18+ || 𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙡, 𝙘𝙤𝙧𝙧𝙪𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙙

Ⅰ. suitcase half-full

❝𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘺𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘥𝘢𝘺, 𝘮𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘰𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘸, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦, 𝘨𝘭𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦, 𝘵𝘰𝘥𝘢𝘺.❞

―Robert Jordan

♟

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 where I realize that maybe, just possibly, this could be a human trafficking ring. I haven't been unceremoniously slammed into someone's trunk or knocked out with chloroform, though, so maybe they were serious about this mysterious castle-school-on-a-mountain thing. Swarms of students ran from taxis under umbrellas or braved the armageddon-level rain without covering and into the awaiting maw of the Poppy. From the muddled view of my seventh-floor window, they all looked like a kindergartener's attempt at an Impressionist painting. The aftermath of my mad dash through the rain was still sitting in my hair, dripping down my nose, and soaking into the threads of my socks. 

Ugh. I forgot where I packed the spares. 

Judging by the fact there was two bedrooms in this quaint (hint: fucking tiny) dorm, I should be expecting another companion to join me soon, which means I should probably try to present myself semi-well. Wasn't there a freshman orientation in an hour? That's probably enough time to unpack the jungle that is my suitcase. I shudder but fall to my knees anyway, unzipping and flipping open the fraying valise, exposing the incompetency of my planning. Here we can see Delphine in her natural habitat: trifling through the Leaning Tower of Crap for a fresh pair of socks. My ears catch a crackle as my fingers run into a crumpled paper somewhere between Old Shirts Plateau and Sweater Valley, slowly trying to pull it out without damaging the paper more than it already was. 

My acceptance letter. 

Totally not important at all. 

I still recall my exhaustion as I dragged myself through the hallways of my high school towards the counselor's office; the only time I was forced into that mildewy box was when they were "concerned" with my grades and "wanted to reach out" and simply "touch bases" to make sure everything was okay. Obviously, I took the long way, making sure to wind past the empty cafeteria and peek into each classroom for a few seconds. I had been expecting the same speech, where I'd inevitably sit in silence and wait for Ms. Blum to stop looking at me with frog eyes full of false pity and scalding judgment. 

The door was already open, and I could see Ms. Blum's frame turned away and combing papers. My body compressed as the atoms in all my organs tried to reorganize into soup. Unfortunately, she heard the click of my steps, and spun around in her chair to grin at me with her millennia-old sneer. 

"Ah! Sweetheart, you would never guess who wrote to you! Keep this safe in your backpack. I'll be here if you need help getting back to them." 

In her hands: the only chance to change my life. 

♟

Someone needs to tell the guy next to me that he reeks. You'd think four years of high school would have knocked some sense (and deodorant) into him, but even his skyward nose seemed to try and run from his stench. Leaving would be the most obvious option, if I wasn't caged in by two giggly girls whose laughter I didn't want to interrupt by shimmying through the cramped aisle. Most people seemed to arrive in pairs, with who I presumed to be their roommate, but mine had made no sign of existing for the forty-or-so minutes I was in my room. In that time (and without divine intervention), I swapped my dampened clothing for a coffee brown turtleneck and grey plaid skirt. My sweater pooled around my neck and hands while my skirt clung to my thighs, squeezing my legs as I bounced and clicked my black heels.