Prom Queen ｡ Michael Langdon

9 - BRUISED CHILDREN

     Tate Langdon. Michael Langdon. Her mind was busy, stuck on a song like when one of her mother's records gets caught on the needle. Langdon. Langdon. Langdon. Her bottom lip was raw and bleeding from where she had caught it between her teeth when the last bell sounded at the end of the day.

     Carrie Moore couldn't land on a single clear thought, not about Michael Langdon, not anymore. He was a Satanist that was possibly related to a teenage serial killer. Her religion told her not to judge people, and she was trying so desperately not to, as she dragged her golden cross along the chain of her necklace. 

     It was an overcast day, which was rare in Los Angeles, and the lack of sunshine seemed to match the doubt milling in Carrie's heart as she walked out of the school gate. She wasn't looking for Michael, hadn't expected him to be sitting under his tree, his knees pulled up against his chest and his black military boots propped up against the roots. And it was a small shock to her system, for Michael hadn't shown up to walk her home last Friday, not after the events of last Thursday afternoon.

     She stopped on the pathway a few meters away, her eyes soaking him in. Thick golden strands of hair curled over his forehead and over the earphones tucked into his ears. He was drawing something in the dirt with his finger, too absorbed in his actions to see anything around him. But Carrie knew he was the most observant boy she knew; he was good at picking people apart silently, opening up their hearts and letting the secrets and the sins and the desires spill out. And one day, he'd be excellent at seeing what made people tick, pushing people to their limits, and it would be wickedly wonderful to watch. Right now, Michael Langdon just looked like a boy waiting for a girl under a tree. 

     Ava Gold had shown Carrie a photograph of Tate Langdon attached to an article during lunch that day. Carrie hadn't believed her friend, so Ava had found an article from 1994 detailing the boy that went on a killing spree.

     The resemblance between Tate and Michael was astonishing and it caused gooseflesh to rise along Carrie's skin, prickling at the nape of her neck. She didn't want to believe it, but the evidence was strong. Michael was related to Tate Langdon somehow. One would think, regarding the uncanny resemblance, that they were father and son, but the dates didn't line up, seeing as Tate Langdon had died in 1994 and Michael didn't look older eighteen. With a troubled mind, Carrie had asked Ava why Tate Langdon had killed those teenagers but she had only shrugged, saying: 'that's the million dollar question.' To this day, Tate Langdon's motivation for massacring fifteen people was still a mystery. 

     Someone barged by Carrie then, ramming their shoulder into hers, knocking her out of her thought bubble. She muttered out an apology, eyes still lingering on Michael Langdon under his tree. She wondered if she could just walk right by him. He probably won't notice her, not when he was too distracted with etching something into the dirt. 

     A breeze made Carrie's hair blow into her face and it was then that Michael's head snapped up as the delightful and vexing infusion of honey and blood drifted on the moving air. It was too late for Carrie to avoid him now. Michael hurried to his feet, not bothering to dust off his black, ripped jeans. He stuffed his earphones and MP3 player into his pocket as he stepped forward to meet Carrie. 

     "I didn't expect you here today," Carrie said, her voice was cold like the artic. "You didn't show Friday." She hadn't meant her voice to be so harsh, but she suddenly saw Tate's inky black eyes instead of Michael's vibrant blue ones. 

     Michael bowed his head and hurt flashed across his face, but only for the briefest of moments. "I didn't think you wanted me too." It was true. Michael had fought within himself all day that Friday and he was about to step outside that afternoon when Miriam told him to let Carrie be that day, and every day after that. It had been a long and torturous weekend, and not even a Black Mass had brought up his spirits. He broke today though, throwing judgment and caution to the wind; he desperately wanted to see Carrie Moore, his friend, no matter the cost or the possible hurt it would bring him if she were to regret him.