MAYBE PEOPLE FEEL EMPTY BECAUSE THEY LOSE A PIECE OF THEMSELVES IN THOSE THEY ONCE LOVED; if that was true, then Rory Malcolm was destined to lose it all the moment she was born. The emptiness she felt festering beneath her speckled flesh was ever-present, a plague upon her very existence she'd never been able to grow unacquainted with. Even at the tender age of a mere four years, she'd been acutely aware that something was wrong. Every memory polluted under the crushing weight of anger and despair as she drowned beneath a smothering void. It had always felt as if an essential piece of her being had been plucked from existence. A piece she was doomed to mourn until the day she passed as nothing seemed to be able to fill the void. She had only felt it flourish as she aged, drowning her as she lost to every hurtle of her existence.
She was a child when she first felt the intensity of death and the grief it heralded. The string of fate that tethered her to existence brushing against a sharpened edge she could feel upon her throat as sure as the flames that feasted upon her flesh. Her screams drowned by the agony of a mother she failed to save from the intensity of the heat. The roaring groan as the ceiling gave way and flame became all she could discern, all orange wisps and blackened smoke that drowned and made every breath feel like acid in her lungs. She begged for death then, for the pain to stop as she watched the flames eat their way ever closer with the promise of an agonizing release. Momentary suffering with the promise of blissful salvation. Her salvation quickly stolen away by a savior. His eyes blood-shot and black as he slurred what would've been reassurances had she not already accepted freedom over the agony of the burns that had completely marred her right arm, crawling upon her shoulder blade and traipsing towards her upper spine.
She'd go on to argue that death would've been far more merciful than the path thrust upon her the moment her survival had been assured. Life was cruel and the world full of atrocities she found herself facing at an age far too young. She'd been burned, broken, and oh-so empty when she found herself thrust into a system full of failure and trauma. Being bounced from house to house, forced to live as little more than a paycheck for those whose greed drove them to smile just long enough for the checks to clear; or those who thought a poor, burned orphan to be a quick way to boost their reputation. She'd allowed them all to use her as a puppet, allowed them to pluck her strings with the deluded hope that maybe, just maybe, they'd want her if she played along. That someone would want her if she let them use her.
They never did.
At fifteen, she'd grown bitter and callous, full of spite and resentment as she cursed her very existence. She cursed her birth-mother and father, the man and woman who didn't love her enough to keep her, choosing to abandon her to the fate she suffered. Her unsigned birth certificate that hadn't even granted her a name the catalyst of her tragic existence. Her body, too worn and broken for one so young, searing with an all encompassing anger that itched to be released at every turn. Manifesting in swinging fists and bloody knuckles. Rage and indifference were her chosen defense mechanism, with walls so thick none could penetrate them as she swung with blind fury that engulfed her at the drop of a hat. A temper prone to explode, ensuring everyone and everything was held at a distance was easier than waiting for them to leave. She would always be left in the end, usually once her foster families grew tired of the problems she caused. It's why she had no family, no friends, and nothing to her name aside from a single stuffed fox and an iPod. They were her only remnants of the life so horrifically stolen from her all those years ago by carelessly installed electrical wiring. Everything else she carried, filling up a single trash bag of meager givings, tossed into the back seat of a matte-grey sedan. All state provided toiletries and hand me down clothing she never considered hers.
Her newest social worker, Penelope Worthington was sat in the drivers seat of the sedan, navigating the winding roads of rural Maine with a strange familiarity that just seemed to raise the girls annoyance. She was an old crow of a woman; graced with sharp features, characterized by the harshness of her cheekbones and a slanted scowl that sat too low upon her aging face. Marred by crows' feet and laugh-lines that aged her features in excess. Rory already didn't like her as she rambled through the expectations of her new school - prison. Her rasping voice, remiss of a bird's indignant squawking, grating through uninteresting rambles that had her tempted to launch herself from the car, if only to spare her poor ears.
Westover Hall was a military school, a prison for troubled kids like her. An attempt by her social worker to correct her errant behavior after the events of her last expulsion. If it wasn't for the other kid throwing the first punch, she'd of surly found herself in juvie for breaking his nose. Either way it got her away from the creepy math professor who always eyed her like she was just looking for a reason to pounce. Rory would even swear on her life, not that it was valued all that much, that her eyes would sometimes flash red like something out of one of those crappy vampire romances some of her fosters liked. She convinced herself it was a trick of lighting, but she knew deep down it wasn't.
"This place will be good for you," Rory's eyes had never rolled so hard in her life as her narrowed lips twisted into a scowl. She'd yet to stop rambling and it was igniting her short fuse. How many fights would it take to get expelled? She was already wondering, absentmindedly peering into the thicket of trees that flanked both sides of the road. Just the thought of being trapped - caged within the walls of the school had her fingers twitching with the desire to throw open the door and launch herself out of the car. If she was lucky, the impact with the road would kill her instantly. If not, well, at least she wouldn't have to concern herself with school for a good long while.
Though perhaps dungeon was a more fitting description of the place as she watched Westover Hall come into view. It looked like a gothic, medieval castle plucked straight out of a crappy rendition of Dracula. All black stone and slit windows, placed atop a tall cliff overlooking the tumultuous waters of the Atlantic, and a frost covered forest that had been the girls only entertainment on the drive. Though she'd be lying if she said she wasn't slightly disappointed that they didn't go all out, the castle lacked cool gargoyles, and the fact ominous organ music didn't just spontaneously start playing through the speakers was a crime.
"I really do think you'll like it here Aurora," Penelope had a wide smile on her face, the tires crunching gravel as she pulled around the castle to a parking area. Large wooden doors like the entrance to Mordor looming ahead of them.
"It's Rory and trust me, I won't." She'd never been more sure of anything in her life as her eyes, wide and colored a dark almond, glared up at the school with a vitriolic fire blazing behind her iris'. She'd be kicked out and off to another foster faster than she could unpack.
"I don't think you understand, Aurora," Rory knew she said it on purpose that time, her scowl juxtaposed by gnashing teeth. "You will be here until you learn to behave and act as a responsible, well-mannered young adult. There is no expulsion here, only reform. This school was the one of very few willing to accept you with your history and the most experienced with troubled youth. You will not be leaving until Principle Thorn notifies me that you've made improvement."
She let her gaze, full of hate, fall upon the hag, her smile all snarling teeth as she shoved open the door. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."
- So -
Golden Laurel everyone!
What do you think? Who do you think Rory's godly parent is??
Aurora "Rory" Malcolm is played by Luca Hollestelle
