Page 2 of Frozen Hearts
Standing in the exact same spot as many people before me. Poets. Scientists. Artists. Men and women who have gone on to achieve the unbelievable. Who have built empires, instigated change in the world, made scientific discoveries, and refuted long-standing theoretical theories.
The door to endless possibilities is standing before me, wide open and welcoming me with a warm embrace. “Welcome,” it states. “Your future awaits. Everything you’ve ever dreamed of is within your grasp if you only dare to reach for it.”
My goals aren’t so lofty as to change the world in some marvelous way. I don’t dream of bringing about world peace or curing cancer. I don’t wish to topple empires or be crowned queen.
Not to sound selfish, but all I really want is to changemyworld. To improve it. To fix it. To steal back some of the control that has been stolen.
My chest swells with hope. An optimistic thrill I’m so unfamiliar with courses through my veins as a zing of exhilaration beats a frantic pulse beneath my skin.
I’m here.
I’mfinallyhere.
All it took was years of dedication and losing my soul to the Devil.
Not the point.
What I had to endure to get here doesn’t matter, because I’m finally fucking here! For the first time in four years, I feel some dominion over my own life, and freedom tastes sweeter than I ever could have imagined. It bursts on my tongue with the tang of fresh berries, whips at my hair, whisperingspread your wings; don’t be afraid to fly.
The long dead, beaten down, curled-up carcass in my chest lifts its head and looks around at our new surroundings. And for the first time since I was fifteen, there’s a solid thump. One packed with blood. Brimming with hope. Chock-full of life.
I may be broken, damaged beyond repair, but as I tilt my head back and lift my face to the sky, I feel the first crack in the shackles around my heart, and the heat of the autumn sun feels like liberty on my skin.
“Hey, are you a freshman?” a girl asks as I approach a booth decked out in the school’s colors—black and gold. She doesn’t wait for me to answer before continuing, “Here’s your welcome packet. Inside, you’ll find a map of the campus along with any information you’ll need. If you’re staying on campus, you’ll need to make your way to the Landseer building to get your room assignment and key. The building is highlighted on the map.”
“I’m staying off campus,” I tell her, noticing the way her eyes widen in surprise.
“Oh. In that case, there will be a tour starting in”—she checks the delicate, rose-gold watch on her dainty wrist—“five minutes, right outside Mercer Hall.” She points toward a large, grandeur building behind her on the opposite side of the quad, where I can already see a group of students gathering. With an hour to spare before I have to meet my studies advisor, I thank her and head in the direction she pointed.
I flick through the welcome packet as I walk, skipping past the emergency contact information and history of the university until I find the map. Unfolding it, it looks like the campus is quite widespread, which is surprising given the elite nature of the school. By university standards, Halston’s student body is relatively small, with only one student in each year group offered an academic scholarship.
This year, that lucky student is me.
Glancing over the map, I take note of the English, Humanities, and Sciences buildings, as those are where most of my classes will be this year, before folding and tucking it back inside the packet when I reach the stone steps at the bottom of Mercer Hall.
I have to hide my grimace as I get my first real look at the other students waiting for the tour to begin. Every one of them is the epitome of a typicalHalston student.AKA: students with money. Men dressed in chinos and ironed shirts with fancy loafers on their feet; women in designer outfits, high-heels, make-up on point, hair perfectly coiffed, and nails long, sharp, and manicured.
A moment of insecurity has me slowing my steps as I pull on the old band tee I’m wearing, the worn jacket I threw over the top that is too small to zip up, my stiff jeans and scuffed Converse.
I haven’t even made an effort to fit in with these people, because why should I pretend to be someone I’m not? I know without a doubt that no matter how hard I try to fit in, I will neverbeone of these people. I would know it, and they would know it.
However, it’s more than that. I don’twantto fit in. I don’twantto be someone I’m not. I’ve spent so much of my life being unhappy, putting on a fake smile, and pretending I’m not wasting away on the inside. I’m done with that shit. If you don’t like me for who I am, then that’syourfucking problem.
Confidence boosted, I lift my head and renew my pace up the steps. As I approach the awaiting group, my gaze catches on three girls huddled together, talking to one another with apparent familiarity. They look my way as I reach the top of the steps, their eyes raking over me with obvious disdain.
I can only imagine what they think when they look at me, face free of makeup, long, auburn hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, and nails bitten to the quick.
The funny thing is, once upon a time, I used to look exactly like these girls. I used to live in the big mansion with the chauffeur-driven car and servants at my beck and call. I had the wardrobe that was overstuffed with more outfits than I could wear in a year and the long painted nails.
I was also at my lowest, drowning in a pit of depression and unable to find a way out.
I tilt my chin higher, reminding myself that I don’t care what these girls think. As a scholarship student, I knew I would stand out amongst my peers, and while I have no intention of changing anything about myself to fit in, I find myself wishing things were different. That entering campus didn’t feel like striding onto a battlefield ofme versus them. For a split second, I picture myself walking across campus with a group of friends, laughing over lunch together and late-night study sessions.
I blink and the image fades, the judgemental faces of the three girls filling my vision. With a sigh, I mentally shake my head, knowing the idea is nothing more than a whimsical dream. I refuse to change any part of myself to become anything close to what they deemsocially acceptable, and at the end of the day, making friends here is so far down my list of priorities that I shouldn't be giving it a second thought.
“So you’re this year's charity case,” one of the threesome sneers, making my point for me. I note her perfectly straight blonde hair, unnaturally white teeth, and stick-thin frame.
Her remark isn’t anything I wasn’t expecting, so I don’t let it upset me. “Looks like it. You must be this year’s mean girl.”
