The Darkness You Curse

★ Chapter two.

Nessa

It was apparent that my plan to go unnoticed failed when the town's walking symbol of pureness started greeting every single person she was walking by and with her class being held next to mine it was safe to say that an uncomfortable number of people gaped when Isadora stopped to force one of her hugs on me.

She was the complete opposite of me in more ways than her love language being physical touch while mine was to be left alone.
Today her long, golden blonde hair was up in a ponytail, looking as neat and carefully crafted as always while my dyed, black one was all over the place with its slight waves and disarray.
Whiskey colored eyes as unique as sunshine in Baneyard beamed up at me when I forced the corners of my mouth to move upwards a little. She didn't deserve to suffer under my unbearable mood swings.
I was aware that green was the rarest eye color, that I should feel somewhat special that my mother passed on her pine tree colored eyes to me but while Dora's almond shaped gaze exquisitely sparkled with gentleness, mine mirrored the emptiness I was trying to conceal.
She looked like she belonged here with her cream colored Ralph Lauren cotton sweater, grey ruffled skirt, satin bow Mary Jane flats and the golden jewelry adorning her ears and neck.

Casting a quick glance down my body it was hard not to outwardly cringe at the sight of my dirtied Pascal Virginia boots, the suddenly inappropriate short looking faded black denim skirt and the white dress shirt I had put on top of a lace corset top.

It was a good fit overall - I just didn't seem to like it when standing next to Dora in the marbled halls of Baneyard U.

Co-comparison was killing me slowly indeed, Olivia.

Naturally petite, blonde girls that looked like they had their life together had always caused the self hatred to make its appearance. And it was hard to get rid off this sickening, draining feeling when you were born a girl in a world where men set the beauty standards for women.
And despite the effort women nowadays put into preaching self-love, no matter how you looked and where you came from, the damage was already done in the heads of girls born around two decades ago.

I, quite frankly, did not care the slightest how I was perceived by the male population. What good did they ever do to deserve to have my thoughts revolving around them?
I cared about how I perceived myself.

"This is your behavioral psych class isn't it?" Dora asked me with a slight wave of her manicured hand to my closed lecture hall.

My subconscious was aware that people still stole glances at us which had my heart rate acting up slightly.
"You have the same course," I remembered her.
It was two courses with different professors due to the high interest in the subject. Funny how at least half of the people taking psychology were the ones others had to go to therapy for.

Dora let out a small, melodic laugh and nodded. "True, but I wasn't sure whether or not the other course gets taught at the same time. You can call yourself lucky, though."

That had my eyebrows rise in question.
Lucky how?

"Because of Professor Draven, you know," she rushed to explain much quieter.

It was actually 'Dr. Draven' as he liked to remember everyone who used the term Professor when addressing him but I refrained from correcting her. Mulling over how Dora's statement stood in relation to me being lucky had all the information I had about this strange man spawning in my head.
Draven was a Scottish surname meaning 'hunter', as far as I was aware, and I felt like that was about the most interesting fact I knew about him.

"What about him?" I questioned, not finding an answer to her words.

"Have you seen him?" she gaped.

Just then someone cleared their throat behind Isadora's petite frame.
My gaze slid past her, only to connect eyes with the one other person who stood out like a sore thumb.
There she stood, dressed in an oversized leather jacket, long sleeved lace top, a skirt so short that it rivaled mine, her signature over-knee fishnet stockings and heeled boots. All black, obviously - just like her hair.
The only difference between Nyx Fletcher and me was that she truly gave zero fucks. My internal struggle with chronic emptiness was nothing in comparison to her hollow shell.