brought me back to the present, and I wiped my tears and headed downstairs, the ringing still persistent, thinking about when I would finally break, or if I am already broken.

Loosely holding onto each other, we dragged our feet along the rugged, dirt road. Flames raged behind. The house bowed to the flames; our parents lost inside. How much worse could I make his life? Wearing us down, the sun blazed directly overhead as tears flowed from my brother’s eyes, and we both fought the urge to look back. We continued our walk, wearing our partially burnt clothes, through the delocalized piece of hell we knew as our world.

Gunshot. Red smeared across my brother’s back and I stared in disbelief, all my words lodged in my throat with the surge of emotions threatening to undo everything. His tired, tainted, toneless body collapsed to the ground… right before my eyes… his brother’s eyes. I turned around towards the man responsible, and every foul word in the world could not describe what I felt towards him, our thought-to-be-lost father.