HELLRAISER ↳ DEADLY CLASS

EIGHT: TRAUMA AND RED STRINGS

EIGHT
[ trauma and red strings !]

SHE WAS TOLD TO MEET MARCUS AT THE GRAVEYARD AT 8, him telling her between classes earlier that afternoon. She really hated being around him at the moment, as he had kind of been up Maria's ass. The amounts of times she's tried to go to her room, and walked in on the two making out, was uncountable.

She walked out, seeing the boy writing in his notebook, sitting in the center of the courtyard. She strutted towards the boy, heels clicking on the cement. He looked up, his brown eyes meeting hers. She leaned against a pillar, smiling to him, as he took off his headphones.

"What's so important we're playing the cloak-and-dagger routine?" She crossed her arms over her chest, raising an eyebrow at him.

"I'm in some trouble. We all are... I found out where Chico's body is."

Her jaw slightly dropped, and eyes narrowed at him, "What."

He stood up, and began to explain himself, "When we were in Vegas, I-I thought it was the acid, but he was tracking me, and now my old roommate has Chico's body."

"Shit. If he tells the cartel Maria has—," She worries, stepping forward, their faces centimeters apart. "You can't tell her, okay. She's barely holding it together as is," He cut off, trying to keep his girlfriend out of the mess.

"Right. Maria kills Chico and leaves us all royally fucked, but let's not upset her," She yells at him, after rubbing her hands over her face. Anger running through her bloodstream. All the pent up rage she held for weeks, catching up to her.

"I shouldn't have come to you." He began packing his things up, her scoffing at his childish actions. "Oh, don't act like you had any other option. My ass is on the line, too, you know? And Billy's, and Willie's, and yours. So.. who is he?" Her face held a hard glare, wanting nothing more than to not be in this situation.

He held his notebook out to her, eyes drifting from hers down to the checkered covered book. "March of '86," He muttered, sucking in his lips. "This is personal shit, isn't it?" She asked, debating reading his own diary entries.

"I trust you, more than anyone," He cleared his throat, trying to break the uncomfortable silence, that resulted from his driven statement. She looked at him longingly, then sighed, taking it from him. "Your funeral," She quietly murmured, sitting on the bench, beginning to flip through the pages.

Her eyes danced around the small doodles and shitty hand writing, looking for the entry from the time he told.

One way or another, i'm getting out. The other kids have all just accepted that we're going to be working in this sweatshop, that there's no other option for us but this crooked orphanage and these pervert who run it. Today I'll show them different, and they'll never see it coming.