JUST MY TYPE

remnants of the past

maybe it was the fact that his eyes were quite literally glued on you even when you were trying to focus on the questions in front of you. or maybe it was that he would just let out silent chuckles and give you that silly smile of his whenever you got a question right. needless to say, you could not focus.

"focus is the key, [name]. just focus on the god damned question, got it?" the man's voice echoed in your mind once more. his tone was anything but friendly, unlike that of a father's. it was cold, severe, and unyielding.

you grit your teeth, pressing your pen harder into the paper. no, not him again. no, not when everything was going well... 

"[name]? what's the matter?" a hand came in contact with your arm, that wretched scar that extended across your arm, and instinctively, you flinched. "w-wha? o-oh, it's you. sorry about that, it is nothing." you replied rashly, gulping as you refocus your attention back on the paper in front of you, inching away from him. right, algebraic equations. the past does not affect you, it does not- 

but the moment you looked back up at the boy, his hand was still where it had been, and his gaze downcast. upon noticing you had seen him, he quickly retracted his hand, swallowing hard. 

that expression. 

that forlorn, hurt expression, was something you were all too familiar with. something you remembered so clearly in the deepest pits of your mind that you were so sick of. 

"father! look, i painted this!" a girl, practically bursting with excitement, skipped into the room. 

"[name]. how many times have i told you, you should be focusing on your goddamned studies. art is for the useless ones. now go make yourself useful," the significantly taller man didn't even bother looking at the piece of paper held in the girl's hands, turning his head away in disinterest. 

"b-but father, my art teacher said i did well..." the girl said in disappointment, still holding out the paper. 

the man snatched the paper, looking at it and scoffing. "you must know, your father is always right. dare defy that, and you will regret it." 

the girl could only watch in horror as her painting was torn into hundreds of shreds of paper which fluttered onto the floor, with an expression with a myriad of emotions, none of which were positive. 

blinking back tears, she ran into her room, her haven of safety. where she was free from her father's shackles, where she could be alone with her thoughts and the blissful silence. 

or so she thought? 

her father was a drunkard, one who involved himself more with trivial affairs of his wine, his booze, or gambling. his daughter always was his second concern, or if not lower. 

never first, from the moment she was born. 

that night ended in bloodshed. her father had one too many drinks, and she was completely out of it. one mistake, one hit. her hands had been scarred, blood dripping onto the paper as her grip around her pen tightened, trying to focus despite the crimson-red liquid seeping into her answers. 

that had all happened, in the comfort of her own room. 

that day, was the day she had realised she was not safe, as long as her father was there. 

that girl had been you. 

"I'm sorry," the words slipped out of your mouth instantly when you saw his expression. 

he simply remained stunned in that position for a while, and then he scoffed, followed by dry laughter. 

"you are one hell of a mystery, arent you, miss vice head prefect?" 

"you too, mister playboy."