Wayward Minds Project: Khione

[07] Asphodel - Gray Walls of a Room

Asphodel had been wholly certain that the men in police uniforms would escort him towards the direction of a tiny cell found within the many rooms of the police station, then proceeding to shove him inside, before he would be granted a single call for him to reach his home's landline, which, no doubt, would be picked up by John. A clip of his older brother striding briskly into the police station, demanding Aphodel's name, lividity and dismay settling into his attractive features, floated around his perturbed mind, resulting to the quickened beats of Asphodel's heart, dread an unsettling haze that slithered through his limbs.

The fact that the police had been anticipating Asphodel to exit the convenience store, ready to deliver him to the police station, was an inscrutable mystery. His plan to obtain the items that he had desired in the convenience store had been near foolproof, almost as if he had bought the things, much like an ordinary customer, rather than rob the store in a method that concealed his intentions of theft.

Even Trisha had yet to be aware that Asphodel had duped both her and her manager, her ignorance and compassion for the disabled coaxing her to garner a sufficient amount of bravery to inquire anent the sudden arrest of Asphodel after receiving the goods through the aid of his supposedly uncle. In a discomfiture, Trisha, anxiety begetting a quiver in her low voice, had requested that they be gentle in handling Asphodel due to his blindness, but the police officer she was conversing with had given her a strange glance, before nodding. Asphodel's chest was instantaneously pierced with the tip of guilt's dagger, the pang travelling through his rapid-beating heart and up to the very corners of his mind.

Trisha was a considerate girl. Would she had been revulsed if Asphodel had unveiled his misdeeds and revealed to her that he truly wasn't blind? That he isn't, in any way, related to her manager, who, back in the comfort of his home, had no inkling on what was transpiring outside the convenience store?

Asphodel inhumed his sudden guilt with the soil of his thoughts, all of which produced hundreds, mayhap thousands, of raging flowers, whispering what if's, conjuring images of what were to happen to Asphodel in a few minutes then. The police officers whisked him away, speeding down the road, forsaking Trisha on the curb a few feet away from the entrance of the convenience store, and as Asphodel silently sat on the back of one of the police cars, removing his sunglasses, the man, the same individual who had exchanged words with Trisha, behind the steering wheel took a gander at him on the rearview mirror, before saying through the steel grilles acting as a barrier, "you're not blind, kid. Why'd you lie to a potential friend?"

Potential friend.

Guilt broke through, but Asphodel thrust it down. He had no time to ruminate the lies he had fed Trisha, no time to permit his mind into thinking if Trisha would become a good friend to Asphodel despite his deceit and transgression. Instead of tolerating the cruel attempt of his guilt into seizing control on Asphodel, he engrossed himself on Little Graces, in spite of the conundrum he was currently enmeshed with. His dark brown eyes gazed the houses passing by in a blur of shades, some with lawns littered with childrens' toys, some lawns containing vibrant, full-bloom gardens of greens, but there were those that were particularly kept pristine and empty. All were beautiful to Asphodel.

The moment they had arrived at the police station, they guided Asphodel, who, thankfully, still was in possession of the plastic bag holding the items Trisha picked out from the shelves, to a private room with an often-flickering lightbulb, a lone chair, and a single table. It had discombobulated Asphodel, because he had presumed that he were to be led to a cell as punishment for his crime, but as he swiveled to question one of the authorities, the man talking to Trisha earlier shoved him inside and slammed the door to a close, the bang thunderous against his ears. There was a click of a lock.

What was he doing here? Was he to be interrogated few moments from now?

Panic coiled around Asphodel's frozen body, much like a snake preparing itself to squeeze the air out of his lungs, leaving not enough space to breath. His heart went wild beneath the skin of his chest, thrashing around in a series of rapid beats, pounding against his rib cage, desperate to be unshackled from the restraints of fear. Asphodel's knees bore a distant resemblance to jelly, wavering beneath not only his weight, but as well as his swirling tornado of emotions: fright, dread, panic, and, overriding the rest, remorse, which Asphodel felt rarely.

Deeming that standing around would do little for his trembling knees, Asphodel claimed the only seat available in the room, gently placing the plastic bag atop the table. There was not a single clock found hanging on the gray walls, preventing Asphodel from knowing what time it was. His stomach grumbled, expressing its need for food, and after deliberating on what he should choose amongst the items inside the plastic bag, Asphodel finally settled on consuming Oreos.

With impeccable timing, an obese woman, curly, black hair up in a ponytail and with a dark complexion, entered the room gripping a water pitcher in one hand, and a glass in the other, amiability a perpetual twinkle in her light brown eyes. The two items were lowered on the table gently. "You must be Asphodel. I'm Regina Hansen. You okay here? This place can get real hot and suffocating."

"Hello," Asphodel answered, voice scarcely audible, but Regina must've had incredible hearing because her lips moved to assemble a smile. "Yes, I'm fine. Thank you for asking."

"I've just been assigned here recently, but I've heard your name being inserted into conversations one too many times." A hearty chuckle escaped Regina's mouth. "You look so young to be a crook, I tell ya. Must be a cruel place, that home of yours."

"Why do you think so?"

Regina shook her head, sighing. "Home of mine ain't good, too. Made me do horrible things outside, you know? I once robbed a guy, but got caught by them police two days later. Lovely while it lasted, my freedom. Dad, let me tell you, was not happy. None of my relatives were. They told me I ain't someone to be proud of, ain't someone who'll serve the country. Look at me now, happy as ever, a police. f**k 'em all relatives. I see them do s**t, I let that handcuff bite into their skin." Regina's gaze aimed on something on Asphodel. "What's that, kid?"

Asphodel had been too intrigued on Regina's story, hand absentmindedly raising an Oreo up to his lips to take a single bite, chewing as though Regina's words were a part of a spell that had curled itself around Asphodel's attention, because when Regina pointed a chubby finger on Asphodel's forehead, alarm blossomed in him.

"My brothers and I were playing. One accidentally threw a stone at my head," Asphodel explained, maintaining a calm voice a struggle for him, yet with his impassive visage and lack of squirming, he successfully managed to convince Regina of his fabrication.

"D'you want me to get some ice for that?" Regina gestured to the bruise, genuinely worried. Asphodel shook his head. "A'right, then. I'm heading out. Hope the water's enough for you, kiddo. You ain't such a bad kid. Just a little boy with bad habits and a few bad experiences."

Once Regina had gently shut the door behind her, locking it, Asphodel's fingers clasped the handle of the water pitcher and poured himself a drink, the cold liquid sliding down his throat almost too heavenly in the stuffy room of gray walls. Despite being held in the police station against his will, uncertain whether the authorities had come to know of his plans which had ensued them to arrest Asphodel, he felt the sensation of joy. Regina Hansen was a Little Grace, and Asphodel, even if he had not voiced it, was grateful for her. She had the choice to be cruel, inconsiderate, to a delinquent such as Asphodel, but the woman had a heart, delivering a pitcher of water and a glass to Asphodel.

Even if it wasn't that much of a big deal, little things deserve to be appreciated, even the tiniest of gestures.

Time evaporated from Asphodel's mind, eating keeping him distracted from the horrors he needed to face in the near future. There were lots of snacks in the plastic bag Trisha had given him: Oreos, Magic Flakes, Fudgee Barr, Lemon Square Cupcakes, and much, much more. Asphodel had tried to not dwell too much in the umbras of his mind, where haunting thoughts and probable results resided in its shade, waiting for the right moment to strike.

He was halfway through consuming a Lemon Square Cupcake, a pile of wrappers laying on the table beside the half-empty water pitcher, when the sound of numerous heavy footsteps slipped through the c***k beneath the closed door, gliding across the room to reach Asphodel's ears. The wooden door pushed to an open after someone had unlocked it, surface making contact with the hard, gray wall, ensuing a slam at the precise moment of collision, and a teenager, roughly the same age as Asphodel, stumbled into the room after being thrust by a police officer. The boy swiftly wheeled around and assayed to escape, but before he could even reach the door, the police officer closed it with an earsplitting bang. He crashed against the wood, arms shielding his body from direct impact, fingers curled to fists, which he then stretched above his head and repeatedly pounded it against the wood.

"Open this f*****g door! None of you properly answered my damn question yet!"

There was a sharp click! and the boy ceased, exhaling in defeat.

"Don't think they'll talk to scums like us," Asphodel opined suddenly and the boy jumped in fright and surprise, swiveling around with such speed that all that had ever appeared to Asphodel was a blur of red hair and the shade of the boy's jean jacket.

The redhead positioned a hand on his chest, the location where his heart beat beneath. "f**k, you almost gave me a heart attack, dude. Don't creep up on me like that."

"I didn't." Asphodel scrutinized the lanky boy with a rigorous stare. The first thing Asphodel had taken notice of when it came to the boy was that he was extremely attractive, with long, black lashes and clear, pale skin. The pair of orbs the boy possessed were dark blue, a desolate area where wraiths of depression and loneliness roamed across the empty lands, and though his eyes held too much hidden sorrow Asphodel had become cognizant of, it reminded him of blueberries due to the irrefutable similarity of their hues. A thick tangle of curly, ruddy hair lay atop his head, strands frequently falling over his forehead, obscuring it from one's view. But what Asphodel truly deemed to be paramount amongst his features were his freckles, dusted lightly from one cheek, across the bridge ─ some on the tip ─ of his nose, and to his other cheek, like stars fit for a human's face.

Freckles, Asphodel concluded, were a human's own stars, and they were the skies.

"See something you like?" One corner of the boy's lips tugged up, creating a lopsided smile of playfulness, before he ambled towards Asphodel. An urge to scramble away from this imp zipped through Asphodel, but he refused to render the only seat in the room to a boy who had just arrived a couple of minutes ago.

"An empty room? Yes, until you entered."

The boy flung his head back and a guffaw slipped from his mouth, the sound full of glee. Asphodel had a desire to observe the boy's eyes, to ascertain whether his mirth extended to his dark blue orbs, but he castigated himself and coerced himself to pull back his nose from the business of others, especially those who had only turned up in his life several minutes ago.

"You're not as timid as you look, kid." The boy's laugh had finally arrived to a halt, before a hand was extended to Asphodel. "Name's Quixote."

Because Asphodel had been a child who grew up receiving punishment from one of his parents if he ever tried to be impolite, he reluctantly clasped Quixote's hand and shook it, despite a sense of wariness slithering within him. "I'm Asphodel."

A gleam, a flicker, of remembrance and surprise was detected in Quixote's eyes as he pulled away his hand, gaze aimed on Asphodel's features. "Asphodel? The Asphodel?"

He stared at Quixote.

"I mean, you look so... different than what I had imagined. I thought you were a con man or something. A lot of delinquents know you for your perfect forging, though contacting you is difficult. You look really fainthearted and shy."

Asphodel turned his eyes away from Quixote. "Looks can be deceiving, which is why most people who get away with a crime are those who appear less likely to commit one."

Quixote, as Asphodel had distastefully concluded, was too much of a chatterbox for an individual like Asphodel to handle, like a storm of words that had materialized without a single indication of its arrival. He seemed to be utterly curious of Asphodel, which, perhaps, had something to do with Asphodel not being the guy Quixote had thought of him to be, and most of the time, Asphodel chose to impassively evade the redhead's inquiries. One thing Asphodel immediately had come to awareness regarding Quixote's habits was his constant need to pull down a sleeve of his jacket, as if willing the fabric to elongate and surpass the tips of his fingers, and during those periodical moments of stretching the item, Quixote was a slave to his thoughts, chained in a prison of his mind, worry bringing his eyebrows close and forcing his lips to create a frown.

The room was quiet and yet, in both Asphodel and Quixote's heads, their thoughts screamed ever so loud in a rising crescendo.

It wasn't long before a third teen was delivered into the gray, stifling room, shrieking in defense, demanding answers to her questions, all of which had been met with nothing but the police officers' silence, refusing to comply to a furious, petty teen who scowled too much and had murder swirling in her eyes. As the door swung to close behind the girl, she turned around swiftly, raised a foot, and mightily sent it slamming against the surface of the wood, resulting in the sudden impact that had ensued for the lips of men on the other side to produce a string of cursed words. If one of them had not been quick enough, the door would've collided with their nose.

But, nevertheless, the police officers allowed the inconvenience to slide as they locked the door, fully ware that the teenagers they were dealing with were anything but prosaic.

Enraged, the girl exhaled, swiveling to face both Asphodel and Quixote, who were too stunned to form a coherent sentence and were much too intimidated upon first glance of the girl, and she scrunched her nose at the boys, as though disgusted to have them as her companions in the midst of seclusion. Arms akimbo, she clicked her tongue, ire enjoying its stay upon her gorgeous face, before she said in a voice of vexation, "the f**k you looking at?"

Although it was probable for the girl to have their eyes out in a swirl of incredible speed assisted by indignation if Asphodel and Quixote chose not to divert their gazes, exchanging the view of a stunning girl for the bleak, gray walls was not a simple task. The girl was tall, her movements lithe, her body a sylph masterpiece of slender, tan arms, long legs, and a narrow waist, and she held herself as though elegance and fierceness were primary factors of what comprised of her. Her light brown eyes, which flashed inhumanely, were surrounded with naturally-long, black eyelashes, the girl's visage a holder of high cheekbones, thick, pink lips, and a pointed nose.

Any boy and man would've fallen in love, if love was based solely on looks and not of a person's personality, and it wouldn't be much of a shock if the girl accumulated innumerable suitors, admirers, and lovers in the past.

Oh, if only she did not have blue fire in her eyes, murder in her mind, she would've been perfect. For where cracks of flaws are not seen, they usually run as a fissure within.

"Who the hell are you?" The girl asked brusquely. "Why are we here? I didn't even steal s**t today."

"Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?" Quixote, who had taken a seat on top of the table next to Asphodel, whispered, eyes glazed with admiration, his words inaudible to the girl standing a few feet away from both boys.

Asphodel answered in his head, yes, a simple, happy family with loving parents and cherished children.

"Wait a minute," the girl narrowed her eyes at Quixote, before they widened. "Lucan?"

Quixote's captivated expression shattered and fell in a heap, serious once again. "What? How do you know my name?"

So I'm not alone in the use of an alias, Asphodel thought, thinking of his real name, Oliver Clear.

"i***t, I go to the same school as you," the girl informed, rolling her eyes.

"Why haven't I run into you? With your looks, you should be in a popular clique."

The girl crossed her arms as Asphodel studied the two strangers exchange words. "Like your little Stacey?"

"Stacey's destined to be popular, what with her talent for being a social butterfly, but she doesn't need to be in a clique," Quixote surmised, and then steered the topic away from the Stacey girl Asphodel did not know of and intend not to. "What's your name? Selena? Lilith? Aphrodite?"

"It's Avada," the girl snapped. Asphodel had thought of it to be a strange name for a girl as pretty as Avada.

"Is that Latin?" Quixote asked.

Avada's response was dour. "It's death."

"Quixote."

"I know."

He gestured to Asphodel by his side, Avada's stare pinned on him, surprise settling into her face, momentarily snuffing out the fire in her eyes. "This is Asphodel, by the way."

"You're Asphodel?" Avada breathed in astonishment and he could only nod, watching as the surprise detached itself from Avada, quick to go as it had came. The scowl returned. "You look like a f*****g nerd. Those stoners at school told me you were a hunk. I'm going to murder them."

Asphodel was delighted that most people who knew his skill of illegality had gotten his features wrong. His parents discovering his crimes through gossips and traded stories was a scenario less likely to happen.

"Why are we detained here? We're innocent," Avada huffed, cursing loudly when she had attempted to twist the doorknob, only to have it locked. "If I f*****g get out of here, I'm going to steal every important document and have it burn in the flames. Those little shitheads."

"I'm in love, Asphodel," Quixote lowly told Asphodel, gazing at Avada with so much affection, but Asphodel had come to a decision to ignore him, because as Avada took several steps away from the rattling knob, hope bloomed in his chest, spreading towards his rib cage, escaping through the gaps, as if, inside, it held a garden, but it withered away and died to a naught when the door opened to reveal yet another teenager, who crossed the threshold without much complaint, unlike Quixote and Avada.

The guy was older than Asphodel, and even if he was proved to be wrong and was actually fourteen like him, it didn't matter because anyone equipped with a sensible mind would not stir a fight between them and the guy. He was a bulky person, almost as if he were a bruiser, and his arms were thick with muscles that could easily trap Asphodel in a headlock and have him deceased in a matter of minutes, the thought instantaneously intimidating Asphodel. The new addition to the group was tall, more than Avada who already was with her shiny, charcoal-black heel boots that offered her height a couple of inches boost. Each of them, Asphodel, Avada, and Quixote, were scrutinized by the guy's dark brown eyes as he entered, the shade of his irises an impeccable match to his short hair. Asphodel descried the guy's nose, which was far too conspicuous to ignore due to its slight crookedness, which must've been because it had received a handful of punches from firm fists of the enemies.

And again, the door closed behind him, the lock clicking in place.

"Quentin," Avada acknowledged, nodding once. "You must've been a force to be reckoned with when they took you."

Quentin shrugged. "Wasn't that messy. They came for me outside the library's entrance while I met up with people to do some school project or something."

"Who knew you were such a reliable member of a team, Quentin." Quixote grinned. "As if you don't go to school once in a blue moon."

"Hard to go to school if it's not a priority in life."

"This is Asphodel." Quixote introduced Asphodel, who had not spoken a word ever since the arrival of Avada, silent as the dead as he occupied the lone seat of the room, raising a hand to offer Quentin a slight wave, pale visage apathetic. Asphodel had speculated, when Quentin had just entered the room earlier, that once Quixote introduces him to the brawny individual, Quentin would be surprised about his identity, like how Avada and Quixote could scarcely believe it themselves that the greatest forger in Everhill City had only been a scrawny, little boy with a pallid complexion and is near to mute.

But Quentin was unfazed and had only said a simple 'hey' to Asphodel, but judging from his eyes, he knew Quentin had more in mind to store rather than tell. Maybe not all think of him a hunk, like the stoners in Avada's school, or as a con man, like how Quixote had viewed Asphodel before their encounter transpired within this room. Asphodel often wondered how John, his older brother, perceived him, or what Peter had thought of his little brother when he had discovered that Asphodel had a talent of illegal forging. What more, how does Asphodel view himself as? Did he look at himself as if he were a pitiful boy who had fallen victim to the beatings of his parents? Did he look at himself as if he were a child lacking a distinguishable identity, who enjoyed little of life except his Little Graces? Did he even like himself? Is this the boy he wanted to turn out to be when he had still been a mere five year old?

Asphodel was separated from his thoughts when the door opened once more.

"I must place you in a state of awareness, officer," a voice drifted into the room as every head turned, "that there is of high possibility that this lock will be skillfully picked by none other than..."

A girl stood in the doorway, wicked eyes transferring from the officer towards the four individuals in the room, and a grin of mischief appeared on her lips. "Me."