I looked at my old school through the wrought iron gate, the old place hadn't changed at all, at least not appearance wise.
The building was still the same old red-brick mansion I knew. With huge, clear glass windows, and the big grand oak door still stood proudly at the main entrance the wave of nostalgia was already threatening to engulf me.
It even smelled the same.. The sweet aroma of freshly cut grass and roses filled the air, with the hint of vanilla. And it made me sick.
This wasn't a happy or pleasant place like how it appeared, this place was where I spent the worst 5 years of my life, and this is also the place Francis was murdered. This isn't a school, it's a crime scene.
I put my fears to the back of my mind, and forced myself to ignore the feeling of dread I had a mission to complete, sucking in a breath of air, I strode forward down the lane, though the old courtyard into the school.
I made my was through the school, it's pristine corridors were immaculate as ever. It had taken far too long just to get inside the actual building- I had to negotiate with a gum-chewing sectary and some burly security guards before I was allowed in, despite the face I'd pre-booked for my free-lance investigation I was still regarded with suspicion It's amazing how despite it seeming like almost a life time since I'd been here, I still knew the place like the back of my hand, the hallways were empty too- it looked like most of the students were outside enjoying the sun. All too soon, I reached my destination- the P.E stockroom were Francis was murdered. The feelings of regret and trauma were undeniable now, part of me wanted to hide, ignore this part of my life- but I still pressed forwards flicking on the lights. I gasped. Inside it was a memorial to Francis- it was small but a memorial all the same. Imprinted on one of the flagstones of the wall was ' In memory of Francis Bonnefoy A much loved student who lost his life here'. My throat felt sore and my eyes burned with tears- maybe this was a bad idea, maybe I wasn't ready to unearth all these memory's of an' old friend who died. What really set me of, was the Gold-framed picture of the French boy . He looked exactly as I remembered him- silky shoulder length hair, and a cheeky smirk, his eyes a rare shade of sapphire blue twinkled with their usual mischief in the picture.
Unable to help myself, I remembered Francis's death... It was at a school party, these affairs were usually rather lame.. They consisted of orange juice, poor music, and the traumatic site of watching teachers attempt to dance (ATTEMPT being the key word here.) However, this particular party was nothing like that- Gilbert Beillschmidt , a wild German Albino who claimed to be Prussian had snuck in a few crates of beer, and being the impressionable young teenagers that we were, the student body quickly became intoxicated. Students ran riot, while teachers tried in vain to calm the mess down. I can remember exactly what I was doing at the time- in my semi-drunk state, I was slumped across the table ranting at anyone who would listen. " So!.. So you'll never believe what Alfred did then, eh!" I slurred to Lovino Vargas, the only remaining person on the table. " He- He taped the cat to the dog! Crazy, eh! But you know what knocks me sick, eh? I got the blame!" Lovino would nod in return, before he began ranting about the favouritism shown to his younger brother, Felinciano. The two were Italians who both attended the school and had a reputation for being cry-a-baby's. However, our petty ranting was soon interrupted " Help! Help! Get in here, help!" A voice screamed out, it was not an ordinary shout, it was one of pure terror that caught everyone's attention- it was Alfred's voice.
Quickly everyone on the room followed the voice to see what was going on, teachers told us to 'let them handle it' but we'd been ignoring them all night, we weren't about to change that now. " I bet the fool thought he saw a ghost or something." Merlin Kirkland muttered in his crisp Welsh accent, he was a mysterious boy with a seemingly moody extrea . Nobody knew much about him, although everyone knew his younger brother, Arthur. A murmur of agreement went through the small crowd, I was one of them, believing my half-brother must be over -reacting again- he really was so dramatic. It didn't take us long to reach the stock-cupboard were the screaming was coming from, out of the eleven of us, it was Gilbert Beilldschmidt who opened the door. " Let's see what the yanks pissing his pants over," He muttered.
I will never forget what I saw on the other side of the door; The first thing I noticed, was Alfred running round the room like a headless chicken, a metal rounders bat in hand, I was about to ask him what was wrong, when I spotted the thing that must of caused his panic A body lay dead on the floor, face up I couldn't even make out the hair colour because of all the fresh blood matted into it, But despite the dark black bruises, and the disgusting swelling, I could still make out the face. " Francis!" I screamed, I wanted to run over but my feet seemed to root me to the spot, despite feeling completely sober now, the room seemed to spin. Around me my fellow students seemed to be reacting in the same way more and more people were arriving to see what the fuss was about, and they screamed too. Despite the amount of people around, each of us felt completely alone trying to come to terms with what had happened.. Nobody had any idea what to do. My eyes lingered on the French boy'd beaten body once more, and I noticed who was sat next to him. Arthur Kirkland Was slouched on the floor near Francis, the British boy's uniform splattered in blood. I wondered why he didn't move, why he wasn't panicking. That was until I saw his expression; his eyes were unfocused, and his mouth hung open.. He looked confused and scared.. ' He looks more than just drunk' I thought subconsciously still to shocked to think properly let alone move.
" Vhat the hell happened!" Gilbert demanded, grabbing the screaming Alfred and shaking him so violently I was afraid my brothers head would come of. " I-I heard a noise, So I came here- Artie was just sitting their and Francis he- he was!" Alfred couldn't even finish the sentence before he succumbed into a fresh bout of hysterical tear-less cries. It seemed as though most of the students reacted the same way I did- not that I noticed at the time, but everyone must have been frozen like me, because Gilbert was the only one who seemed to be doing anything. " Kirkland! Hey Arthur! Brit boy!" Gilbert yelled attempting to pull the green-eyed blonde up by his cast-clad arms. Arthur's arms had been in casts since he broke them mysteriously a week before the party, he just came back to the dorm late one night, and in the mourning his arms were all purple with bruises and he was almost crying with pain, he went to the nurses office and came back with his arms in casts. Nobody knew how it had happened, and Arthur would yell at anybody who had dared to ask. He was a strange boy, that Arthur. But when Gilbert hoisted him up, The blonde just lent against him, seemingly unable to stand on his own. " Hey! Vhat the hells wrong with you!?" The albino demanded.
Suddenly, I was vaguely aware of Mr. Ludwig Dietrich entering the scene He wasn't really a teacher, just a man not much older than us, who came in to do a junior army training course. He was a strict man, but we students always admired him. He stood next to me and inspected the stock cupboard for a moment, a grave expression on his face. " Everyone leave." He commanded. " Felinciano! Go fetch the headmaster! Beillschmidt, help get Arthur and Alfred out of here!"
It took me a moment to register what the German was saying, but as soon as I did I walked out shakily. Everyone else was doing the same, we always did what Ludwig told us out of respect for all the help he gave us with our school work and problems. He was a good man, Ludwig. I can't really remember what happened next, my memories are fuzzy, but from what I can gather from what my fellow students told me, I broke down, lying on the floor sobbing my heart out hysterically. I wasn't the only one doing that.
I snap myself back to reality, feeling a little shaky from remembering my past trauma, I didn't even notice I was crying, but I could feel the tears rolling down my face. But I was glad I remembered, because it evoked stronger feelings, and made me want to avenge Francis' death even more than before. Cautiously I pulled out a list from my pocket, a list of the names of all the people that could've been the murderer or could at least have something to do with it.;
-Gilbert Beillschmidt .
- Ludwig Derdiecht.
- Felinciano Vargas.
- Arthur Kirkland.
- Alfred F. Jones.
- Ivan Braginsky.
I dried my eyes and looked up at the ceiling now who should I pay a visit too first?