Outcasts » Luke Hemmings

➥ one: saving your precious ass

IF I SAID HUMAN BEINGS weren't fucked up, I'd be lying.

We're self-obsessive, judgmental, and reckless. We couldn't even manage to give a shit about other human beings, because in the end, all that matters to us is ourselves. All the misunderstood actions are meant to benefit ourselves, and only ourselves; that's the sad truth about reality. We place brutal judgments on those we do not know, as if we understood them and observed them over the course of our lives. We say whatever the hell pops into our minds without thinking of the aftermath. And in the end, we beg world peace and unity.

Everything we do is to protect ourselves from the vulgar world that we are obligated to live in. We place arbitrary thoughts on those we don't know because it'll save us from fear and insanity. We obsess over ourselves because we want to be praised for grace and ownership. We humans are imprudent because we've grown up learning how to adapt to pain, or at the least bit, to conceal our misery. And although, we attempt to salvage the only happiness we have left, we slowly destroy ourselves in return.

That's exactly what happened in Riverdale High.

Every single person in that corrupt building that they call high school was diabolical and filled with pure hatred. Their eyes would hide a grey storm of anguish, though their ascending lips spoke of a different story. Everyone aches of melancholy, and although we refuse to admit to our sadness, we think we can be saved without a spoken word. Truth is; we can't. Others cannot see through a deceptive façade. Humans weren't designed to be mind readers, so every day, people live in shame and lug hope between their feet but the miracle never seems to appear.

And it all began because of the social hierarchy.

We are positioned onto a caste pyramid, as if we are a stack of soup cans. At the highest of the shrine, are the Royals, or whatever the hell they want to call themselves. They're feisty, arrogant, controlling fuck ups who created the caste pyramid in the first place.

Then, there are the Aristocrats, who are next in line to gaining full popularity. They're the ones who later become the highest of the pyramid social pyramid by gaining their position. In order to gain full attention was by acting upon an event that exemplifies an unseen greatness. Every Royal has begun at the Aristocrats, who are mainly known by presenting themselves in a daunting attitude, and of course, being part of a wealthy family.

Below the Aristocrats are the Proficient, who in which major in contrasting talents. The Proficient are the ones who are blessed with a variety of extraordinary skills such as being musically and athletically talented. The uppers look down the Proficient with a vast amount of respect and admiration.

Then, there are the Shrewd, who are placed at the second lowest of the castes. They are the ones who are supreme in cleverness and are guaranteed a position in future occupations and universities. They are perceived as happiness killers, since they constantly spend their time by not being audacious enough to rebel against their parents by defiantly refusing against their orders and demands.

At the very bottom of the food chain, are the Outcasts, who are glanced upon like peasants and mess ups. They've gained their position by allowing themselves to be stepped upon or simply not attracting the eyes of the uppers. In various cases, many have done embarrassing acts and events in the past and so lowered themselves from high to low. And once you've lowered yourself, you are never able climb back up again.

And that's how I, Reagan Tate, the everlasting Outcast met Luke Hemmings, the previous Royal.

✎ ✎ ✎ ✎ ✎

The event of the year took place while I was in the school library.

A Proficient ran into the library, hollering rambunctiously, as if someone had died. The musician—Erin Shaw—gathered the book readers into a miniature circle, swiveling around her. The horde of students varied with a large amount of people, each from a distinct caste level, joined together as one. Their eyes fixated on the musician, searching her posture for answers.

Being the considerate angel that I was, I didn't give two flying fucks. Riverdale radiated of drama and dilemmas to the point that you get used to the shit. Our school was screwed up, and we cared way too much of the issues of others, even though we may have not been involved.

So being the smartass that I was, I sat on the beige sofa, miles away from the head of the scene, but my ears attentive. I resumed reading my book—some lousy scientific book about the process of how babies are made—which I couldn't manage to concentrate on over the deafening yells and hushed whispers.

It was three minutes later when a refrain of howls echoed across the library—not like the librarian was concerned—while the swarm of pupils shot out the door in a synchronized dance. And that was exactly my cue to hop from the couch and trail alongside to the mob of seekers.

We reached the crime scene in the cafeteria. It was quite amusing, really. Blood, bruises, and yells were just my kind of thing, especially taking into consideration that it was a fight involving the Royals.

The undeniably egotistical Luke Hemmings was sprawled against the hard floor ground; beat up in bruises and blood. His blood boiled, veins popping, sweat trickling, while an entertained crowd surrounded them. Aiden—the son of a bitch—took a step forward, and Luke groaned, "Piss off Aiden."

It was a stupid thing to do because it had only provoked Aiden into kicking him again.

"You fucking think that you can pull off a stunt like that and get the hell away with it," Aiden cackled, kicking him once again. His fist clenched, as his cheeks flushed crimson, "You're wrong Luke because you'll always get caught."

When another hit was to emerge, his girlfriend—Ellen—tugged him by the arm, muttering something into his ear—probably to subdue his anger—and pulled him away. Then he left, ushering the crowd away. No teachers, no students, nothing. No one looked twice Luke Hemmings, leaving him be without the usual kind pleasantries.

Luke was laid on the cold floor, moaning inhumanly sounds. He clutched his stomach in pain, and let out a string of growled profanities.

I sat on a bench, watching him in amusement. His groans continued, and a puff of my hot breath swam into the air, "That's not going to get you anywhere."

Luke's hands propped himself into a crouching position, allowing him to have a better look at the source. As soon as he saw me—the Outcast—his oceanic eyes transformed into scorching red fire. He grimaced, his voice filled with fiery and anger, "Do you know who you're talking to?"

I laughed, the chorus of chuckles erupted throughout the cafeteria. My eyes burned holes through him, like beams of laser. My voice surprisingly ice cold. "Luke Hemmings. Notorious Royal who screwed up when he was caught kissing the asshole's girlfriend." I smirked. The aggravation grew evident on his face and I laughed, "Too bad you were down casted."

"You don't know shit," he boomed; his voice as loud as the thunder.

He was wrong. He was always wrong. I squinted, my eyes turning to slates. Scoffing, my legs crossed one another, intertwined. "I know more than you think," I calmly said while his fists repeated the routine of clenching and unclenching. My eyebrows rose, challenging him, and I licked my lips, "One being that as soon as everyone walked from this room, you were no longer a classy royal."

That riled him, his breaths quickening as if he had been running a marathon,"Shut the hell up."

"Don't shut out the only source of help you'll be receiving," I said pleasantly.

He flared, eyelids concealing his dark pools of aquatic eyes, "I don't need help."

"That true, you need more than help," I smugly smirked.

"Fuck off," he said but with no conspicuous emotion.

My eyes flickered to his dribbling blood and I tugged on the strands of my hair. I jumped from the bench and lingered closer to him. My hands pushed the blond hair from his face while my fingertips pressed onto his swollen face. His skin burned heat, and that's when I stood up, pulling him with me.

His eyebrows furrowed out of confusion. "What are you doing?" He asked; his tone tiredly soft.

I smiled, as I propped his arm against my shoulder. "What do you think I'm doing?" I asked. Lugging his body with mine like a coordinated dance, I beamed, "I'm saving your precious ass."