Saints & Sinners

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve:

My locker slammed shut before me, and I saw him. His smile, those eyes, that smirk he had saved just for me.

Tristan.

I sighed at him, drooling my bag lamely over my shoulders as I turned to face him. "What are you-"

"Shhhhh," he interrupted, his finger going straight to my lips, holding it there. His voice was husky and deep, somehow that allured me, it made me... want him? No. Not that. Not like that. Not at all. Never. "Don't speak, just kiss me," he murmured, his voice nothing more than an echo in my ears, a whisper in the school halls.

Everyone was looking, but I didn't stop him. He didn't care. Their eyes were glued to us, our faces pressing closer and closer, our lips drifting further and further towards each other. And just as I felt myself ready to collide with him:

"Get up! Up, up, up!"

NO! NO, NO, NO!

I shot straight out of bed, waking only to her pale grey eyes, eyes like vicious ice. I hated those eyes. They ruined what was a perfect dream.

Wait. No, not a dream, an insane nightmare that means nothing and shall never mean anything other than nothing.

I wish I could have said that it was a one time dream, but it wasn't. More of them followed, most of them in bizarre and very lucid situations, situations that I couldn't even have thought possible, and this dream wasn't the first. Or the last.

Then again, dreams were supposed to be impossible. So, in that sense, whatever was happening in these dreams was completely impossible. Nothing to worry about, Sebastian. Nothing at all. You're fine. Just fine.

"Why am I alive?!" I groaned, forcing my lumpy self out of bed bitterly.

I just quite plainly couldn't be bothered for an entire day of school, especially after enduring that nightmare. And to think, it wasn't just any normal school, it was this petty religious anti-everything festival that everyone seemed to just let happen.

What was wrong with the people in this town? It was just worrying how easy it had been for Mikhail Medevik and his saints to get away with everything just because they were Christian, they discoloured the ideals of Christianity and made it into a horror show of maiming and murder.

If the Nancy Butler story that Sander had told me was true, then I had a lot more to be worried about than a silly twisted ankle. A twisted ankle was nothing when compared to what they did to her.

I got seriously terrified whenever I saw any of them, and when they ignored me, I'd came up with this wicked plan in my head that they were plotting something behind my back, something that wouldn't end very gladly for me.

"I ask myself that question more than I should," Agatha replied, tossing my school clothes into my arms. It woke me up a little more, I'll give her that.

"You ask yourself why you're alive more than you should?" I raised an eye at her.

"No, I ask myself why you're alive more than I should. Now get your uniform on, boy, and sort that hair out or I will seriously get the garden shears."

Her face was so stern that I couldn't tell if she was bluffing or not, and I couldn't very well call her on it because that would risk me my full head of blond hair that everyone seemed so open to enjoy and compliment. And, as vain as it sounds, I liked the compliments. Even though I only really wanted them from one specific person.

"Fine. I'll fix it, sorry," I muttered, waiting for her to leave so that I could change. When she made no move to, I asked, "Can I have some privacy?"