Wayward Minds Project: Khione

[05] Quentin - Group Project

If Quentin had the ability within him to bring back the deceased, he would've had his mother by his side a long time ago.

The life he's trapped in currently would never have existed. His father would've been better, a man with goals and dreams, a man with a stable job that drove home to kiss his loving wife, a man with a son who would've resembled him back when he had been a teenager as well. Quentin would've been better, too; a boy with supportive parents, smiling and urging him to follow the path that would lead him to his purpose, a boy with real friends and a world worth living, a boy who wouldn't end up being the man he is right now. The house Quentin and his father were residing would not have rusty faucets, creaking floorboards, walls with mice and cockroaches found behind it, and they wouldn't have to constantly worry about the fact that the unreliable ceiling will collapse at any given moment, allowing anxiety to creep into Quentin whenever he would hear the thud of a cat's feet. The air of their home will constantly be filled with the smell of freshly-baked cookies, of meals that his mother would make with the recipe in her little cookbook, of happiness, warmth, and love of a family.

But the crackling fire had consumed Quentin's mother, burning away everything, especially the idea of a joyous family that he has been longing to have.

Now, Quentin is strapped to a life, an inescapable life of despair, the hours of each day hard to get through, everything around him a reminder of the absence of his own mother. Home-cooked meals were never served upon their dinner table again, the walls of their house lacked hanging photos that showcased marvelous events the residents went through, and the tenebrous atmosphere, mixed with the odor of alcohol, sufficed for Quentin's head to spin. For once, Quentin desired to be anyone but him; to be exhilarated by opening his eyes, the birds chirping outside his bedroom, the sun streaming through the thin curtains; to excitedly bound down the steps of the stairs, knowing that if he reached the kitchen, his Mom and Dad would be there, in love, conversing about what they were going to be doing for the rest of the day; to enter school with a set of friends waiting for his arrival, giving one another high-fives, joking around, unknowingly strengthening their friendship, their brotherhood.

Quentin pined for it. What would it be like, he wondered? What would it be like to not fight his way, to not allow himself to be bruised by an opponent for the entertainment of others, to earn money and keep himself afloat? What would it be like to not be hit by a bottle of glass by his very own father because he could not afford to purchase another booze? To not feel the unremitting punches of his father as he laid on the floor, curled up, blocking the blows, the blood trickling down his nose, a new wound opening, hopeless and unable to fight back due to his respect for his pa?

What would it be like to not be Quentin Albasar Ho?

A deafening crash of pots and plates erupted from downstairs, startling Quentin, pulling him away from languor as he gazed through his window, a c***k found from the top left corner of the glass, creating a fissure of white to travel across like spiderwebs, and Quentin snapped his head towards the direction of his closed, bedroom door, sighing in exasperation. Rushed, hysteric movements of his father followed the crash and he bellowed in lividity, the sound deep and filled with anguish, and Quentin did nothing else but press both his hands against his ears, futilely blocking the screams. His father must've ran out of beer or booze to drink for the remaining hours of the day and having no money left in his pockets to purchase more invoked fury within him that he, no doubt, would intrepidly direct at Quentin.

There was a diminutive sound from Quentin's flip phone, alerting him of a new message he had received, and without taking his eyes off the wooden door that led to the hallway, he reached into his pocket, grabbed the phone, and tugged it out, flicking his wrist to open it. It was an old phone that he had since he was fifteen and he was more than grateful to know that it lasted longer than he expected it would, though there were palpable dents here and there, white scratches along the back and front, the cause which he could not pinpoint, and it had fallen more than five times throughout the years Quentin has owned it. He had to be cautious when it came to handling the device, because it'd probably take a couple more years for him to be in a good financial state to be able to buy a brand new phone, but accidents happen and they seem to be perpetual, all tightly tied by a string that was wrapped around Quentin's leg.

Meet us.

@ library. ASAP.

The message he had received was from an unidentified number, but it gave Quentin a certain idea of who sent it. Yesterday afternoon, one of his classmates ─ Robert? Robby? ─ had approached him, hesitantly, and informed him that they were to meet tomorrow for a group project, the location unsure. Since Quentin had fallen into his group, he asked for his number and said that he would text him the following day regarding where he and the members would gather to create the project. A feeling of incertitude rose within Quentin, pondering whether he should go or not, and when another crash emitted from downstairs, a pot clanging against the tiled floor, he had arrived at the decision of leaving for the library.

Quentin strode out of his room, a dull thud from the ceiling alerting him of yet another stray cat dwelling above their home, and once he descended the staircase, hand upon the handrail that have accumulated a plethora of dust, Quentin's gaze traveled towards the doorless doorway of the kitchen, where his father, with his bloodshot eyes and disheveled hair, stood, glaring truculently at him. Quentin's father was not pleasing to the eyes, to say the least; a gut hung above the waistband of his boxers, when the last time it was washed a mystery and caused Quentin to inwardly shudder, his dark brown hair, an exact replica of the shade of Quentin's hair, was extremely chaotic, dry and unhealthy due to the excessive amount of hair gel he has been applying whenever he went to work, and a thick beard covered his chin and cheeks. Beneath his eyes were dark, heavy bags, suggesting his exorbitant lack of sleep, and it was highly likely that his odor will be unpalatable once Quentin will be in proximity.

Gripping an empty liquor bottle in one hand, the other curled into a tight fist, face warped into an expression of pure lividity, Quentin's father raised the glass object over his head, and though his action was harmful, Quentin did not budge on his spot, blank eyes daring his father. He threw the bottle with much force, but because of his drunken stupor, groggy, his aim wasn't accurate, the glass shattering behind Quentin on the wall, a feet away from him, sharp shards laying in a heap of white on the steps of the stairs. Quentin didn't even flinch when he heard it collide against the wall, didn't even feel the fear consuming every part of his heart as his father released a howl of agitation. The beatings, the continuous destroying of items in the house, the screams that emitted from his father's mouth whenever the existence of liquor wasn't around; all of these, Quentin got used to it, a small portion of his messed up life.

He had to get used to it or else he wouldn't have survived.

"Where the f**k is my beer?!" His father yelled, watching Quentin continue his walk down the stairs, his wild eyes tracking the frame of his large son. "You bastard! Where is it?! How many f*****g times do I have to slam my f*****g fist down onto your face to tell you that you, incompetent asshole, must fill the fridge with booze?!"

Landing on the first floor of the house, silent and choosing not to lock gazes with his furious father, Quentin made his way towards the unlocked front door, gripping the rusty doorknob and turning it to open. Realization invaded the haggard features of Quentin's father, "Where are you going, you retard? Where the f**k─"

"I'm going to the library." Quentin replied calmly.

"Library?" His father parroted in disbelief, before a mocking laugh escaped his chapped lips. "Library? What the f**k are you going to do at the library? You're an illiterate scum. You belong to the disgusting streets of this city. You belong─"

"I belong to no one, but to my own mother." Quentin replied firmly and once he saw how his father's face reddened in unrestrained indignation, he immediately rushed out into the streets of his neighborhood, making sure that he slammed the door behind him with a bang.

It opened, several seconds later, and his father appeared on the doorway, look of menace unforgiving. "Don't you f*****g dare come back, you son of a b***h! If I ever see your face here ever again, entering my property, I will f*****g bury you alive. You hear me, boy?! Go die in the streets like the varmint that you are! You're no longer my son!"

The son you have come to know of died with his mother.

Quentin ignored the pain in his chest and continued to move forward, the streets familiar to him, vividly remembering the way that would lead him to the library of the city, where his group mates were waiting, anxious whether he would turn up or not. There was a slight breeze, refreshing Quentin after being suffocated in the air inside the house, which held the distracting odor of liquor, and as he glanced at the sky, careful not to directly stare at the sun, Quentin released a sigh, silently thankful that it was a beautiful day, the clouds allowing the light of the sun to beam. If there had been tenebrific clouds of gray, instead of the fluffy, white ones, indicating that a downpour was to happen at any moment, then Quentin's mood would surely be dampened, uncertain where he would spend his night that would shield him from the chill of both the evening and the rain.

But thank the heavens the sky was clear.

The trek to the library had been shortened due to Quentin's use of multiple shortcuts and alleyways that immediately led him to another street on the other end. Despite the sun overhead, illuminating the entire city in a glow of yellow, the alleyways were dim, littered with multiple candy wrappers, cans, and other items that must be thrown into a trashcan rather than on the ground. The alleyways were safe for anyone who knew the city, very much like Quentin, but whenever night fell and the moon was rising to replace the sun, danger of all sorts began to reside in the passageways. It was likely that one would experience a holdup in an alleyway at 7 in the evening. Hoodlums frequently awaited a prey in the darkness that the alley wholly provided, so any person who has resided in the city for far too long knows that shortcuts must not be taken during the time of the absence of the sun.

Once the view of the library came into Quentin's sight, he wiped the bead of sweat that trickled down his temple. The library was not some eye-catching edifice that the city was proud of to have; it was only a small, humble building with a second floor, the glass of the windows glinting and reflecting the light of the sun. There were double front doors, painted in a dark hue of brown, both thrown open to welcome those who wish to gather knowledge without the help of technology, and through the doorway, Quentin saw the rows and rows of large, sturdy bookshelves. The people inside, some walking around in search for their desired book, others reading as they sat on wooden chairs by the table found at the corner of the library, were countable, Quentin noticed.

He entered the building, startled by the unexpected greeting of the librarian seated behind the counter close to the front doors, and he was surprised to find that she was a gorgeous, fashionable girl with hoop earrings, long, manicured nails, and plump lips. She was the type of girl found in magazines, who partied too much and was on her way to a successful career as either an actress or a model, but here she was in a library. On a Saturday. Reading a book about the history of feminism.

Talk about breaking through stereotypes.

"Is there a book you're looking for?" Her lips stretched into a smile, gently lowering the thick book down on top of the counter, the tanned pages turned to 94.

"No, I'm actually here to meet my classmates." Quentin replied, noticing how the girl's eyes brightened, apparently remembering something.

"Oh, I see. There were four of them, I think─"

"Quentin!"

Quentin and the stunning librarian turned their heads towards the source of the voice, finding a boy ─ Robert? Robby? ─ striding their way, his sudden call for Quentin resulting in numerous of heads to look at him, expressions irritated. Robert, or Robby, was a lanky boy, his skin pale as if he had never felt the warmth of the sun, and his hair was the same shade as coal, pure black. He wasn't exactly effortlessly attractive, something Robert did not seem to mind as long as he had the brain of a Harvard student, but the small mole beneath his left eye made him charming enough to earn him a few giggles, red cheeks, and flirtatious smiles from girls.

"You mustn't scream in a library." The librarian sternly reminded Robert, a frown forming on her lips, eyes offering him a warning, and Robert winced, coming to a realization of his mistake, a look of remorse surfacing on his visage.

"Sorry, Carmen." Robert smiled sheepishly, before his stare traveled down to Quentin's arm, eyes widening in alarm and fear. "s**t, Quentin, what happened to your arm?"

Confusion clouding his mind, brows furrowed together, Quentin lifted his arm, only to find that there had been a cut on the skin, drawing out dark, red blood as it slowly ran down the length of his arm. "I─It must've been because of the glass earlier. I knocked down a cup."

Carmen, a panicked countenance invading her regal features, forcing her to move on her own, stood up from her seat, rushed to reach Quentin, and examined the cut, unable to bring her pale, stricken face close. "Wha─what'd you use to clean the mess? Your arm?"

"Damn, how could you not have noticed, Quentin?" Robert asked, astonished, as Carmen walked away to grab a First Aid Kit, the wobble in her steps unnoticeable, long fingers trembling, pressing it against her chest in order to obscure it. "Did you walk all the way here with your cut bleeding?"

Quentin remained silent. How could he not have noticed? It's been so long since Quentin actually felt pain, even with such a small cut, and, to be quite frank, he did not miss the agonizing feeling. Back then, he would've been wincing in pain, anxious of treating the cut due to the inevitable sting that a treatment will bring, but now, he could barely feel it.

He had such high tolerance in pain that a punch was almost akin to nothing at all. Quentin vividly remembered the days when the idea of a wound or an injury made him faint and frightened, inducing a side of cautiousness within him, but, currently, he would rather not have the lingering fear of pain reside in him and have finally eradicated the careful side that has, long ago, been his companion. All those fights for the money to land on his hands, all those beatings his father had sent towards his direction, all those brawls, those kicks, those uppercuts and blows, they gradually made Quentin's body forget the touch of pain, leaving a hole of blankness that could not be filled.

Not yet, at least.

"Let's bring him to your table." Carmen said to Robert once she returned, shaking hands tightly gripping the First Aid Kit, her knuckles almost white, and even Quentin noticed how frantic her voice sounded. When Robert opened his mouth, no doubt about to inquire whether she was alright or not, Carmen immediately ambulated before the two boys to a table, stealing from Robert the chance to ask about her worrying state and pale features, before he and Quentin followed the librarian. They went to the corner of the library, where the tables and the chairs were found neatly arranged, and Quentin saw Robert's friends, their noses buried into separate books, too focused to even notice the three individuals coming their way.

There was Agnes, big glasses resting on the bridge of her freckled nose, curly, carrot-like hair left loose rather than its usual messy bun, and a hair clip, decorated with a single daisy, was pushed into the orange strands above her left ear. Jhinshyoun was beside her, straight, jet black hair pulled back into a neat, low ponytail by his nape, and he squinted at the pages of a book he was reading, nonplussed by what he has come to know of between the papers. And lastly, Kora, beautiful, dark-skinned Kora, with her light brown hair and thin bangs, angrily flipped through the pages of her hardbound book, scanning the words for an information that she has been looking for.

It was only, then, when Carmen placed the First Aid Kit atop the table did the three students lift their gazes up from the books, countenance questioning. The librarian drew in a shaky breath, "Quentin's hurt."

"What?!" Kora shrieked.

Carmen glared at her. "Silence, please."

Kora gave her an apologetic smile, whispering, "Sorry."

"Why do you look so pale, Carmen?" Jhin asked, involuntarily tilting his head slightly to the side, closing his book about pelicans and placing it beside the First Aid Kit.

"I am fine." Carmen firmly stated, opening the First Aid box, picking up the roll of bandages from inside, only to drop it and allow herself to take a seat on an unoccupied chair beside Kora.

"I'll treat his wound, Carmen." Kora placed a caring hand upon Carmen's shoulder, giving her a reassuring smile. "You don't have to worry."

"But I have to get over ─"

"You will, just not now." Kora stood up once Carmen nodded her head, before she turned to Quentin, pointing to her vacant seat. "Sit down."

Quentin did.

"We thought you'd never show up." Jhin remarked, laughing to what he said, watching Kora begin treating Quentin's cut, before he was overcome by silence, engrossed on Kora's work with awe.

"You never really care about anything." Robert shrugged. "So we were a little worried. I mean, this is a group project and all of us has to exert some effort into completing it. We considered lying to the teacher if you weren't going to cooperate."

"It'd be totally unfair since you'll get credit for something you didn't help make." Agnes pouted, crossing her arms across her chest.

"I wouldn't care if you'd tell the teacher that I didn't help." Quentin blatantly opined, causing Agnes to narrow her eyes at him, irritated.

She turned to Robert. "I told you, Robby!"

Quentin almost fell off his chair when he heard the correct name of Robert, and Kora glared at him, hissing as she ordered him to stay put. Robby, sighing, ruffled his hair, gaze pinned at Quentin. "Actually, the teacher said that all of us must contribute into making the project. So telling her that you didn't help would mean that she'd fail five of us."

"I wouldn't mind. I hate that b***h anyway." Kora muttered under her breath, hoping no one would hear, and she blushed in embarrassment when she noticed Quentin's amused smirk.

Unexpectedly, Quentin's flip phone rang loudly, collecting a myriad of glares from others who had been peacefully reading inside the library earlier, and as he fished it out from his pocket, using his good hand, a name flashed on the screen, surprising Quentin. After answering the call, baffled, Quentin pressed the phone against his ear, speaking, "What is it?"

"Quentin, where are you?" Alastor asked through the phone and Quentin furrowed his eyebrows, noticing how there was something wrong in his voice.

"Library. Why?"

"I've got some good news for you. I need to talk to you. Personally."

"Alright." Quentin's grip on his phone tightened. "Where are you?"

"No, stay put. I'm coming there."

Trepidation flooded through Quentin, momentarily trapping him in a state of speechlessness. Albeit Alastor and Quentin's friendship did not run deep, the time he has spent with the man sufficed for Quentin to know well enough that Alastor would never go out to meet him. It was usually Quentin who went to him, never the other way around. Something was definitely up. "Alright."

"Text you when I'm outside, okay?"

"Yeah." Quentin hung up, closing it to return the item inside his pocket, his troubled mind showing him a series of likely scenarios that resulted to Alastor's sudden change of nature, and he glanced at his classmates, all of them quiet, awaiting his announcement of sudden leave. Kora finished wrapping the bandage around his arm, expression unreadable; Jhin was reaching out for his book of pelicans; Agnes' face was filled with fury and disbelief; and Robby was pondering over something, his attention focused on his thoughts. Only Carmen seemed unfazed with the phonecall, attempting to read Jhin's book over his shoulder.

"So you're going to leave?" Agnes angrily voiced out, scowling.

"My friend's only going to talk to me."

"That's what you said to my brother last month when he was paired with you for a diorama." Jhin countered, handing the open book about pelicans to Carmen, an excited grin forming on her lips. "You didn't have a friend outside."

"My father was arrested for starting a brawl at a bar during that time."

"Just say it." Agnes hissed. "You don't care about us failing. You don't care about this project. The only person you care about is yourself and you don't give two shits if four, aspiring students fail."

Quentin's phone alerted him of a new message and once Kora backed away, placing back the items inside the box, he stood up, glaring at Agnes, before replying in a harsh tone, "You're right. I don't give a f**k. Go beg for some A's."

And with that, he rushed out of the building, leaving behind five, stupefied individuals, his words hanging in the air, and what met him outside was not his so-called friend, Alastor. What met him outside were people who had come to know his name and the trouble he has caused in the past.

The police.