#darestarter

He just felt-- different. It was like when the books on a shelf don’t perfectly line up, or when you try and draw two identical lines and one is clearly different than the other. Something just felt-- off. He caught his reflection in a mirror. Had his face always been so sharply defined? He could’ve sworn his eyes were brown, but the eyes blinking back at him had specks of green hidden inside. They were hazel. 

She woke up with a start, her head reeling from sleeping on what looked to be a common room dining table. She couldn’t recall drinking anything that evening and was suspicious as to how she could possibly have a hangover. As she lay there, she didn’t quite understand what she was looking at. It all looked vaguely familiar, but not first hand. It looked like the old pictures of Whittemore that hung in the hallways before the fire. There were more shown in Charles office, but she imagined fewer people had seen those.

In the cold hours of the morning when the sun has not been awoken yet and the clouds burry the last traces of the stars, leaving nothing in the air, Loretta slips away, alone, out to the lake or under the large tree in front of Kenilworth. If one found her she would tell them stories in quiet about angels and meadows and Athena, her words borrowed from bedtime stories mothers would tell their children - only her mother had never told her one.

with the new year bethany had taken a break from her self given work, taking shots rather than thoughts of shooting her brother up with possible injections. she was a stubborn, ambitious woman who never gave up when she put her mind on something, and this well deserved break was rare for her. she didn’t know how much longer she’d allow this break to go, but with the growing bags under her eyes and she felt like frankenstein as he created his monster. she would let herself indulge these few days, then she would go back to her work. “so what crazy new years eve stories do you have? if you don’t have any, i’ll be disappointed.”

Dark brows almost endlessly furrowed as if she were always contemplating something in life, which she may have been, Carrie Sinclair observed two scarves her mother had sent her as if it were an important manner. “What do you think?” She questioned, her eyes darting from the deep blue to the gray. “I think I’m feeling the gray one today, hm?”

     Charles was known for many things but one of them was not keeping his scepticism about his fellow student body (and sometimes even teachers) to himself. He dreaded the thought that one day this school would partly belong to him more than anything as it seemed like more hassle than it was worth to be stuck here dealing with the endless drama of teenagers. Even when Charles was a preteen he felt like he was about a thousand years older than that -- one day he might learn the real meaning of those words. 

The new year was finally upon them, yet Alex felt no different. He was still the same try-hard guy, wishing the 80s had never gone away. None of that mattered to him, though. He was going to be the guy he had always planned to be: the hero. Fun, popular, good. It was a fresh year with a world of new possibilities afoot. That was what excited Alexander King and made him jump up from his seat and blast the music. “It’s 1992, dude! Get off your butt and dance with me!”

He had woken up in the library. Books lined the walls and the slow but steady bustle of students coming in for recess had begun. It all looked similar, even felt it, but, everything had changed. To any onlooker it would appear he fell asleep while studying. His books lay across the table and yet SJ wasn’t familiar with any of them. A library card was set among the notes that had been scrawled ever-so neatly across his papers. “Marcel Ross,” he said, letting the name roll of his tongue as he inspected it closer. If it hadn’t been for the picture, perhaps SJ would have noted the year, but that shock would come at a later time.