The Bane of Light

Not Bothered by YOUR Talking

"The willingness to live and die in society
is a mark of great deficiency. It is a thousand times preferable to die somewhere alone and abandoned,
so that you can die without melodramatic posturing, unseen by anyone"- Emil Cioran

∞

I despised Paris Arobynn. I hated him. I hate many things in life, but Paris Arobynn trumped nearly all of them. He was an arrogant, entitled  brat, simply put. Throughout our entire schooling career, he rivaled my grades, my achievements, my scores. And while I did this stealthily and quietly, never bothering to point out my hard-earned ranking, or my numerous achievements, he did it with a gaudy flashiness that made sure everybody knew Paris Arobynn was Head Boy. It made my blood boil, seeing Paris Arobynn being carried off by a crowd every other year for something as basic as winning the annual Crusade, the end-of the year War Games that Paris had been leading since we got to the upper classes.

He always needed somebody's praise, somebody's adoration, thinking that his opinion was important, that people cared about it. And it didn't matter, if nobody gave a damn about what Paris Arobynn had to say, he still said it anyways, as if his words had any substance to them. I despised Paris  for his inflated sense of self-importance, for his bigger-than-life ego, and most of all, for his nerve.

What was worse, was the fact that Paris didn't even know he was rivaling me. His grades were effortless, always top of the class with students begging to do his homework. Even if they didn't do his part of the project, or didn't give him the answer key, he was still smart. Smart enough to be Head Boy, and smart enough to be fifth in our class ranking.

Life was so unbelievable unfair that Paris had everything handed to him. He had the golden looks, and the charming personality, and the Light Magic that was adored by the Magical community, and the natural intelligence to get perfect marks without even trying. And to top it all off, his family was affluent and prominent in the Mage community, feeding him generations worth of overzealous power into his bloodstream. His parents were even nice! They were nice, affectionate parents!

He had it all, and yet chose to remain the pathetic, local hero, wasting all his potential on this moth-ridden school. He might as well have had spit in my face, as I was drowning, trying to claw my way up to the spot he was walking all over. That was my spot, one I was so desperately trying to reach, while Paris Arobynn simply stumbled upon it in a flash of luck. Life was not fair, and Paris Arobynn was here every day to remind me of it.

But this was all old news, aspects of my drab life that I had inevitably- and bitterly- come to terms with. The current reason that I was stewing in rage, in regards to Paris, was because the assembly he was responsible for had been dragging on for four bloody hours now. Not because he slaughtered my hard earned demon, or involved my friends into my mess. Hell, not even because he burned my neck. No, this was because we had been sitting at a bloody funeral assembly for Paris' friend, for four straight hours.

I knew he helped plan this monstrosity of an assembly. So he was responsible for my cramping calves, for the stench of sweat in the stuffy, cathedral air, and for people constantly touching and brushing up against me in the close proximity of the pews. I hated Paris Arobynn, the hatred multiplying by each passing minuet.

"You're glaring" Ibet murmured in her low voice, not bothering to look up from her book. I snapped my head in her direction, and realized that I was- indeed- glaring. And grinding my teeth. And clenching my fists. All while staring down a disturbed-looking Paris from across the chapel.

"So are they" I nodded towards the twins, who were singling out members of the audience. They were bored again. They were always bored, especially at seminars where they knew every memorized word before it left the speakers mouth.