Outcasts » Luke Hemmings

➥ three: cope with pain

                   I ALREADY HEARD THE HUSHED whispers when I entered the doors of Riverdale High.

The inky atmosphere was strained; the tension so thick that I felt as if I was being stifled. A hazy cloud of suspense whirled its way through the unoccupied hallways, and I felt the trepidation emit from my entire body. But despite my unease, there was a bubbling chorus of faint laughter that erupted into the air, in an attempt to deceive me with joy.

I hadn't often cared for dilemmas that occurred in this hell hole of a school, since it always tended to overwhelm me with a mist of amusement. Though, after the incident, I hadn't seen Luke for nearly a week. I wasn't brooding, of course, but Luke fucking Hemmings was an obstinate asshole, and whenever the fuck he does decide to return to school, he will undoubtedly display no restrains for his indignations.

It was fuckin' peculiar, because after the incident transpired, the news promulgated as rapidly as the overpowering of technology, and then the upsurge ceased, almost as swiftly as cheetah hunting its prey. Luke still hadn't returned to school after four days, and hell, everyone knew he looked like a goddamn savage—bruises and gashes distinctly evident on his pale skin—but what made the consequences much worse was that he didn't punctually return the following day. And don't get me wrong, I knew that he was beat up in dark wounds, but the least he could've done was drag his injured ass out of bed and return to Riverdale instead of displaying himself as a petrified pussy.

To render my suspicions, I meticulously meandered down the vacant halls, my eyes prowling my surroundings, lurking for my imperceptible confirmations. It was minutes later when I heard a shrill voice bellow my name—the urgency was doubtlessly conspicuous—and my head automatically veered clockwise, my figure pivoting.

My pupils dilated, and I could distinguish the features of Kyra Marlin—a girl with glossy raven hair and fearful charcoal eyes—and she hurtled towards me, hasty as the speed of light. Once she neared me, she sedated her pace, her strides more relaxed, but cautious. "Reagan," Kyra respired, and her hands collapsed to her knees as she bent over, attempting to catch her breath.

My eyes trail gracefully to the ground, before gazing at her dark onyx irises again. "What?" I inquired forcibly, my tone dwindling in the suffocating air. Of course, I knew Kyra. I'd actually made acquaintance with her months ago, but that didn't quite mean that we had often interacted, other than trekking alongside to each other in the crowded hallways, sharing muffled hearsays. It was the type of friendship where you knew them, and you technically considered them a friend, but you had barely spoken to each other, and neither was it officially declared.

"Luke Hemmings," she began, tugging on her jet black hair. The syllables of Luke's name beheld my attention completely; my ears perceptive. Trust me when I say that I didn't know why the fuck I was so vigilant when it came to Luke, and maybe it's because I had been in his position at one period of time, but our stories had been so utterly disparate, but at the same time, we were entwined. We weren't at all similar, but in the end, I understood him, and in this very moment, that's all that mattered to me. "He's in the upstairs corridor," Kyra concluded, racking over my face for a reaction.

I could feel my chest contracting, my thoughts building with concern, rumbling thunderously. I thought of all the possibilities, and suddenly, I grew urgent. "Thanks, Kyra." I said impassively, feeling rushed.

At that, I smiled tightly, as my legs dashed up the staircase. With Luke's fury, I could've already predicted what he incited. And that's the thing, he was a goddamn barbarian. He could trigger rage, and he knew the exact words to say. But even with that power, it landed him into deep shit that could get him whipped for thirty years, and I wouldn't be surprised if he were to one day be assassinated.