vander harrington. d5.

He’d always been taught to follow the rules. What was written in history had been written for a reason, and so it was meant to be continued. He deferred to his elders, said "please" and "thank you", kept all his skeptical questions in his head.

The Harringtons were not particularly wealthy or renowned, but they were at least proper. When a child Vander smeared potatoes and squash on his cheeks rather than using a napkin, there was always someone there to wipe away the mess, albeit at an arms’ length as if ochre-colored mush would cause them to disintegrate. Soon, he began to mimic his parents at the dinner table, swiping at the corners of his mouth with a kerchief and happily folding it atop his plate, mismatched teeth exposed from ear to ear.

Even as he played at being mild-mannered, there was still something within him that craved disorder. Whether it was rigging a bucket of water to fall on someone’s head or simply stringing them along like popcorn on a thread of white lies, it gave him joy. He had a reputation for being a class clown as much as he was a charmer, and even his most chagrined teachers couldn’t call him a nightmare (at least, not if he could help it).

Vander was also used to having company. He had his brothers, his sister, his parents - but most importantly he had his friends, a ragtag bunch they were. They showed him the ropes of pranking, of getting the best out of life in Five. They were everything a guy could want.

At least, they were everything until he saw her.

She was perfect, something out of a dream. He remembered every detail of her shiny hair, the inquisitive slant of her eyebrows, her confident chin - he couldn’t get enough of the memory. He had everything but had nothing unless he could have her.

He wanted the opposite of disorder. He wanted to follow all the rules for her.

"You've got to woo her," his friends would say. "Show her who’s in charge."

So he listened to everything that had been written in history before him - all their trysts and sexcapades, successes and failures. He followed every letter. He showered her with affection, reminded her of how much she meant to him. He cradled her hand in his as if it were made of glass.

He said please, thank you, I love you, I do.

He said please when he asked her to stop talking to a male classmate. (She’d tell you that he was screaming. He’d tell you she was a fucking liar.) He thanked her tear-stained cheek with a kiss. He kept all his skeptical questions in his head and merely leapt without asking. He held her glass fingers and fractured them.

He brought her violets for their anniversary. Purple was pretty in her hands but even prettier around her neck, fingerprints blooming along the vines of her veins with precision. He wiped her eyes afterwards, saying that he was sorry but she made him do it. She didn’t even remember why he was upset, but he did. He always would. The rules were that it was never his fault, only hers.

I love her, I do.

She withdrew like the tide. The rules were that she’d come back again, and he’d forgive her as he always did. But she didn’t crawl back to shore, no, she stood on the sandbar and screamed that she deserved better. What could be better than me, damn it?

He remembered every detail of their relationship, except at some point it diverged from her memory. Somewhere, her name was erased in the fray of her soft freckles and all the indicators of who she had actually been.

The rules are that he can exist without her. He is a smooth talker, and a family man, and a lover of children, and a stellar student, and a jokester. She is just a ghost.