Warnings:
- The story may contain sensitive subjects and triggers.
- Cover art via Pinterest. Please tell me if you know the artist.
- I wrote this short-fic in my mother tongue (Brazilian Portugues) and this is the translation to English. I apologize for any grammar mistakes. Feel free to correct me
As if I were a King on his cloak, I don my Imperial Scholar cape.
As if I were a Commander of the Army, I attach not one, but eight Stella Stars to my uniform.
As if I were the most powerful man in the world, I stare at myself in the single mirror of my bedroom, with a bold expression.
"I did it," I think. My jaw trembles.
I take the small scepter the Imperial Scholars use and hit it against my chest.
"I did it," now I say it aloud, hearing the haughty tone that comes out of my throat.
But… Why do I feel my heart so downcast?
Once again, I hit the scepter against my chest. I want to take this feeling out, even if it's by force.
I start hitting myself harder.
And harder...
I feel the ebony wood of that scepter against my bones. It hurts.
Oh, how much it hurts...
The pain that tears me apart now does not come from my flesh, it comes from my heart.
Why are you so downcast?
I want to look to my side, to the portrait that rests on my bedside table, because I know the answer to my question is there.
A shiver runs through my body and I turn my head to face my disgrace.
There it is.
The one that insists on showing me how alone I am: the photograph of the first day of school, taken thirteen years ago.
Like all the other kids, I'm there.
Like all the other kids, I'm dressed in uniform.
Like all the other kids, I'm looking at the camera.
But unlike them, I am alone; Standing in a corner, not showing any expression.
Reluctantly, I end up taking the portrait in my hands to face my child self.
I've never seen eyes as lifeless as those.
Slowly, I face my grown-up self in the mirror one more time, only to see that nothing has changed.
I began my studies at Eden Academy without my father's presence.
Now I finish them, and he's still not here with me.
And he never will be.
Just as I was alone on the first day of school, I will also be on the last.
As I conclude this thought, I look at the photograph again. A self-pity feeling takes hold of my heart. Before I could stop it, a tear burns my face like fire.
Like it already happened dozens of other times, in a fit of fury, I throw the portrait against the wall of my bedroom, not worrying if I will wake up my next-door roommates with the noise of the glass that shatters into pieces.
I wanna scream. Scream at the top of my lungs.
"I HATE YOU!" was what I had in mind.
However, when I open my mouth, I notice that what comes out of it is a lament:
"Oh, father... Why did you abandon me?"
I sit on my bed and bury my face in my hands. I barely realize I'm grabbing my hair as I remember the worst day of my life. It's been two years since the voice of that frowning security guard in his sunglasses has never left my mind:
"Mr. Damian, I regret to inform you. Your father has passed away."
I don't know for how long I stared at him. I was in the garden of Eden Academy, holding the seventh Stella in my hand. I was seventeen.
Only one left for me to become an Imperial Scholar.
Only one left, for me to finally - maybe - have my father's approval and attention. For him to finally - maybe - come to me, put his hand on my shoulder, and say:
"Good job, my son. You made our family proud."
But now, I would never hear those words.
I never knew what he died of, exactly. His whole life was a mystery. Not even my older brother talked about it on the day of the funeral. Like my father, my brother was also a complete stranger to me.
It was a very weird day. The cloudy sky seemed to translate everything I felt inside my chest when I saw my father's sealed casket on the lawn of the cemetery where he was going to be buried.
At least I had the comfort of my best friends, Emile and Ewen. I will never be able to repay the loyalty these two have always shown to me.
They were the only ones from school who went to the funeral. You could count on one hand the people who came to pay their respects to the "great" Donovan Desmond.
However, I do remember that my friends weren't the only ones to come. Not exactly.
As I watched my father's casket being lowered into the ground, I looked straight ahead for just a second and felt my heart skip a beat when I saw her.
Anya Forger.
She was gazing at me from a distance, as if trying to hide behind a tree.
Her pink hair reached her waist in beautiful curls at the ends and her green eyes showed a certain... Compassion.
However, they seemed to show something more. I couldn't identify what it was. I can't say for sure, but I had the impression that her gaze reflected the same pain that mine did.
I found myself staring at her, and for the first time since I received the news of my father's death, I felt a warmth in my heart at the sight of her. Noticing my eyes on her, Anya muttered something I couldn't understand, turned and walked away.
Back in my bedroom, I realize I have messed up my hair by grabbing it tight as I remembered that day, and I quickly tuck the locks back into place. I look at the shattered portrait on the floor and let out a big huff knowing I'll have to clean it up. When I finish picking up the shards of glass, I hold the photograph again. But this time, I don't look at my child self.
I look at Anya.
I always wondered why she had a crying face in that photograph. Her parents also had a strange expression, as if they were ashamed of something.
"Oh, right..." I think, unable to hold back a little smile. "Now I remember..."
On that day, she had given a Tonitrus for punching me for the first time. I say "first time", because she obviously punched me many other times during all these years studying together. And I confess, I deserved most of them. Today, Anya does not do these things anymore.
Without meaning to, I run my hand across the cheek she always used to punch me. I brush my fingers on my skin, hoping I could feel the warmth of her hand. I shake my head as I realize what I just thought.
I finish cleaning up my mess and make my way down the dormitory corridors to the Imperial Scholars' special cafeteria. As my footsteps echo across the hardwood floor, Anya's image wanders through my mind.
The simple act of thinking about her makes all the anger I just felt disappear.
When I get to the cafeteria, I bump into a pretty euphoric Emile and Ewen.
"Dude!" Ewen exclaims, his blond quiff practically dancing, "You won't believe our luck!"
I look from one to the other, with a curious expression. I signal for them to continue.
"The twin sisters from class eight agreed on going with us to the prom!" says Emile, flexing his strong arms to demonstrate victory.
"Poor things," I say, heading towards the cafeteria counter, "they must've hit their heads..."
They both began to make fun of me, claiming I was envious because I was pretty much the only guy who still didn't have a date for the prom.
But see, it's not that I hadn't any opportunity to invite a girl. To tell you the truth, scares me the fact that some of them invited themselves to go with me.
The thing is, I just don't feel like going to the prom.
It's not a mere party. It's a celebration of everything we've been through during these years of study. It's a gala party, with much pomp and honors.
It's a historic event, a night where sons and daughters are celebrated for their endless efforts at Eden Academy and who are now, at nineteen, considered adults to go out into the world and make their mark as true citizens.
What's the point of me going if no one will be there to celebrate me?
Now I'm officially an orphan of both father and mother. And I doubt my older brother will bother to come.
I wonder if everything I did was in vain...
I barely notice my friends trying to bring me out of my trance while I'm on my way to the counter. But, it's another person that makes me disconnect from my thoughts.
"Morning, Sy-on boy!" Anya simply appears at my side, accompanied by Becky who, as usual, rolls her eyes, because I believe that to this day she doesn't like us very much.
"Sy-on boy". Anya has called me that for as long as I can remember, and when I ask her why, she says she either doesn't know or has forgotten. Yeah, right…
For a moment, I almost blow the cover of my grumpy face, because as soon as she starts walking beside me and gazing at me with those huge green eyes, I end up smirking at her.
But not to break the habit, I quickly manage to - just like Becky - also roll my eyes and mumble a "good morning".
She laughs. It's our thing. Anya teases me and I complain. It's been like that for thirteen years. By some miracle, she also became an Imperial Scholar, which made us spend a little more time in each other's company. But I confess that I am exaggerating when I say that it was a "miracle".
Anya is still this spontaneous and fun girl that everyone knows, however, as she grew up, she became a very intelligent - and I dare say - quite mature and sensible young lady (although there are times when she still surprises me with some crazy things).
We're almost at the counter, and I try to keep my attention focused on the gourmet menu they serve to Imperial Scholars that hangs above it, but I feel watched, and when I glance over, Anya is still looking at me with an enigmatic expression. Almost... Anxious for something.
"Dang it, what does she wants now?" I wonder, feeling my heart start to race. I swallow hard.
"Y-You better hurry, otherwise your dear omelet will run out," I say the first thing that pops into my mind, just to end that strange atmosphere.
Anya just blows air from her nose and gives me a little smile. Is it me, or does she seem a little disappointed? She leans on Beck's arm, who thanks God that Anya starts pulling her faster toward the counter.
When I look to my side, I see Emile and Ewen staring at me with their eyebrows raised and with a meaningful little smile. I pretend to ignore them, but I know exactly what they're thinking.
We had a relatively normal and boring school day. As always, Emile, Ewen, and I are used to sitting in the last row of desks, at the very top, where we can look at everything and everyone, like sentries of a fortress.
And as always, from above, my eyes land on a single person.
Anya has always sat in the front row with Becky and I find it impressive how she always seems to know when I'm looking at her. There are times when I think she can read my mind...
Towards the end of the afternoon, during our History class, I find myself looking at her again, at her pink hair. They're beautiful today, with a natural glow. Sometimes I want to feel its texture, but I never had the courage to ask.
"She's so gorgeous..." I think without meaning to.
Almost immediately, I see Anya jerk her head toward me, looking a little embarrassed. Slowly, her eyes meet mine and she shows the same anxious expression she did in the morning.
I don't even notice that we're looking at each other, until the teacher calls her out, saying that the map of our country is on the blackboard, not at the back of the classroom. I feel my cheeks burn at the realization that we've been looking at each other for so long and my heart starts racing again.
I feel someone poke me and it's Ewen. He adjusts his quiff and in a low tone, he says:
"You better hurry..."
I frown, showing that I didn't quite understand what he meant. Beside him, Emile makes a face and adds:
"She won't wait for you forever, Damian..."
I widen my eyes a little. At this point, both Ewen and Emile already know that I have a... Let's say... That I have... A thing for Anya.
Ewen continues:
"I heard she turned down about five guys who asked her to go to the prom," he shoves me with his elbow, as if rebuking me, "are you blind?!"
I feel like my entire face is red now. I press my lips together and glance at Anya again. I face my friends once more. A nervous anxiety starts to grow inside me.
"Fine!" I exclaim, my teeth clenched, "I'll do something abo-"
"Well, well..." I hear our teacher talking from the front of the classroom, "It seems that the three companions up there are much interested in discussing the Workers' Revolution, isn't it? How about you come down here and give us a taste of your intellectuality?"
I don't know why the teacher is still so interested in teaching these things. It's practically the last week of class, the tests are over and everything is in a farewell mood. But he claims that an elegant scholar studies hard until the last minute.
Everyone turns to see us, however, the eyes that weigh the most on me are not of the teacher or of my other classmates.
It's Anya's.
I need to make a decision as soon as possible.