Wild Youth //Opal&Thorn

It feels like it happened only yesterday. Xanthus Grimm was dead and I was feeling as though I had seen him alive, well and happy only last night. Everywhere I looked I was reminded of him. A glance at a painting, at a statue or even at the walls that lined his home was enough to make me remember every little thing I knew about him. From the hair, to the smile to the little habits he had it was all as clear as day in my mind. Sitting there pooling itself in the pit of my stomach where it would make me ache later on. It was certainly doing a very good job of making my heart pound and my breathing come in ragged, unusual gasps. The meeting with Nero had gone awfully, it had taken every bit of will-power I owned to not cry in front of him. I had sensed within the first few moments of meeting him that he was a boy that showed no love, kindness or care to anything he touched. It seemed that, however, Xanthus had left a stain on his heart, one that had been tainted by my words. I felt raw around the edges as though someone had grabbed me, dunked me and scrubbed me until I had begun to bleed. His words had cut into my body, peeling away the layers of defence I had built until I had been that same small, vulnerable child only a year ago.

I hated him. I hated him with a passion. And it was impossibly rude of me to even think such dreadful things. But I really and truly hated Nero Grimm. He was rude; he was cruel, harsh and simply uncaring. Yet he spoke with that same frosty edge as Xanthus had that same formalness that had made me laugh. That same tone that I had fallen in love with. In that way he reminded me so much of Xanthus I could almost picture him standing there right beside me. But that was simple foolishness and stupidity. Nero Grimm was not Xanthus; I couldn’t imagine Xanthus ever speaking to me in the same manner as he had. It seemed that all Nero had wanted was to break me down and destroy me. As though everything I has said was meaningless, as though I had been were lying right to his face, when in truth every word I had spoken had been nothing but the painful, obvious truth that had been weighing on my heart for almost a year.

I missed Xanthus. And yet Nero was able to deny that simple fact in greater thought that it was easier to hate me then understand me. I hated him for it, and yet I found myself hating myself for being so childish at the same time. It had been as clear as day that I would never have persuaded Nero to think differently of me, trying had been but a weak attempt at some sort of justification for my horrendous actions. No words, no lies, nothing would ever make it better; it had become crystal clear that Nero was determined to hate me forever. Accepting it was the hard part, especially when I was desperate to be forgiven.

It was why I found myself wondering the empty, isolated halls of Xanthus Grimm’s home. Running a hand along the walls I move deeper into his home. The sound of the music and the party was no more than a mere echo. I had no reason to be here, I knew it was very wrong of me to be doing this, but I couldn’t help myself. There had been no need for me to remain at the party, in fact there had been no need for me to even come, I’d simply come to allow myself to suffer more pain and agony then my body could cope with. And then after the brutal verbal bashing it had suffered I had decided I would let myself linger for a bit longer in this agony.

When I found his room I didn’t even hesitate, some part of me secretly driving me forwards and into the perils that awaited. It was dark and gloomy as I set foot into the room, and my hand was at first reluctant to turn the light on, but after a few moments I did so. What greeted me hardly surprised me. I wasn’t sure what I had been expecting, and yet when I saw it I instantly knew it was his room; I could see the markings that he had left behind. It was clean, it was clear and it was everything that represented Xanthus Grimm. At first my steps were almost unsure, but my heart called out and I moved into it, allowing myself to be swallowed by some desperate feeling of needing to know more about my best friend. I wanted to know everything I could about him, and even though I was evading his privacy I couldn’t bring myself to walk out and away.

Sitting on the first dresser was a photo frame and at a first glimpse it is enough to almost have me in tears. Slowly I reach forwards and grab it. In the frame is a picture of Xanthus, younger then he was when he went into the arena, but every single bit of him is as perfect and mature as what I had seen. I move backwards, walking almost dreamlike into one of the chairs by the fire place. I’m not sure how long I sat sitting there; I’m not sure why I just had to stare at it for so long, running a finger over the frame ever so gently. But I jump when I hear the voice, cold, dangerous and unfriendly, ”you're not meant to be here. This is off limits, what are you doing?”

I’m not sure why I say it, but I do. Maybe it was the dull lighting, or maybe it was the way he had moved like a ghost, maybe it was the voice, or the fleeting glimpse. But I say it. ”Xan?”

As soon as I say it I want to take it back, because it isn’t him. I killed him.

Feeling my way through the darkness
Guided by a beating heart
I can't tell where the journey will end
But I know where to start
They tell me I'm too young to understand