Chapter One: Rozley

Perfect isn't what it's cracked up to be...

Chapter One: Rozley

Perfection.

Unblemished.

Unmarked.

Unclaimed.

Unblamed.

Just a pretty face.

Just a pretty thing to look at.

 Fragile.

Why?

His fork pushed against the sprouts on his plate, steamed and hot, a lavish amount of butter dripping off their sides. Crisp greens of lime and moss -- vibrant like a painting -- gradiate deep and dark to light and white. An example of the fruits of nature. Simple in its standing. Complex in its making. 

Beautiful.

Just like him.

He'd suckled from the bosom of plenty; been fed from the dip of a silver spoon -- had more than he could have ever desired -- more than he ever wanted... He should have been grateful -- joyous even, but he couldn't find it within himself to be grateful. No. It was just another thing to add to a long list of things to cringe at. To hate and to be hated for. To spite and spit and despise.

But only in the privacy of his head.

No -- not even there was safe.

But it was the only place he had.

Rozley Barayell

It rolled off the tongue. An elegant name. His name. A fitting name. A name from another time, another age -- another place. A simple name -- for a simple boy -- from a simple family, in a simple world, in a monotonous town where black was black and white was white and law was law and good was good and bad was bad and everything was just --

Perfect.

And he hated it.

He hated that his skin was creamy and smooth and fine, free of the marks that said you were normal. He hated that his eyes were "green like emeralds" and that no matter how hard he tried his smiles were like "basking in the sun on a crisp spring day" or that his hair was "the perfect shade of molten gold that framed his face in perfect little rivulets"; that his voice was "a soft, soothing, and controlled lilt, neither high nor low but -- "

Perfect.

Perfect

Perfect.

Perfect. Perfect. Perfect. Perfect. Perfect.

He didn't ask to be like this -- to be Unmarked -- to be abnormal, to be a freak -- the outcast -- the teased. He didn't like seeing the dark, dirty, jealous looks that were always cast his way when they thought he wasn't looking. He hated that some of them came from his family.

He'd tried. He'd tried so hard to be like everyone else. He'd tried to mar his face, he'd taken a blade to it once, slashed it bloody, crying out from a pain he thought he'd deserved -- trying to make himself  Ugly. Normal. Marked. Human.

But it didn't work.

His sister had found him an hour later.

The wounds had closed up.

Not even a scar remained.

They said it was a gift. 

They said he should be proud. That his family was proud. That he'd bring fame and glory to their small little country town.

"The Next Revelator!" They'd called him when he'd turned five and woke up just as unblemished as the day he was born. He didn't know what it had meant at the time, didn't see the importance or the implication, he just knew everyone was happy and that if they were happy he should be happy. So he'd smiled that blinding smile, cheeks rosy and pink and he'd clung to his parents as he was paraded through the streets like a trophy for all to see.

Look all ye faithful and weep for House Barayell weilds PERFECTION.

There'd been a celebration for five consecutive days when they realized they had an Elite amongst them.

Then it turned to hate when they realized what that meant for them.

That he'd always be above them, always dining on perfection while they scrambled for scraps.

Damn their perfect. 

Damn it and rip it and tear it and bend and break it and make it scream and bleed and and and --

Friends never came. Love was never found. Only the jeers and sideways looks were constant.

"Look at the Elite all alone -- "

"-- not so high and mighty -- "                      Punches and kicks.

"Ha! Look how he wears his muddy crown -- "

" -- hate you!"

"Loath you!"       Laughs and sneers.

"Perfect a*s!--

"Perfect."  Hate. Hate. Beautiful, ugly Hate.

" -- perfec --"

"Per -- "

-- nothing.

"I'm not... " 

Two words that were never heard. No. They were ignored. They didn't want to accept him, so they focused on the exterior, they ignored the truth. His pain. They just saw him as the perfect boy with the perfect life that was so perfect he couldn't even stay hurt. They didn't know about the seizures. They didn't know about that empty dark place in his heart that threatened to eat his soul whole -- they didn't know about the perpetual tremble in his right hand -- or that in the morning sometimes his legs just wouldn't respond and he'd sit there desperately trying to feel --

-- and wonder if today was the day he'd never be able to walk again...

Rozley pushed the sprouts across the plate, smearing the porcelion china with butter... and smiled -- revelling in the fact that he could at least control the beauty of this one small meaningless vegetable. That even if he was so broken that he was viewed as whole he could still ruin something. Anything. Anything at all.

If only he could control more.

A hand brushed against his own, soft, sweet, and re-assuring. Blemished. Smaller, more delicate. Normal --  touch slightly rough -- not the same devilishly smooth caress of his own. He set his jaw, eyes like steel, shoulders tensed, the jagged swirl of ebony that encircled that wrist like an artistic manacle -- staring out black and proud against her ivory skin. Beautiful. Vivian was beautiful. His sister was beautiful and normal and strong, her marks echoing that sentiment, the lines that encompassed her neck like a brooch fanning out like wings -- tendrils flicking up to brush against her shoulders.

Everything that he wasn't.

Noble. It's what she was. A single word that embodied everything -- class, popularity, persona -- about her and spewed it back out perfectly. 

Rozely grimaced.

Again. There was that word. That hellish, cursed word.

Perfect.

  And now -- looking down at that thin wrist covered in beauitful black Ink -- now a new word was added. Envy. 

She squeezed, he resisted, she squeezed again, he brought the fork to his mouth, one poor sprout skewered to its ends. Chewed. Swallowed. Looked away. Across the room to a painting of the first Barayell's. Back when they were covered in marks and as low on the social ladder as the farmers and street sweepers of the little town they called home.

Why couldn't he have been born like them?

Another sprout -- a gentle rub against his knuckle and he chanced a glance at his sister. She wasn't even looking at him. They both knew that's not what mattered though. No. It was the contact, the touch of acceptance that he craved, that he wanted and needed. Hard stares and awestruck eyes -- he saw enough of those anytime he walked down a street. He relaxed.

Why couldn't Vivian have been the Elite and he the Noble? She'd have fit the role so much better than himself, she always knew what to do. She knew when to be harsh -- when he needed to hear the cold unadultereted truth -- and when she needed to be gentle, soft and kind -- like now -- to pull him out of the darkness.

To save him from himself.

The tremble started in his right hand, his left leg began to fall asleep, his throat tightened in a knot around his food.

The fork clattered to the ground, a mumbled "f**k" leaving his lips, and he stood abruptly, clutching his hand to himself -- where it rested -- quaking and scared, before excusing himself from the table as stiffly and courteously as possible -- his leg now numb at his side.

Perfect. 

He was meant to be perfect, but all he saw when he looked in the mirror was a broken boy. A broken face. A broken smile and sad tired eyes. He didn't belong, but he had nowhere to go to. He was stuck.

He hurried down the hall -- painstakingly climbed the stairs, left leg hardly bending -- shoving his bedroom door open with a quivering left hand -- teeth gritted. Self loathing weighing down his back, a weight that forced him to hunch and tense his shoulders as if warding off an attack.

Perfect, perfect, the blonde boy is perfect.

A teasing mantra, a repeating phrase that filled his throat with bile and pricked his skin with goosebumps. 

"No," he mumbled, "no, no, no, no, no, no, n-- "

He fell past the threshold -- door still ajar -- body stumbling down -- tripping over a bump in his rug and slamming down to the ground with an air knocking thump. He didn't cry out. He'd felt worse. 

"Ross... " Rozley lifted his head and Vivian stepped into the room, her dark locks bouncing on her shoulder. "Vivi," somehow his voice didn't crack.

She stood over him for a moment, before she sighed and bent to sit down next to him, fingers reaching out and wiping against his cheeks, removing a dampness he hadn't even realized had been there until then. He leaned into the touch, arms wrapping tightly around his sister, the only one that seemed to care and he let her pet his hair, her presence a calming balm to his soul. His hand still trembled, his leg was still numb, but at that moment things didn't seem so bad.

He didn't know how long they laid there -- gold on black -- his sisters soft voice cooing in his ear -- but it was long enough for the trembling to stop and for the feeling to return to his leg; for the panic to run down and away. Long enough for him to plaster on another award winning smile and act like everything was okay.

Because he was perfect.

"Feeling better?" She whispered.

He nodded into her shoulder. "Mmm-- sorry."

Vivian pursed her lips. "Don't worry about it," she pulled away and clasped Ross' face between her hands. He fisted his hands in his jeans and resisted the urge to look away -- Vivian hated when he did that.

"We're going out." She said, eyes as green as his own holding him hostage. "Okay?" Her fingers tightened ever so slightly against his neck.

Ross bit his lip, left hand worrying at the hem of his shirt, before he nodded slowly. "Okay."

Vivian smiled and patted his cheek. "Good, now go tell ma' and pa' goodnight, we leave as soon as it's light's out."

Wasn't that perfect?

Author's Note

SOOOOOOO I'm kinda excited for this story, hopefully you all are too :o Hoping this first chapter was as poignant as the prologue. And hopefully you'll grow to like Rozley and Vivian. Anyway! Please leave a review if you feel so inclined :3 Did it feel too repetitive? Slow? Lemmee know :3

Reviews

[Seth Exile]

Hi. Ur a very poetic writer. I find your work pretty inspiring. I like the characters and Im looking forward to your next installment. I think it was hard to understand what was going on to begin with, so I guess you can afford to push the plot a little quicket, but otherwise I am impressed.
Cheers!

[Tsukin Archangel]

Yeah... I kinda figured in terms of well... terms and such people would be a tad confused/unsure as to the rules/inner workings of this world (well at least this part of it) I'll hopefully be able to clear at least some of that up with the next chapter. Was their anything specific you were wondering about just so I could try and address that directly and not like confuse you more LOL. And yeah... I get that alot (the poetic flowy writer thing) I'm glad it's not like distracting LOL. Granted this chapter was kinda meant to read a bit like a poem (hence the kinda funky formatting) I'LL TRY AND HAVE THE NET CHAPTER UP TODAY! (Being a stickler on dialogue/character interaction etc)

[Bri]

This is pretty awesome, it gives great detail to his feelings and how Ross sees the world. He explains how he feels and how he thinks in such a complex way that gives the story a great depth. Well done.

[Tsukin Archangel]

thanks man. Honestly I dont know I feel like I may go back and re-write these chapters I'm not really happy with them lol

[Bri]

lol but they sound hecka awesome

[Tsukin Archangel]

lol well thanks ^^; Idk I like the story i Have for this I'm just not feeling how I wrote it idk we'll see

[Seth Exile]

Perfection.

Unblemished.

Unmarked.

Unclaimed.

Unblamed.

Just a pretty face.

Just a pretty thing to look at.

Fragile.

Why?

Hi Tsukin. I was just thinking, after this segment here, I guess you may want to describe the scene a little, just a sentence or two. I just remember wondering to myself at this point what exactly I was reading, and if it was an internal monologue or a philosophical piece, but if you mention a little about him while he eats, maybe describe his appearance or personality slightly, you might be able to introduce the character a little more clearly. A thought, anyway.
Love to hear what you think of my work, too. Let me know. :)

[Tsukin Archangel]

Hmmm well I thought that might've been slightly unnecessary since I describe what he looks like a little farther down....

"He hated that his skin was creamy and smooth and fine, free of the marks that said you were normal. He hated that his eyes were "green like emeralds" and that no matter how hard he tried his smiles were like "basking in the sun on a crisp spring day" or that his hair was "the perfect shade of molten gold that framed his face in perfect little rivulets"; that his voice was "a soft, soothing, and controlled lilt, neither high nor low but -- "
Perfect.
Perfect
Perfect.
Perfect. Perfect. Perfect. Perfect. Perfect."

Bit BUT i suppose if that was unclear I could try to add a lil more clarity to it :3 As to the Marks themselves don't forget about the Memo I posted, that should help clear up some things as to Rozley's world again :o Tell me if that helps :o And sure I'll see if I have time to do so later today

[Hinoto]

Good story! I like it a lot

[Tsukin Archangel]

WOOT!!! THANKS FOR TEH REVIEW!!! I'll hopefully have another chapter up later today :3