The night had been restless, granting him the mercy of sleep only in fleeting moments. After a quarter-hour of hoping his alarm clock would stop ringing, restlessly shifting positions in bed in an attempt to fall back asleep, covering his ears with his palms in a bid to block out the insistent noise, and finally resisting the temptation to smash his clock, freeing himself from its cruelty, the arduous process of getting out of bed and ready for school began. He was in his final year of high school, approaching the end of his academic journey.
Something most anticipated, but not him, for he had no idea which direction his life would spiral after his graduation. Most likely downward, he imagined. With a parting shout to his mother and sister, his father long since gone off to his work, he bolted out the door, hurrying to catch the timeworn sky-train that ferried all kids from the neuboring houses to school. Paint flaked from it's metal surface like autumn leaves shedding from a tree, it's absence revealing lurking rust. Just as the electronic doors were about to seal, almost condemning him to walking, he squeezed through.
Stroding through the cramped aisle, he kept his head downcast, his eyes skimming over the floor. He registered Rhys waving his hand at him with pleading eyes, but averted his gaze, doing his best to ignore him. He ended up in the back of the train, snatching the last free seat. Gazing out onto the streets whisking by below, he felt detached, his senses barely registering the filth, as he had grown numb to its dilapidated ugliness. Narrow streets, adorned with dirt and decay, were hemmed in by gray blocks of buildings stretching to either side.
Cars flowed like a murky river beneath the hovering train, down on the street. The architechture of the city block he lived in was simple in design, yet grand in its scale. Enormous buildings populated the ground, their windows having long since surrendered their shinning luster to dust and smoke, and their paint, if it had ever existed, fadet to shades of grey through the passage of time. A sense of depression hung in the air like a cloud, weighing down on each one of the persons cursed with the burden of living in this place.
Day in and day out, it tormented Anthemion, hammered against his mind – the sensation of helplessness, of worthlessness borne from his life.
He observed as a pale-grey military aircraft with darkened windows circled the train, freely controlling its four turbines at each corner, all the while maintaining a careful distance. He imagined catching a glimspe of the Lord's envoys within it, their polished uniforms, their unwavering posture stemming from complete confidence in their abilities, and the resolute steel in their eyes. Conduits. Owing the name to their ability to channel spiritual energy, utilizing in a myriad of ways. In the 11st Dominion, especially so in the 9th District of the city, few had access to the power that the Beyond held, not because of a lack of talent, but due to financial constraints. Scriptures and Essences were simply too expensive for the likes of him. Word had it that in the more affluent districts of the Dominion, many people possessed Scriptures. However, it paled in comparison to the highest ranking Dominions where supposedly nearly everyone was a Conduit.
Many of the people he knew and attended school with dreamt of becoming Conduits. They envisioned escaping the cold clutches of poverty and the 9th District. It was nothing more than an illusory glimmer of hope that kept them going. However, he understood its necessity, for without it, what was there to live for in a place where one treaded ankle-deep through dirt daily? What hope was there in a place where residents had to fear gang violence the moment they stepped beyond the apartment door?
As the train come to an halt, he lingered for a short second before also heading out, avoiding the swarm of other students scrambling to exit first through the small doors. But one thing he couldn't avoid. Rhys paced nervously back and front, chewing on his lips as he always did when he was nervous. His plain white-blue school uniform was worn out, torn in places and a little too big for his small frame. Contrary to school policy, he let his shirt roam free, not tucking it in. Anthemion walked by him, without even a glance in his direction.
Rhys grabbed his arm, stronger than one would think after taking a glimpse at his seemingly nonexistent muscles, halting Anthemion. "I'm sorry, okay? I know it wasn't right to leave you alone, but what should I have done? Should I have fought them?" He let out a short, sarcastic laugh. "Me? I would've been dead in seconds, man. I was a coward," he admitted. "Yes, I was. But there was nothing I could do! It was your mess! All of it! First, it was just selling drugs and one step around the corner, and now you're mingling with real gangs! Look at what you've become. Don't go down that path! Think of Lewi!" Anthemion tensed at the mention of the name, he tried so desperately to forget but couldn't. Never. It would travel with him till the end of his life, and accompany him even in death when they would reunite and he would plead forgiveness.
Words poured out of Rhys' mouth like a mighty flood breaking a dam. His breathing echoed loud loud as he fell silent, once more getting a grip on himself. Anthemion made no effort to free himself. He merely stood there, gaze lowered, his face hidden from Rhys' view. After a couple of seconds spent waiting, Rhys let go of him, sighing. "I'm sorry. Truly."
Anthemion just nodded and strode on, leaving his former friend behind.
----------------------------------------
It was all about money, everywhere. Even in the 1st Dominion. And his family was always struggling. His mother worked as a receptionist at a small company, while his father toiled as a mine worker in the local spirit-ore mine. It was a profitable industry, the most important one following the oneset of the Second Advent. Of course, not for the small, hardworking laborers, but rather the big companies behind them that held the rights to mine and sell the precious product. To secure his future and, more importantly, that of his sister, Anthemion had long ago realized that following in his parents' footsteps wouldn't be enough.
He needed to go beyond, to earn more. His aim wasn't to become rich. He had no interest in owning a large business or vast amounts of land. He merely wanted enough to live without worries, enough to stop second guessing even grocery shopping. Money shouldn't dictate his decisions. In his quest for financial freedom, an old box of shoes hidden under his bed had become his banking account, his income selling drugs as a low-level dealer for the LUV-Syndicate.
Over a little more than a year, he had painstakely saved up nearly ten grand, a considerable sum for him. It was far from enough to afford a Scripture and the necessary ingredients and Essences, but more than enough for him to help out his family every once in a while. He longed to do more, to buy his mother the washing machine she always dreamt of, and his sister the headphones she had been eyeing in the store. Yet, that would raise questions within his family and likely blow his cover. So, he refrained and continued saving. Still, going on like this hadn't nearly been enough to fulfill his dreams and grant him his sought-after freedom. Therefore, he had seen no other chance than taking a leap, pursuing bigger but also more dangerous jobs.
This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Surprisingly, he had quite the succes and for a while, it worked well. One single job would earn him nearly as much as he used to make in a week selling to kids from his school and neighborhood. Life was good and hope bloomed in him like a flower - until he grew too bold. His succes went to his head. He lost perspective, sinking further into the criminal life, his greed spiralling out of control until the inevitable happened. A job went awry.
Rhys had been his friend for as long as he could remember. He had forgotten more of their shared memories than most people even had with their friends. Rhys had always disapproved of his job, viewing it through a lens of contempt. He had warned him to stop, tried to instill some caution in him. But Anthemion's greed had driven him forwad, which ultimately led to his downfall. His last assignment had been beyond his capabilities alone, so he asked for Rhys' help, pleaded even. In the end, his friend had came through despite his reservations and agreed.
As they delivered a large quantity of pure Cristalline, a group of masked men ambushed them on their route. Cornered and helpless, Rhys abandoned Anthemion without a scrap of hesitation, leaving him at the mercy of the gang. Fortunately, they had been more interested in the Cristalline than him and he had emerged from the ordeal bearing only a few bruises, a lasting haunting memory, the wrath of Aurelius, and the irreparable loss of his best friend.
----------------------------------------
School in the 9th district was nothing but a façade, a shadow of its intended purpose. Perhaps there had been a time when students had paid attention, and teachers cared, if they didn't, but that seemed eons ago. Chaos now reigned, leaving terror in its wake. The school's interior paint had grayed and yellowed, some places even entirely devoid of it, exposing the ugliness underneath. The toilets reeked of everything imaginable, emitting an unbearable stench, so repugnant that no adult dared to enter, allowing the students to use the space to sell drugs.
Bullying and intimidation occurred daily and everywhere. Older kids stole money from the younger ones, who in turn targeted those beneath them, picked on those they thought lesser. A sight more common than a pencil and paper to jot down the teachers' words. It was hell - resembled a prison more than an educational institution. Rather than serving as a guiding lantern, illuminating the way for students on their path forward, it was a shroud of darkness, snuffing out even the tiny sparks of hope and youth left in the young generation of the 9th District.
Anthemion had grown numb long ago. He had been subjected to his fair share of bullying, but he was no saint either. Nevertheless, his days of picking on others for small gains or hiding, hopeful, that the bigger kids wouldn't steal his own were over. People left him alone, now. The fact that it was public knowledge for all those clever that he was associated with the LUV, regardless of his inferior level, was sufficient to deter them from crossing him. The mere mention of the criminal organization struck fear in those aware enough to understand that the everyday life of their neighborhoods wasn't governed by the high and mighty noble-born elite, but by scoundrels, dealers, and killers.
Thus, his school life was largely monotonous, plain and boring. He had outgrown doing stupid and risky stuffing in search of attention or to relinquish his boredom long ago. He endured his lessons, played games on his aging phone, or contemplated the mysteries of the spiritual world and the meaninglessness of life, hoping he'd learn to accept it, freeing himself from his burdens in the face of existence's utter and all-encompassing hopelessness. But he couldn't succumb to this notion, not when he had a mother and sister who loved and cared for him. People that he treasured and would happily sacrifice his life for. There was meaning in that. Or at least he hoped so, for he would be lost without this ray of warming light.
They were his anchors in an ocean of violence and temptation.
----------------------------------------
The day progressed routinely. Chatter, shouting, and laughter filled the air, crescendoing as the class pushed a new teacher, a young woman, to her limits and beyond until she couldn't take their insolence and insults no more. Gushing tears streamed down her face and wetted her blouse as she fled the room, leaving the tumultuous class alone behind. Minutes of free chaos ensured as some students trashed the classroom, uncaring of basic human decency, and some just happily continued their conversations, even louder than before, to drown out the roaring surroundings.
The chaos came to an abrupt halt as the director stormed in like a whirlwind, wearing a drab, cheap suit. He grabbed a boy, who had been too slow to jump out his way, by his collar, shoving him into his chair with such force that the shallow thing cracked and nearly shattered. Silence gripped the room as the carefree expressions of the students vanished in an instant like dirt washed from their faces.
Raw disbelief was etched onto their features, so humorously that Anthemion almost burst into laughter, but the pulsating vein on the director's neck and his flushed cheecks stifled the laugh in his throat. With a voice like thunder, the man unleashed a torrent of curses that gradually transitioned into a lenghty discourse about human compassion, as he managed to get a grip on himself. He talked about honor and the future and the sheer audacity of their actions. For perhaps the first time in this classroom, heck even the entire school, the students truly listened. Of course, not because of interest, rather than shock.
His talk was sadly cut shortly, and at the most interesting part at that, as Anthemion's phone rang from his pocket. Its tone cleaved through the director's voice like a knife. The man's head snapped with a speed that should haven broken his neck, his eyes darting onto Anthemion with renewed fury. The vein that had diminished as he talked and calmed now surged back to life, regaining its vigor as blood pumped through him with newfound strength. With brisk steps, betraying what the wrinkles in face revealed about his age, the director was upon Anthemion, towering over him, casting a shadow across his desk.
"Why don't you answer it? I'm sure it's urgent," he said, his friendly tone not matching his reddened face. Anthemion knew when a man was at his limit, and any additional pressure could push him over the edge. He had learned it the hard way, among drug dealers and takers, so he immediately declined, attempting to infuse the respect into his voice that one would expect of a student addressing the director. "Please excuse me, Mr.—" Anthemion berated himself inwardly as he realized he had no idea what the director's name was. It wasn't that he hadn't heard it before.
He just hadn't cared enough to remember. A realization he now deeply regretted. Small snickers erupted throughout the clas as some noticed his trouble. The director's vein swelled like a pipeline full of water, so much that Anthemion was sure that a single, simple paper cut would be his bloody demise. „-sir,“ Anthemion finally said. „I forgot to silence my phone. I'm sorry. It won't happen again.“ With a gesture of his finger, he stopped the ringing, putting the call on hold. "No, really. Answer it," the man insisted, his voice now as hard as steel, his eyes reflecting the anger his face had concealed earlier. Anthemion knew that further protest would be fruitless, and, for the first time, glanced at the caller ID.
"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, though in the room's silence his words echoed loudly. A wave of laughter erupted once more. Looking back up, Anthemion met the director's gaze squarely. "I apologize, sir, but I can't answer it." After a brief pause, he continued, "Besides, I have to go, now. It's an emergency." Even before the frist retort could escape the director's lips, Anthemion was on his feet, slipping through the crowded room. In mere seconds, he exited through the door, the director's threat of expulsion ringing in his ears. To Hell with him and this God-forsaken school.