THE TEMPEST

                                    

                                          
•
                          
Their eyes haunt me with a vice;— I feel the way their gazes scorch me with judgement; looming over me as dainty blossom lips whisper tainted words into the ears of other people. The air of the twentieth century suffocates me with a treacle of despair.
                          
Of course...
                          
A MAN FOUND MURDERED IN A MUSEUM, January 1st, 1930. Suspect is said to be a girl of twenty years, by the name of Sharzelade Merriweather.
                          
It was in the papers, on the radio; it was viral; — it was all over the world.
                          
The girl who had supposedly murdered a man; who was proven innocent in five days because all claims were untrue and had only been a case of mistaken identity; — yet who now had a taint on her name forever because of one fateful mistake made by aristocrats.
                          
And so this girl is now attending the prestigious University of Peachfall Ruins, being victimized by the beguiling gaze of snobs with blooming rose buds on their lips and stardust dappled over their albino skin.
                          
This girl, faced by atrocity, is me; — a canvas; flickering through the double doors and bowing her head against all the judgmental stares. Indeed, this girl is me.
                          
"Sharzelade Merriweather?"
                          
I look up at the sound of my name by an unfamiliar voice, and hold my breath when I find a man staring down at me with gleaming emerald eyes, encased by glasses of which overlap luscious brown locks of hair. A small frown is settled onto his roseate lips, and his face seems troubled as he stares at me.
                          
It is only a moment later that I realize he is still waiting for a response, and I cannot help the embarrassed blush that sifts over my brown cheeks.
                          
"Ah, yeah. It's me, the so called murderer of the town. Very notorious," I drawl out, rolling my eyes at my own remark.
                          
When society regards you as an outcast because of some misinterpreted bias news, you learn to become more of a spitfire.
                          
Because you have to, if you want to survive the judgmental woes people put upon you.
                          
"I see," there is a brief pause as he clears his throat, but I do not miss the hesitance that clouds his rich-colored eyes for a millisecond.
                          
Oh, of course, he is just like them. Why did I expect otherwise?
                          
"I won't kill you, don't worry," I joke, but my words, even to myself, seem coated with hurt.
                          
He senses this, because he veers his face to look at me again and purses his lips in denial, "that's... that's not what I was worried about. But anyway, please come along with me."
                          
I glance at him suspiciously, trying to hide a small smile, "why? You want to perform an inquiry? Who are you, anyway?"
                          
But still, I find myself following after him as he turns around to move through the hallway; the bell ringing loudly overhead. I muse to myself, my five foot nine nothing compared to his six foot three.
                          
"Haha, very funny," he chuckles drily, sweeping a hand through his hair, "I'm a professor at this university, Alexander Yvione, and I have been assigned the task of... well... looking after you."