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thecorefrisk · 2 days ago

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There are no hearts for anyone outside this home.

Chapter 1 -- And the world didn't weep for joy (but it gave a great, relieved sigh)

A red sun rises in the great beyond. The sky swims with dark oranges, reds, and purples– a bruised, bleeding sky. The world awakens with one notion carried within the fleshy, pink muscle of their ever-working brains: Jackson Mayfield has come home.

–

“–we are all so relieved to see the young Mayfield son returned to his family’s arms safe and sound after three years of total mystery–”

“–Where has he been? What has he–”

“–possible kidnapping? Or, perhaps magic–”

Violet turned off the radio. A long hour had been spent attempting to found one channel not speaking of young ��Jackson Mayfield’s’ return home to no fruition.

Jackson Mayfield wasn’t cared about. At least, not before all of this. He was whispered about on those rare nights people dared to question just where he might be, what he might be doing, or if he was alive at all. His family never addressed any rumors that surrounded him, avoided any mention of him like the plague; it was as though his name had some sort of taboo attached to it, like if spoken, a dark fate would befall those who dared to raise their voices. He had ‘gone missing’ three years prior, leaving behind only a mockery of a bouquet and ashes and an empty seat at every gala that no one dared to touch.

Her brother had gone the same way. And if people had cared so little for the disappearance of a young man of the House of Mayfield, son of Duke Burton himself, then they cared for the disappearance of her little brother even less.

(Peasant, they called him when she went to the authorities. Called them. Commoners. And no one cared for the lives of the common.

Unless, of course, that life inconvenienced them.)

A hand slammed down on the desk in front of her, setting the contents haphazardly thrown onto it rattling and knocking her out of her thoughts. Her hands relaxed from their curled position reflexively.

Oscar ‘Oz’ Hall. The journalist she worked under, or rather, apprenticed under. (Really, she just shadowed him, but sometimes she felt more like his handler than anything else.)

He was a tall man of unimposing figure and a sharp, mischievous face that often had possible interviewees scampering off or avoiding him entirely. A large grin split his face in half– victorious– his wild red hair falling in front of his face and only serving to make him look all the more fox-like and less and less man.

Violet shifted in her seat, crossing and uncrossing her legs in what she hoped would come across as in a casual manner. He had given her that same smile two months ago, just before he threw himself over a chocolate fountain and totally ruined the dress of a young noble lady who they were lucky enough to find out that she found it spectacularly funny.

“Yes?” she said, holding back a sigh.

His grin became a tad strained. “Yes, what?”

Violet did sigh this time. “You want to say something; say it.”

Despite her bluntness, a trait many of the previous journalists that she had shadowed before had not appreciated as much as Oscar did, ‘insubordination’ they called it, Oscar’s grin came back full-force then some. “There’s a story in this.”

Understatement of the century but before Violet could tell him as such, he continued on. “A story that we can unearth. Jackson Mayfield–” he spread his arms, hands moving wildly with a flair. “–second born son, back after all these years, yet his family doesn’t say a word other than ‘Oh, we are so happy he’s home’!” He guffawed.

Violet nodded along like she always did when he got into these jittery, excitable moods, hands tapping on the arm of her chair in a continuous pattern– pinkie, ring finger, middle, pointer, thumb and back again– and leaning forward with feigned interest. (It really wasn’t all that hard to fake it, she was interested, just not for the reasons the journalist was.)

“Yes, that is suspicious; you’d think they would give more of a statement when the boy has been missing for so long,” she acknowledged.

Oscar’s face brightened further, if possible. “Exactly! There’s obviously something they’re trying to hide and I’m going to find it.” His grin was full of teeth now, his eyes set into a determined stare as his eyes raised and lingered on some great beyond likely full of glory and girls and lots and lots of birds full of feathers he was terribly allergic to.

Violet cocked a brow. “You are not going to be uncovering this.”

His expression crumbled entirely, face going stormy. “Violet, do you not–”

She cut him off. “I will be handling this story.”

For a long moment, his features fell into blankness, as though he had just short-circuited. Then, the grin was back, only all affectionate and happy and proud and all that icky stuff that had her face flushing as he threw himself unceremoniously over his desk to clasp his hands over her cheeks, causing a mug filled to the brim with pens to tip over and roll to the ground, shattering upon impact. But he ignored it in favor of cooing in her face and embarrassing her entirely.

“Oh, Vi,” he gasped, actual tears glistening in his eyes. (She’s seen him watch and document the death of a puppy with the most unaffected expression before; what the hell–) “Darling, you’ve finally come out of that horrible shell of yours and come to the limelight; I am so proud–”

Violet did not flush because she was flustered. She did not. She was… fuming with rage. Yeah. Totally. “You ridiculous, ridiculous man– get your hands off of me you oversized lunatic–”

Oscar treated her like an overly eager toddler would treat a disgruntled cat— roughly bit affectionately. “Glory is an avoidant muse, dear, but I believe with enough effort–”

“You absolute idiot, I will–”

It took several minutes, a couple swats, and a few more broken mugs for him to lay off of her and sit. (Albeit on his desk but still, the small victories.)

She could not get rid of that stupid look on his face, but she could be mad about it, so she glared at him fiercely. His grin grew impossibly wider.

“Now, my dear flower–”

“It is Violet-”

“My dear flower, to secure an interview with the Mayfield family, you will have–”

Violet’s eyebrows drew together tightly. An interview? What is he on about? “I’m not going to be attempting to get an interview with them,” the apprentice said slowly, as though explaining something rather obvious. And it was. To her, at least.

Oscar went deathly still, slowly cocking his head in a way that reminded her of a prowling feline. “You are… not?”

Violet snorted in that unladylike manner her mother hadn’t managed to beat out of her. “Of course not, they’ll answer none of my questions and leave me with more than I started with. It would do neither of us any good.”

A glint shone in the redhead’s gaze, a realization forming behind his chestnut brown eyes. “So… how do you plan to ‘crack’ this?”

Violet shrugged, attempting to seem apathetic to his stare. “I’m infiltrating, of course.”

And if Violet let out a squawk that birds would be incredibly jealous when he launched himself at her again, for an embrace this time, that was nobody else’s business but her own.

This is for my Creative Writing class, but I decided to share it with the world as well just to see if people would enjoy it. I am not open to criticism so please, just enjoy what you are reading or, if not, scroll away. This will spare us both the heartache of hatred or any animosity. I will admit this is not to the best of my ability for I initially wrote this extremely sleep deprived and cranky and wanting a 'pick me up'.

#writing #creative writing #short story #rough draft #mystery #found family #Oscar and throwing himself #original character

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