kyler petralia, district seven | finished

kyler petralia, district seven | finished Aug 18, 2017 20:50:33 GMT -5

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Post by gamemaker 🍒 maryn hale on Aug 18, 2017 20:50:33 GMT -5

K Y L E R .

White teeth and white lies — you've always focused everything on your lips. They take and they give, and you're always smiling. A grin when you stab, and a smirk when you stitch up the cuts; are you a hypocrite, or are you just confused? You've never been one for self-reflection. You always left the deep thoughts to Mayson — legs tangled together and torsos resting at opposite ends of his bed.

He'd quote metaphors from a book you'd pretend to have read for your literature class over the break, and you'd nod along like you actually understood anything that he was saying. Rivers are nature's tears, and birds are just dead souls passing to the other side, or whatever other fancy shit that made people feel better about existing in a world so fucked up. You were handsome, and you were dangerous, and being smart never seemed like a necessity.

All you had to do was bring one dimple curving into the stretch of your cheek, and then you'd get exactly what you wanted. A spoiled little boy and an arrogant teenager — you claim to be dancing the line of manhood, but you're still just an overgrown misfit. You made others fall in love with you when you couldn't figure out how to give any affection to yourself.

You would stomp your feet for extra cookies, and you'd fake sobbing when you didn't get the grade you felt that you deserved — and you're a mess. That's what Mayson liked to call you the most when you were together. Hands in your curls and legs wrapped around your thighs. You'd stare up at him and crack a joke. "Macy, you've got skies in your eyes," you'd purr, and he'd snort before slapping you across the head.

"My eyes are brown, dipshit."

Mayson has always been the best of you. The eye of the storm; the mist rising in the morning after a flood. It's not that you're destructive, but you've left enough bruises to at least humor the thought. Mayson never once flinched when you brought your face to his, though. You wish that he had. That he'd ran from you at the first chance and that he would have avoided the wildfire that sparked between you — but you held him close as the forest caught flame, and his ashes are your burden to carry alone.

The Abadeer Institute is all you've ever known, really, but they never taught you anything beneficial. Just privileged boys walking in single-file lines — money bridging the way to whatever their hearts desired without needing to put in any effort themselves. You regret not putting time into your studies like Mayson had. You remember hugging him and kissing his cheek when he'd exclaim about getting a good score on the end of term test, but then you'd change the subject as soon as he inquired about how you did. Always avoiding; always trying to escape the facts.

An heir, your entire life had been mapped out at birth. Just smile; just keep your jawline sharp and your tongue sharper; just waste your life until it becomes time to take your father's place at the head of his company. You don't deserve it, but no one voices this. Why not? Why won't they just say the truth? You're selfish and aggressive and too emotional to be a leader; and as much as you claim to be perfect, you're at least smart enough to know that you're lying. That everyone is. You're tired of being called a saint just for breathing.

Mayson never let you off the hook, and you were grateful for that. If you made a mistake, he called you out; and if you pushed too far, he pushed you back before you could break anything. ( It still came crashing down, but that chapter comes later. ) He gave you all the lessons life had been trying to keep from you. To be kind, to love, to listen — and you should have. You should have let him help you become a better man, but you didn't. You didn't pay attention. Hypocrisy suits rich men.

Why take the rocky path when there's a safer one just up ahead? Papa promised a future if you gave half your heart — Mayson promised a chance at bettering yourself for all of it. You didn't know how to share yourself. But you know you loved him. Truly, you did. He's the one thing you got right in a sea of failures; red F's scrawled on bleached parchment, but you always saw Mayson smiling up at you when you tossed the paper away. When he accused you of letting it slip that you two were making love at the start of your relationship, he believed the shock in your eyes. The genuine hurt that he would think such a thing.

And things were good for a time; what the both of you had became so much more than just a fling. But then he confronted you with the demon that you thought you leashed, and he knew you were guilty before you could claim otherwise. Decent grades were required to take over for your father, and you lacked in that department.

So, what were you to do? You could have studied with your boyfriend who would have gladly helped, but you jumped over the fence instead of learning how to tear it down. You never meant to hurt Mayson, but you did. You can't take that away. You had an affair with your professor in order to receive flawless marks on your grade-sheet. Mayson knew your betrayal before you could process how wrong it was, and you let him leave you.

Now you have a future; a promise you've got pinned to your shirt right beside the golden stag that honours your school. But you're starting to regret it; given diamonds for nothing, but now silver seems so much more shinier. Is it worth being wealthy if Mayson isn't there? Is it worth being a king if you can't be with the one that you love? You were stupid. You fucked up, and he left you. And part of you is glad. You want him to do better — you want him to go to all the places you couldn't reach. The other part wants to drown with him. To suffer as a whole.

Maybe you could be content together;

maybe someday you'll stop being so hungry.