Blargh, fanfiction deleted this story due to my summary containing profanity. So I have changed the summary and have finally re-uploaded it. I'm not dead, I promise!
Tabulated
Monday, March 17, 2012.
Memo: Meet Roxas for lunch Wed.
Memo: Dorm Room number: 539
To Do List (In order of importance.)
1. Go over Calculus equations, Thursday.
2. Learn acrylics for canvas, Monday.
3. Definitions test in English, Sunday.
4. Work on canvas in dorm, store in locker.
5. Finish History paper, end of month.
Sweat settles into the creases of my hand. I shift the shading stick between my fingers to assuage the ache.
Even if my hand falls off, I have to finish this.
"Namine, how is your progress going today, dear?" A bit of purple from Professor Kaburagi's knit blouse skirts the right side of my canvas.
Blonde hair falls in my face. "I'm a little bit behind, but I should catch up if I finish the line work."
"Namine," Angling my canvas toward her, Prof. Kaburagi sighs loudly, "you only have until next Monday to complete this assignment. You're more than a little behind. It's absurd."
The class quiets to a murmur. Embarrassing.
"I'm sorry…" I feel my face flush, "I'll finish up with the line work today."
"Quicken your pace, dear." She looks down at me, smiling wide. "I'd hate to fail you."
I try to ignore the throbbing in my fingers.
"I will, sorry."
The heaviness of her hand finally lifts from my shoulder as she turns away.
Thankfully, all the eyes follow suit.
"Axel, have you even started on your project, yet? Why don't you follow instructions?!"
Startled by the sudden volume, I look up.
Psh, Axel.
The professors here are required to call him that. But nobody else does. They call him "The Asshole".
He lives up to it.
Just last week I heard he hung a random guy from the top of the flagpole by his underwear. It took me the whole two-and-a-half hours of Math to figure out why there was screaming outside the window.
"And why don't you …" The Asshole's voice strains as he stretches back his arms, "…go back to nagging your star pupils?"
His eyes somehow meet mine.
My spine tingles. I quickly turn away.
"Extra class!" The professor sputters, "I demand that you stay after class every day until the due date of this project if you want me to pass you! Honestly, you need to blahblahblah-"
My hearing grows muffled. Thoughts swirling.
Was that poor timing or did he mean to look at me?
Barely able to contain myself, I steal another glance.
"-blahblahblah, is that clear, Axel?"
He's already turned from my direction. "As clear as mud."
Seemingly satisfied with his barely-there compliance, the high pitch of Professor Kaburagi's exuberant voice returns. She goes back to checking on the other students.
"…Star pupils."
A sick feeling envelopes my stomach.
I must be paranoid.
Tuesday, March 18, 2012.
Memo: Don't forget canvas from locker!
Memo: Lunch with Roxas, Wed.
To Do List(In order of importance.)
1. Go over Calculus equations, Thursday.
2. Complete art project, Monday.
3. English definitions test, Sunday.
4. Work on canvas and acrylics in dorm, store in locker.
5. Science test, next Tuesday.
6. Finish History paper, end of the month.
Click.
I grip the azure strap of my shoulder bag, watching intensely from around the corner as the orange glow slowly fades in and out.
In and out. Out and in.
Like a disturbing rhythm.
Click.
Like a lighter.
That's all I can see through the crook of his elbow- no cigarette.
But what's the point of that?
Click.
A wannabe bad boy? A paraphiliac?
I suppose it doesn't matter.
Either way, it looks like he'd have no qualms with setting the whole building on fire.
Click.
Slowly, with fear rising up in my chest, I approach the Asshole's turned back.
I don't want to get burned.
"Um..." I tremble.
The clicking ceases.
Taking a deep, shaky breath, I force some words out.
"W-would you please…"
His red, spiky hair tilts slightly. I see a green iris cut towards me in annoyance.
A lump rises in my throat.
"Y-you're…in front of my..."
The Asshole glances at my locker, partially covered by his tall, languid body. But he doesn't answer. Just starts flicking his lighter again.
Click.
Clutching my shoulder strap just a little bit tighter, I watch the flames' constant re-birth from the silver metal. A beautiful, unspoken threat…
He's showing it to me on purpose.
Click.
"You want me to move." His voice comes out deep, breathy.
Not a question.
Click.
I don't look up.
"W-well, I need to get something."
Suddenly facing me, he slams his hand against my locker. The abrupt clang of hand meeting metal makes me flinch.
"Something like what?" He challenges.
Mocks.
"An art p-project?"
"And?"
What's he trying to get at?
"And…I need to turn it in or it'll be late and I'll get..."
I trail off, feeling dumb.
He chuckles. "There's no point."
What an ass. There's a point for people who want to pass.
"What's with that look, Goldilocks?" He arches an eyebrow, looking down at me.
"Wha…?" I start, then freeze.
I've been staring at him. No, not staring-
Glaring.
"Go ahead." He taps the lighter leisurely against the metal of my locker. "I'm used to looks like that."
The color drains from my face. Glaring is what got the last victim hanging from a flag pole.
Click.
I feel my feet moving backward. The Asshole follows my movement, eyes narrowing with what looks to be amusement.
He knows I want to run. He can tell.
I increase my speed, waiting for him to stop me.
But he doesn't. Just leans there, clicking away.
Sweat drips down my temple. I feel myself stumbling around the corner.
Click.
Go faster.
Hair starts to whip my cheeks, my body practically going airborne down the hallway.
I don't stop, though. Just keep running.
And it isn't until the clicking fades that I finally force myself to a halt.
"There's no point…" I echo, jotting it down on the page. I stare down at the words, like I'm trying to intimidate them into leaving my brain.
Click.
Gasping, I whirl around, my desk chair almost spinning off its wheels.
Just my bed, a full laundry basket, and crumpled papers surrounding my desk. And my nightstand which has…
…a ticking clock.
I slap myself in the head.
What am I, nuts?
Letting out a sigh of frustration, I push away from my desk and pull up the blinds, letting the morning sunshine peek through the rectangular slits.
I really need to get a grip. Why would he be in my dorm room?
After brushing my teeth and pulling on my favorite pale yellow dress, I comb through my relatively straight hair with my fingers as I flip through my diary to the Planner section.
Wednesday, March 19, 2012.
Memo: No Classes Being Held.
Memo 2: Meet Roxas for lunch.
To Do List(In order of importance.)
1. Re-do art canvas.
2. Learn techniques for painting with acrylic.
3. Complete art project, Monday.
4. Dinner w/ Yuffie and Selphie, Friday.
5. Go over Calculus equations, Thursday.
6. English definitions test, Sunday.
Art room it is, then.
Grabbing my bag and stepping into some flip flops, I lock the door and wave to a nice girl named Xion as I pass through the lobby.
Closing my eyes, I enjoy the soothing silence of the empty room.
No teacher to harass me.
Inhale.
I scoop my brush into a light shade of red and fill in a rose.
No clicking, either.
Exhale.
The color begins to streak halfway through. I re-dip the brush.
"What's this, hm?" A masculine voice muses.
My heart skips a beat, but I keep my brush poised above the paper.
Why didn't I hear the door open?
Breathy laughter. "Did I surprise you?"
I don't answer. Don't even have to turn around to figure out who the owner of the voice is.
"What brings you here after classes?"
To get away from people like you.
"Just working on the project?"
Just ignore him, Namine.
Slowly, I mix some red with white on my palette.
"Damn, you sure are sociable."
A frustrated sigh escapes my lips. I dip into a green shade.
Feet shuffle. "Is your voice box broken?"
Let him think me deaf.
"What have we here?"
A breeze suddenly snakes around my face. Shivering, my eye move to the side.
The Asshole is leaning over my shoulder, one hand on the table and the other on the back of my chair.
"You drew this?"
My face warms up. Without really thinking, I nod.
"It's not too bad."
Red mixes into yellow.
"What's your name?"
My mouth opens. But I catch myself.
"I'm Axel." He offers.
I glance sheepishly at him.
The corner of his mouth raises slyly. "Oh, so you can see me."
Hinges squeak. I look up just in time to see Professor Kaburagi entering the classroom. She sets her binder on the desk, then takes notice of us.
"Axel, where is your project?"
He removes his hand from the back of my chair. "Haven't started it."
Scooping my brushes into my brush bag, I see this as a good opportunity to leave. I rise hurriedly from my seat and slide my painting onto the cooling rack.
The Professor sighs, agitated. "Then what have you been doing this whole time?"
Shifting his head to the side, Axel gestures to me humorously.
The teacher lets out a disgusted gasp. Then I get his statement.
Almost knocking the rack over, I yank the door handle open and flee.
"A weird guy?"
"Yeah." I look down at my untouched vanilla milkshake. "He's been bothering me for the past couple of days."
Roxas clinks his spoon against the counter. A nervous habit since we were kids.
"Has he been bullying you?"
"No."
"Do I know him?"
"Maybe."
"Has he said anything out of line?"
"Well, no…" I put my chin in my hand. "He's just been talking to me."
Roxas takes a sip of his slushy. "That doesn't sound too bad."
"It is."
Another sip. "How do you figure?"
I trail my finger down the milkshake glass, dragging through the condensation. "I feel like he's always implying something when he talks to me."
"Sexually?" Roxas chuckles and moves his empty smoothie cup to the side. I throw a straw wrapper at him.
"He's never actually said anything offensive."
"Then why is he bothering you?"
"I think he's out to get me."
"You think?" Roxas laughs, playing with the straw wrapper, "What you mean to say is, you think."
I give him a confused look.
"If he didn't like you, he wouldn't talk to you. You might be over-complicating the uncomplicated, Nami."
"You think so?"
"Yup." He smiles, "Just chalk it up to him being strange and move on."
Then why did he give me that dirty look?
"Thanks, Roxas."
"No prob. Hey, are you gonna finish that?" He points to my milkshake.
I never really started it. For some reason, I can't eat.
"It's all yours."
Thursday, March 19, 2012.
Memo: Bring art brushes.
To Do List(In order of importance.)
1. Re-do art canvas.
2. Go after Calc test to avoid Asshole.
3. Learn techniques for painting with acrylic.
4. Complete art project, Monday.
5. English test, Sunday.
6. Calc quiz, Saturday.
I bolt around the corner after Calculus class, almost flinging myself into the art room. I slump my shoulder bag onto the nearest table and dump out my brushes, their clatter bouncing off the walls.
No class today. Four days left on the project, three days to complete.
I should be able to finish.
Turning on the tap, I fill up my paint cup. For a moment, all I can hear is the dribbling of water into plastic. Then I hear someone cough.
Jerking to the side, I realize the Asshole has been perched in the corner the whole time. A canvas is in front of him, a side of paints and a cup of water to the left of it.
Weird.
"What?" He looks up sharply.
I look away. Then glance back.
He's still looking.
"What's with that, Blondie?"
I gnaw on my lower lip for a moment before tilting my head to indicate confusion.
"Your comment."
Comment?
"I-I don't know what you mean." I respond, too stupefied to give him the silent treatment.
"You said "weird"." The corner of his mouth rises, "What's weird, your face?"
Oh. I said that out loud.
"That is, well, uh…"
No way I can say it. I don't want to cause myself any more trouble.
"Make like tobacco and spit it out." The Asshole leans back.
I decide to go for it.
"It's weird that …that you're actually working."
"Well," He cracks the side of his neck, "I find it weird that you're filling up a cup that's overflowing."
I feel water gushing down my hand. Quickly, I shut off the tap and dump half of it out.
He laughs.
Face flushed, I slide the cup onto my table and head over to the cooling rack for my painting.
Huh…
I reach my hand all the way in.
…that's funny.
Did I move my painting to another rack?
I go to the other side.
No such luck. But, then again, the Professor has an annoying tendency to relocate our projects.
Searching behind the Asshole's table, I decide to check the cabinets near the back. As I squeeze behind him, my eyes catch the startlingly bright shades of red and blue in his grasp.
My canvas.
Turning halfway, Asshole notices my staring. "Not too shabby..."
Why does he…?
"W-why do you have my canvas?"
He lugs himself up onto the table, slowly pushing the painting to the side. "…But is this you?"
My eyes follow the painting as it slides across the wood.
"Me?"
I don't know whether he's being serious, stupid, or both.
I reach for my canvas. He slides it further along the table, giving me an expectant look.
Which means I have to answer.
"O-of course it isn't." I move closer. "It's a still-life of flowers in a vase."
"Don't be a smart ass, now." He taps lightly on the painting. "You think I'm blind?"
I elect not to answer. I'm obviously not going to get my painting back.
Relenting, I head back to my side of the room and pile my water colors back into my bag.
"By 'you' ," He says suddenly, " I mean your style."
My head shoots up. "Style?"
"Yeah, you know," He lifts my painting from the table, "Where you inserted your personal touches."
I blink, not understanding. "I was going off of another artist's painting."
"No shit, Blondie," The Asshole sighs, using his chair as a foot rest, "And yet it's nothing like the original."
"Well," I fumble, "I tried to make it look like his work but -"
"Looks like crap."
My face turns red. I feel my dignity slipping.
Who is he to tell me what art is?
After yanking my shoulder bag onto my arm, I abruptly shove my chair back.
"At least I can draw!"
He blinks in surprise.
Feeling the blood rush to my face, I try to do damage control. "I-I meant to say that, uh-"
"BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
I feel myself sink to the floor a little.
Is he…laughing at me?
"You're a riot, Blondie!" He kicks at a chair, knocking it over. Turning pink, I eye my canvas next to him.
The sooner I grab it, the sooner I can leave.
Slowly, I edge myself towards his side of the room.
"But seriously, though." The Asshole wipes his eyes, "I didn't say you couldn't draw."
Practically chewing my lip off, I position myself on the opposite side of the table, hoping he doesn't notice how close I'm getting.
"W-what are you saying, then?"
He makes a sound in the back of his throat, almost like a pur. "Jeez, do you want somethin' from me, or what?"
I freeze. He's noticed my fingers creeping across the table.
"Um," I blush, looking away, "My painting, please."
"Oh." He hauls himself up and swings around, his long legs bumping mine as he faces me. Moving almost deliberately slow, he shoves the canvas forward just enough so that it bumps the tips of my fingers. Gulping, I snatch the painting to my chest.
"Th-thanks."
He jumps off the table, so quickly that I have to step back to avoid brushing fronts with him. Seeing my discomfort, the Asshole bows slightly and moves to the side, allowing me an easy exit.
Accepting the path quickly, I thrust my painting into the wire rack as I make my way almost frantically to the door. No sense working on a painting in a place with no sanity.
"Can I ask…" I pause as I grip the door handle, "…why you think my painting is so bad?"
The Asshole's hand outstretches mine, his arm easily reaching over my head as he pushes the door open. Turning on his heel, he speaks just loud enough for me to hear:
"You don't put any soul into it."
Friday, March 21, 2012.
Memo: Can't remember.
To Do List(In order of importance.)
1. Find flaws in canvas.
2. Re-do art canvas.
3. Stay after class.
4. Complete art project, Monday.
5. Learn techniques for painting with acrylic.
6. Work on canvas later tonight.
7. Chapter 10, History class.
"This is due Monday, everyone." Professor Kaburagi informs the next day, "I hope you've all accurately portrayed your assigned paintings."
My eyes fall to my own creation.
The cerulean of the background brings out the crimson of the petals, the leaves are shaded in a myriad of olives and limes, the stems are umber in color and weave throughout each other. I'd say it's an accurate portrayal to the original.
But...
" You don't put any soul into it."
...There's something I'm not noticing.
I examine every crevice of the canvas. The line work is smooth. The bouquet is detailed. The cracks in the vase are sharp. The background is unblemished. The edges along the frame are faded out, and everything is blended.
I eye his vacant desk savagely. There is absolutely nothing wrong with it.
Which means everything is wrong.
"You're not coming with us for dinner?"
"I don't think so."
I swore I wrote this down. So why'd I forget?
"But Namine…" Selphie pouts, tugging at my arm, "It's fried chicken Friday!"
"I prefer grilled, anyway."
Yuffie rolls her amber eyes, not buying the excuse. "You're staying after class again, aren't you!"
I look away, confirming the statement.
"I can't believe you! We've been planning this all week!"
My foot kicks at an imaginary rock. "I didn't think this project would be so hard."
"But a couple days ago you said that you had this in the bag."
"Yeah," Yuffie agrees, "I thought you'd be long finished by now."
I sigh. "Me too."
They both raise their eyebrows in unison.
"I'm sorry," I try to patch my slip up, "I promise I'll go next Friday."
"You better get an A on this project." Yuffie smiles, putting her arm around my shoulders.
Selphie laughs. "When has she not gotten an A in art?"
"Well," I move out from underneath her arm, "I'd better get going, my art project isn't going to finish itself."
"Namine, you've been acting weird."
"Oh, I think it's just her personality!" Yuffie laughs. Selphie joins in.
My mouth opens to laugh, but a sigh replaces it.
I look up from my work to see the Asshole strut in casually, grabbing a blank canvas from the counter.
He seems to grab a new one every day. Weird.
But then again, according to Selphie and Yuffie, I'm weird, too.
"Hi." I tentatively greet.
A weirdo greeting a weirdo.
For a moment the Asshole's step falters, but he quickly reverts back to his cocky strut. Tracing his fingers across my table, he grabs the chair right across from mine and thumps into the seat.
"Do you mind if I borrow a pencil?"
I stop working, my eyes flitting from his face, to his fresh canvas, then back to his face.
Does he ever come prepared?
"Or not, I guess."
"Oh!" I bury my face into my bag and fumble for my pencil case. After what feels like an hour, I finally produce a perfectly sharpened number two pencil, holding its length as far outward from my body as possible.
Whether he notices my discomfort or not, he takes the pencil without commenting. "Thanks, Goldilocks."
Goldilocks?
"Namine."
The Asshole looks up, evidently surprised by my volunteered words.
"M-my name," I stutter in my own shock, "is Namine."
"Namine…"
He smiles then. Not a smirk, not a sneer, but a genuine smile. The corners of his mouth turn up and his full lips part softly.
My face suddenly feels hot. I let my bangs fall into my eyes.
"So when is this project due?" He asks, thankfully not noticing.
"Um, on Monday."
"Think you'll finish by then?"
I have no idea.
"Yes."
He starts sketching. "You're in a good mood today, Namine."
"How so?" My stomach flutters at the sound of my name. Or maybe that's only because I feel his knees pressing against mine from underneath the table.
Maybe both.
"You're actually holding a conversation longer than thirty seconds with me."
"Oh, I-I didn't notice."
Why am I being so nice?
He said my art was crap. He wouldn't let me get to my locker. He glared at me. The clicking of his lighter drives me halfway to madness.
I should hate him right now.
With my anger returning, I shift my knees back away from his. Less bothered by our lack of conversation, the silence becomes more comfortable, and I work diligently. After an hour or so, sunset starts to pour in through the large window. Feeling the full ache of my fingers, I set down my paintbrush and tilt the finished products towards the fading sun.
All wrong.
Dejectedly, I let the canvas drop onto the table. The Asshole, obviously not bothered by the noise, continues sketching, the brushing noise of the pencil heightened by the muteness of the room. Curving my neck, I try to casually survey his work from over his arm.
Soft, almost feathery graphite lines form the shape of majestic wings, of folds in long robes, of loving expressions, and of graceful limbs.
A seraph embracing a small, human baby.
Some parts, like the feet and legs, are still in the stages of rough sketching- but the tenderness etched in their gray eyes, the soft smiles playing about their shapely mouths, the daintiness of their clasped hands…all of it. Flawless.
"Don't drool, now."
Jolted by his amused voice, I realize I'm leaning halfway across the table, completely overshadowing his drawing.
I quickly lower myself back into my seat.
Putting his chin in his hand the Asshole grins, his eyes warm. "If you weren't always so quiet, your speechless behavior might flatter me."
"B-but," I sputter, searching for words, "Y-you can't…I thought you couldn't-"
"Couldn't draw or paint?" He interrupts, "Couldn't do anything artistic?"
I look away. "Well, it doesn't help that you always act like an assho-" I cut myself off and start again, "that you always treat people like-"
My eyes unwillingly meet his.
"Like what?" His smile widens, but the warmth disappears. "An asshole?"
My whole body fills with pins. I don't answer.
I don't need to.
"Don't worry about it," He slides my pencil back to me and stands sharply, "it's common knowledge."
"I-it's only because of the way you talk…" I say softly, oddly enough, trying to make him feel better.
He lifts up his drawing. "You mean it's the way I don't talk."
"I don't understand."
Not answering me, he tosses his sketch across the room like a frisbee. It sails for a few seconds, then lands next to the huge garbage can near the front door. My mouth opens to protest, the words glued to the back of my throat.
How could he throw something so beautiful?
"People are so predictable. They just fucking love it when you sweet talk their faces off. And then what happens?"
Despite the rhetorical phrasing, the Asshole shoots me a deprecatory glare. Like he's daring me to answer the question.
He probably expects me to turn my face away, which I do accordingly.
Letting out a kind of snicker, he goes on, "People always shit-talk when others turn away. I find it so fucking ironic that when someone gets caught in the middle of doing just that, the victim of the shit talking tells the talkers to 'say it to their face'. Yet, when you actually talk shit to their face, they don't appreciate the fact that you didn't say it behind their back, but instead…" He pauses and looks directly at me, his smile widening.
"…they call you an 'Asshole', and you're isolated even more for being honest."
Catching the irony, my eyes widen. That's exactly what I've been doing to him.
And he's known all along.
So then why did he…?
I jump when I see him heading for the door. He can't leave.
"W-wait!" I hear myself call.
His shoulders tense.
"W-why did you throw your drawing away? With art like that, people wouldn't judge you, and maybe the teacher would stop thinking you're lazy. The rumors would go away!"
He leans back on his heel. "Art isn't some shitty popularity contest."
"But if people knew how talented you were, they wouldn't treat you so terribly!"
"You know," He turns away in disgust, "you look at painting the same way you look at people."
"What is that supposed to mean?" My voice trembles.
Waving his hand dismissively at me, he leaves the door ajar.
"If you can't figure it out, you don't deserve to know."
Saturday, March 22, 2012.
Memo: Don't think about him.
To Do List(In order of importance.)
1. Figure it out!
Click.
My eyes open before I want them to.
Yawning, I feel around for my nightstand clock. Neon orange numbers glow dully on the circular face. I squint a bit.
7:30
Sliding the clock gently back onto the table, I sluggishly roll out of bed and into my slippers. Making sure I don't get locked out, I leave the door cracked as I head into the dorm kitchen.
Breakfast…breakfast…what do I want for breakfast?
"Wow Namine, were you up all night?"
Looking to my left, I see Xion sitting in a chair near the window, sipping on what looks to be tea.
Was I?
"I don't know." I mumble sleepily, grabbing a slice of pumpernickel from the breadbox.
"Your light was on for quite a long time." She sips her tea again, "Were you studying?"
As I press my bread into the toaster, memories slowly start returning.
That fleck of dried red paint on my index finger. Countless hours of graphite sketching. Dropping charcoal on my skirt. Running out of putty erasers.
"Yeah…studying."
Buttering my toast, I glance over at Xion to see if she buys it. She brushes her short black bangs from her eyes, looking indifferent.
"I assumed you were studying for that Calculus quiz we had today. When you didn't show up I figured you-"
"Calculus!?" I almost choke on my toast, "That's not a morning class now, is it?!"
Now it's Xion's turn to look shocked.
"Morning? It's an afternoon class!"
"But it's not even noon yet!" I attempt to catch the butter dripping down my chin.
Xion stands up and flips out her cell phone, handing it to me.
7:43
P.M.
Dropping my toast, I let out the worst profanity that I can think of before bumping my head into the wall and racing back to my room for clothing.
I can only hope my professors are still in the building this late.
"You've seemed a bit…off this past week, Namine. Is there anything you wish to talk about?"
"You know, you look at painting the same way you look at people."
Chewing my lip and tugging at my white tank top, I shake my head, accepting the makeup work from my professor with silent apology. The professor looks at me for a moment, then nods, dismissing me.
As I walk down the empty hallway, I grip the latest section of my makeup work under my arm. My steps remain brisk until I approach the art room.
Surely I don't need to go in there for makeup work.
The only thing we've been working on is this project. And I brought all of the art supplies I'll need for painting back to my room, anyway.
Convinced, I tear myself away and exit the building.
Besides-
"…You don't deserve to know."
I bet he's in there.
My cheeks smart from the memory as I unlock my door, but I shake my head clear. Plopping the small pile of makeup work on my bed, I sit down at my desk and set to work finishing my new canvas.
May as well stay up all night again, since I slept the day away.
A yawn tugs at my lips. For a little while, I feather out the fresh paint along my new flowers. It goes fairly well until I reach for my blending sponge.
"Crap."
Shoving back my chair, I lug my bag onto my shoulder and slam the door behind me.
I left my sponges in the art room.
A/N: That was part 1 out of 2. I re-did a few little errors in the story. I'm never happy with my work and I always find something to improve on. :P Please review, even if you already did last time this story was up! I'd love to read your opinions.