In The Clear: Introductions VII
CW: Harmful religious themes.
Lawrence Yao-Sartre, 18, Montreal QC
-CW-
Lawrence's hands rest atop the piano keys, their bare expression posed towards the sheet music. The living room is silent save for the steady tick of the metronome. It's as though a thick cover has descended between the renaissance paintings, encompassing the room's only occupants. Lawrence can't bring themself to turn towards him.
"Other children your age would be out with friends after school," Marcel says flatly. Lawrence knows exactly where their step-father stands, the same threshold as always. He rarely enters the same room as Lawrence if he can help it. He prefers to project his comments inside before shutting the metaphorical door. Lawrence is little more homanine than the figures in the paintings and far less tolerated.
"Why don't you play with the neighbour's kids?" The nudges started out kind enough when eight year old Lawrence first met their stepfather.
Their mom always smiled - he's taking an interest, he loves you - but Lawrence only recoiled. They didn't know why, only that they didn't wish to go outside and play. Young Lawrence was perfectly content to spend the day in front of a piano or in the house's grand library. Everything they needed was right there.
"He's strange." Not the first time Lawrence had heard the comment, but the first time from an adult. They paused halfway up the steps, their chin tilted upward to listen but there was no argument from their mother.
Eventually the observations were no longer behind their back. They came directly to Lawrence from either mouth, an interchangeable judge. Their mother didn't disagree. Marcel was right, they were strange.
"Why are you doing this to us?"
"Why can't you try?"
"We do everything for you, how could you be so ungrateful?"
Lawrence counts back from sixty as their spine maintains its stiff posture. When no more words fill the dense silence, the keys play once more. Gnomenreigen dances through the living room, pulling the cover away as Lawrence closes their eyes. They've had this piece memorized for years, and it fills the air perfectly. There's no room for comments, for criticism, or for their stepfather.
"Enough!" The cover slams down with less than a second's notice for Lawrence to withdraw their fingers. Lawrence's tongue lifts to the roof of their mouth as Marcel tries to catch their attention. They turn slowly, the tiniest ounce of fear enough to force it out of them. "I have company coming over, take dinner with you."
It's only four o'clock, but Lawrence doesn't argue. No matter how much this newly awakened part of them wishes to, they don't slam Marcel's skull into the piano. They simply watch their stepfather a moment longer before turning away. They remember for several minutes longer how much last night's corpse eyes reminded them of him.
If you touch him it's over, Lawrence reminds themself. Everyone will know it was you.
So they don't. As they have every time since Lawrence first felt man's blood at their fingertips, they turn away from their real desire. As good as it would feel, they know it would only bring about the end.
They're not ready to stop. They need to keep feeling this because it's all they have.
Lawrence pulls a pen from their pocket and places it carefully on the end table. They glance at Marcel and then back to the pen with a nod. It's nothing special, Lawrence was thorough in checking it for any kind of insignia as they pulled it from their victim's pocket. Marcel will likely not recognize it, but they know the meaning. "For you."
Someday.
Lawrence closes their eyes as the night's darkness surrounds them. All they can hear is the soft whistle of wind through the trees and the restored beating of their heart. They lean their head back until, should their eyes open, they'd be staring at the stars. Lawrence feels just as far away from the world, just as free.
In this bath of tainted blood, they've found themself once more. As their hands grasp the lifeless expression of another foul man, they can feel their own shift. A smile is as foreign to Lawrence as the steps of the Sabre Dance, but it tingles on their lips. The fresh stillness feels like a warm embrace, one that Lawrence eagerly welcomes.
Lawrence stands slowly until they're looking down on the man. They know his name, but in their illusory charade his features morph. The slight blue hue around his lips pales and the whole shape thins to an indistinct frown. The clouded eyes that stare upward turn dark enough to swallow the night. Lawrence's pounding heart only quickens as they stare down at Marcel, not at Lyam Chastain who they'd picked up this evening. By the end it's always him.
Lawrence's eyes widen with excitement as warm relief floods over them. It hits like the high of a drug they've never tried, the all-encompassing ecstasy of power they'd never feel in daylight. In this making of hell, Lawrence finally understands what heaven looks like.
All those hours of imagining could never have prepared them. It took bringing a wrench to Gerard Simoeit's temple to finally realize what freedom means. As Lawrence stared death in the eyes for the first time many months ago, they felt the life rush back into their own.
They and they alone had the power to release themself from their personal prison.
On nights like this, it's enough to pretend. Lyam's blood won't free them, but it sends a shockwave through their system that feels just as good. Lawrence will return to their life, to the walls and its occupants that call them strange and unworthy, but they will carry the key. They'll imagine unlocking that door every night until they finally do.
Then, they won't have to imagine Marcel's features on their victims. The picture will be there for Lawrence to enjoy, a bloodied, glassy-eyed picture that they'll covet until they're called back from this earth-bound body. They aren't powerless, in fact Lawrence has been gifted more power than they'd ever known.
This isn't the purpose that anyone imagines when they think of them. Lawrence Yao-Satre is strange, a genius by many metrics, and expected to live a successful if not quiet life. They've spent the better part of this year preparing for university applications and final exams. Their teachers believe they have a chance at accelerated entrance to medical school.
Lawrence doesn't care about any of it. They'll do it, but it doesn't excite them. Their life until recently has been nothing but a placeholder. Their emotions have been locked away, as unattainable as walking on water.
As an answer to long ago prayers for peace, Lawrence was shown this. Is it wrong? Can they still call the tranquil air heavenly if it goes against the church's memorized preachings? Lawrence doesn't know the answer, but as their gaze travels down they don't care.
This is the only thing they care about.
This is their heaven.
Lawrence sighs quietly as the phantom music moves swiftly around them. Their fingers tap against tight bedsheets, the fabric wrapped perfectly around all corners of the cot. Their head moves side to side with the imagined melody, the keys of Gnomenreigen playing perfectly around the cell. Lawrence hasn't forgotten a single note.
They open one eye and find a shadow barely peering inside. It doesn't acknowledge them or even pass them by. In fact, it's rare that one of the guards does so. The cells of solitary confinement form a semicircle around the guard station. Most days pass without Lawrence getting more than a glimpse.
They're afraid. Lawrence moves their head to either side. They're not particularly bothered by this thought or many others. The truth is much easier to swallow - none of this matters. For all that they've been pretending, they are not happy here. They'll give polite nods or acknowledgements when a guard does rarely appear, but they hate that even more.
It feels just like home - those years where Lawrence felt every bit of resentment but shared not a smidgeon. They walked around the decorated halls of their house without feeling like any kind of family member. They took every criticism with gentle expressions or silence when they wished to respond with a knife straight through Marcel's trachea.
Now, they'll never get the chance. This is simply a fact, no longer a grievance. Lawrence will never be allowed out of prison as long as their heart's still beating. Even then, they have reason to believe they'll eventually be buried here.
Their dancing hands don't even pause with the morbid thought. Inside their head, the music continues. It fills every crevice of the cell and spills out to the others. Lawrence imagines that it reaches even the guards, who no doubt listen with their hands to their ears.
A beautiful melody from an abhorrent inmate. Lawrence is seemingly full of similar contrasts. No one believed that such a quiet student could hold such wrath inside them. The judge and jury observed Lawrence with unease in the courtroom. Their lawyer never took her eyes off them. However, it was only the surviving family members that seemed to truly see them.
Lawrence rose from their seat as the trial ended. The judge had dismissed them moments ago and they saw no reason to remain. The day was over. In a way, much more than that had ended today but Lawrence was unsurprised.
They hadn't put up a fight. From the moment they were caught beside the Saint Lawrence river with a body still warm in their trunk, it had been over. Today was little more than a formality. Lawrence had no reason to lie, and as such was forthcoming with their official confession. There was only one shred of information that they refused to part with.
"Why?" Lawrence heard the word after a hand was wrapped tightly around the collar of their jumpsuit. They didn't push the woman away, her eyes suggesting she was little older than them.
In seconds there were guards swarming them and her hand was ripped from them. Lawrence watched as she pushed against the officers, her teary-eyed shouts filling the courtroom. By the photograph melted to her shirt, Lawrence suspected she was related to one of their victims.
They turned to the guards that remained as the woman was pulled outside. None of them ventured any closer than required. "Shall we go then?"
Lawrence focuses as the coda begins, allowing the illusory tune to wash away all thoughts of the courtroom. The woman is no more important than the precise tapping of their fingertips. She's the one that mourns an awful man yet calls him an angel. Lawrence would rather not think of her.
So, just like that, they don't.
Marceline "Marcy" Toussaint, 16, Vancouver BC
The suburb streets have already begun to darken as Marcy makes her way up the front steps. She lets a slow breath fall from her lips, but it does little to calm the heavy pounding in her chest. It hasn't stopped since last period, not on her walk to the library or the hours she spent there. It's become a near-constant part of her, one that Marcy can't help but fear.
It feels like it's trying to escape.
Marcy turned as she followed dutifully behind the other students, the test long forgotten in their classroom. The hallway smelled of ash and thick smoke rose in the adjacent hallway. The other students quickened their pace as they caught a glimpse. Marcy stalled so long that the girl behind her stepped cleanly on her heel.
Like the flames she watched envelop the bathroom door, her heart feels like it's eating its way through her chest. If she's not careful, Marcy half-believes it will be left behind on her doorstep as she finally makes her way inside.
In contrast to the dim streets, her house is a bright light of activity. She can hear her father idling in the kitchen and her mother's shadow makes its way around the dining table. Marcy drapes her coat over a hanger and slips her feet into a pair of house shoes.
"Marceline?" Her mother coos. "Is that you?"
"Yes, Maman," Marcy replies. It comforts her that the question was asked in French, their usual preference at home. It means that, more than likely, the Toussaint's don't have guests tonight. While she should be suspicious given that it's a Friday, Marcy is too busy being relieved.
She steps into the dining room and begins to sort the pile of utensils across the three place settings. Her mother squeezes her shoulder stiffly and passes her a trio of plates. For a few minutes the gentle clink of dishes is all she hears. "Your father and I have been meaning to talk to you."
"Oh," Marcy says softly.
Her mother puts down the final glass and stares across the table. Marcy shifts onto her other foot and tries not to let the uneasiness show. Finally, her mother takes a breath. "Your father was offered a job in British Columbia."
As if on cue, her father steps inside with a smile. He hugs Marcy from the side and she kisses him on the cheek in greeting. "Congratulations, Papa."
"I'm flying over next week to look at houses," her mother continues. "Isn't this exciting?"
"Very exciting," Marcy agrees, unable to keep the tears from starting to well in her eyes. British Columbia? That might as well be the other side of the world from Montreal. Marcy has never lived anywhere but here. She looks around the dining room quickly as her breaths start to get caught in her throat. "Excuse me."
"Dinner will be ready soon!" Her father calls but Marcy can't force herself to respond. The moment she's out of view she all but sprints to the top of the stairs. Her feet find their way to her room and Marcy closes herself in the bathroom seconds later.
She searches her pocket and comes up with a crumpled box containing a single cigarette. She pulls a lighter out next and starts the shower running to eat up the smoke. Her hands are shaking as she brings the flame close to her lips. As the first tendril snakes down her throat, all she can do is look at the glowing end.
Maybe something will change.
The hopeful thought is drowned out by a hundred other questions. This year has been the hardest yet and it just keeps getting worse. She can feel herself slipping behind and every week feels like a marathon just to get back on track. School doesn't come as easily as it used to. Her parents haven't noticed.
Again comes the pounding of her heart stronger than ever. Marcy stares at the cigarette in the mirror, remembering the bathroom door from this afternoon. It doesn't scare her like it ought to. In fact, it feels good to liken a part of herself to it.
Those flames were more alive than she's felt in months.
Marcy flinches as she hears the bathroom door swing open. She pulls her legs up atop the toilet seat and wraps her free arm around them. In her opposite hand, a trail of wispy smoke travels towards the ceiling. Her fingers are still shaking, today nothing seems able to calm them.
Today? Marcy pushes the thought away. It's only today. She doesn't believe herself, she has no reason to.
The truth is that she's been on edge since her first week in Vancouver, since her first step inside Little Flower Academy. If her old school was a storm then this new one is a vortex. Marcy can't keep up. She didn't start at the other students' level. She doesn't know what she's doing here but doesn't have the courage to tell anyone they made a mistake in accepting her.
Marcy places the cigarette between her lips for no other reason than to stop her chattering teeth. This is how she spends every break in school - both the minutes between classes and the near-hour they get for lunch. Marcy has nowhere else to be. She hasn't joined any clubs, she doesn't have the time. She hasn't made any friends.
All she has is her textbooks, and even those do little but sit heavy in her bag. Marcy has tried, oh god she's tried so hard. It all used to come easily but now nothing does. She's used to most of her classes being in French back in Montreal, but that's not an option now. When the teachers and students talk, their words make as much sense as rain pounding on the windows.
Marcy buries her face atop her knees, only moving when the end of her cigarette melts a hole through her tights. She closes her eyes as the pain momentarily breaks through the cycling thoughts. She breaths in another thick cloud but it doesn't calm her.
"I heard the lowest mark was a forty." Marcy squeezes every muscle to still herself as she recognizes the voice. Alecia, in contrast to herself, is one of the most popular girls in her grade. "I wonder how she even got in."
"Daddy's money?" Naomi suggests.
"She's probably banging the math teacher," Chloe adds. "Only other gay in the school."
Marcy bites down hard on her tongue as the tears start. She doesn't have to hear her name to know, which is probably the point. No one at Little Flower seems to hold Marcy in any regard, but if she could ask them one question it would be what she ever did to them. If Alecia wants to be the top girl at the school, good for her. It's not like Marcy is any competition.
Another tear rolls down her cheek. How disappointed would Maman be if she could hear that thought?
Marcy jumps as something slams into her bathroom stall. The girls laugh and Marcy's cheeks heat up as she curls further into herself. All she wants is for them to leave. All she needs is to be alone. She doesn't want to go to lunch or to class or home or anywhere. If she could live in this bathroom forever she would.
What's the point in anything when she's half-asleep and the rest of the way to tears?
Marcy kneels on the sidewalk, her breaths coming in soft gasps that refuse to be choked down. Shaking hands pat down the pocket of her uniform and pull out a lighter. It topples to the ground as she searches for a cigarette, but all she comes away with is an empty cardboard box. It feels like she can't breathe.
"Isn't your dad a genius?"
"Hey Marcy, how do you say stupid in French?"
"Knew she couldn't cut it-"
Marcy couldn't stop the tears from falling as she grabbed for her report card. Naomi held it just out of reach as the students laughed through the hallways. Marcy let her hair fall forward in a desperate attempt to hide her tears. No matter what direction she looked, there were people blocking her way.
Marcy stares down at the lighter. She flicks her thumb over the top where the safety strip's been long removed. In an instant the air above her hand warms with the bright flame.
Eventually, she left it behind. The crowd parted as Marcy raced through, her heart alight with shame that burned behind her skin. The straight failing grades echoed in her ears louder than any of their insults. They're nothing she hasn't heard before.
What's Maman going to say?
Marcy's eyes are like glass as she stares at the bright flickers. It's alive - like the end of every cigarette, like the bathroom door of her school in Montreal - more alive than any beat of her heart. She envies it but she also finds something in it that makes the taunts and failures fade away.
Fire lights every cigarette that calms her nerves.
Fire got her out of a test all those years ago. She hadn't meant for the still-lit cigarette to engulf the school bathroom but it'd saved her. She hadn't studied as hard as she should've. It gave her another night, more reprieve than anyone else has offered. It's the only thing that's given to her when all people do is take and expect.
When Marcy looks up again, she's no longer on the street outside Little Flower Academy. She glances around the university's student services building, realizing where she is as quickly as she realizes it's no longer daytime. Every window surrounding her is dark. Her papa's likely already gone home from his research lab.
She feels the comforting weight in her hand and flicks her thumb over the top. As it has every time before, the flame flickers to life below her chin. She holds it carefully with the opposite hand, but finds a cigarette already posed between her fingers. She doesn't remember when she got one, but lights the end without hesitation.
Marcy takes one breath of smoke, closing her eyes as it trails down her throat. She drops it in the nearest trash can and takes a step back. The flame grows quickly, rising to the top as the smell of burning plastic fills the room.
What happens next is lovelier than she'd ever imagined.
A/N: Almost there. I hope y'all are enjoying intros as much as I am (I'm not even lying). If you have the time, let me know what you think of Lawrence and Marcy! As of posting, I have finished writing all the introduction chapters so celebration vibes for that.
Up next will be Dominique & Bridget!
~ Olive