Fingers drumming on wood, voices mixing into the air, gavel banging, cries and protests of students. It was a mess of words and an electric atmosphere.

The debate team was having a meeting and by the time Sofia had managed to calm everyone down, Violet just wanted them to talk more. It was a distraction from her itching scars and that made it worthwhile.

Sofia banged her gavel down on the desk again, "Alright, I think we're done with this topic." Sofia's voice carried a lilt to it which Violet found intriguing. Immediately, everyone in the room quieted down. Sofia smiled and continued, "Now, I want to have a more relaxed debate," she chuckled. "Well, it's not really a debate but more of a question Mrs. Sylvester required I ask."

Sofia gestured to the teacher standing at the back of the room who raised her hand motioned for her to continue.

"What is beauty?"

The students in the room started talking among themselves, scratching their heads, trying to come up with an answer.

At the corner of the room was Violet whose gaze traveled down her arm, as she saw in her mind's eye all the quotes which littered her skin. She looked up and glanced at the students who were still attempting to find an answer to the question.

Violet knew the answer already.

She wondered if she should share it with the class. As Violet pondered the thought of her standing up and stating her answer, she met Sofia's gaze. Sofia's twinkling hazel eyes which even from her seemed so kind and happy, looked at her. Sofia raised her eyebrows slightly, communicating a silent question.

Violet tried to look down but she knew that Sofia was still looking at her. Violet relented and stood up.

As the murmurs of the students died down, they all turned to look at her. Their burning gazes would've been enough for Violet to sit down but Sofia's eyes were still on her.

"Violet," Sofia began, her voice soft, "do you have an answer?"

Violet exhaled. 

Relaxation and peace flooded her veins, filling up every nook and cranny of her body.

"I do." Violet's voice started off rusty. As if she hadn't used it in a long time. It was faint and dull, but everyone could hear her. Violet looked around quickly — everyone was looking at her. She couldn't stop now.

Violet began talking. 

"Beauty is pain," she said. "And there is beauty in everything. There is beauty in the smoke dripping from the end of a glowing cigarette. There is beauty in alcohol twirling in a glass. There is beauty in the neon lights which light up a road and the frayed pieces of paper stowed away in a drawer."

Her voice carried an edge to it, something almost mystical and because of it, everyone couldn't help but listen.

Violet stopped now. This was too personal. Too private. Too her. But she'd started and now she couldn't stop.

Sofia's eyes were still on her ― calculating, thinking, judging. Violet wondered who else was judging her.

She continued, "There is beauty in the slick wetness our tears leave behind, and the empty, hollow spaces in our hearts. There is beauty in the cuts we revel in, the scars which taint our skin. There is beauty in our broken and fragile hearts and our wounded minds which wonder and dream. There is beauty in our shattered fantasies and our crushed thoughts."

Her voice was quiet and feeble but those who were truly listening, they would know that Violet's voice was intoxicating. 

"Beauty is pain, Sofia. And there is beauty in everything."

There were no claps.

There were no cheers of joy.

There were no exclamations.

Only silence.

Violet quite liked it that way. She liked that she'd left them wondering.

Violet had wrapped herself in her oversize sweatshirt, her legs pulled up to her chest as she wrote and wrote and wrote. 

She wasn't quite sure what she was writing. 

She was supposed to be solving quadratic equations and finding the ratio of diagonals but her mind had wandered off and she found herself doodling and pouring her heart onto a piece of paper.

Rain pattered against the window and the clouds twisted and writhed around the sky, hiding the silver glow of the moon. The blinds were pulled across the window, trying not to let slithers of light pass by. The room was lit only by the glow of Violet's phone. As she continued to write, Violet flinched at the sound of the door hinges creaking. She turned around and squinted through the darkness, trying to figure out who the visitor was.

"Oscar?" She asked, her voice small.

"Fucking hell, Vee, it's a mess in here," he commented, flicking the light switch on, drowning the room in light and revealing Violet's unkempt bed and the excessive amount of shredded paper littering the floor. 

Oscar looked down ― there were poems, essay titles, assignments and reminders, inhale, inhale, inhale, INHALE! ― he sighed.

"Why are you here?" Violet asked, pulling her seat forward. Oscar smiled and walked over to her.

"It's okay, Violet."

"No, it's not!" she exclaimed. "You shouldn't be here."

"I used my spare key―"

"But―" Violet stopped, shaking her head frantically. She started to fidget with her fingers, moving them around frantically. Where was her pen? She needed something to hold on to. She started to rummage through the items in her desk in a distraught frenzy. She needed something to hold on to.

"Violet!" Oscar said, grabbing her shoulders, trying to sooth the trembling of her body. He knelt down on the shabbily-placed tiles. Violet was forced to look into his hazel eyes. She noticed the specks of brown in his irises. Maybe she'd write something about them one day. "Hey, it's okay, Vee."

"No, it's not."

"It's okay, Violet," he said again, his hands still planted firmly on her shoulders. Oscar stood up and ran a hand through his dark brown hair. "You're coming to my place for the week, okay?"

"O-Oscar―"

Oscar knew better than to tell her that everything was going to be okay, so he pulled her into his warm embrace and held her close. "You're gonna be with me, we'll have fun."

Oscar knew. He always knew. He spotted the signs, all the signals. He noticed the silent pleas of help, the violent gleam in her eyes. Oscar knew just when she would shatter and break and he caught her just before she did.

Violet cried silently into his shoulder, pulling the boy closer. Oscar whispered comforts in her ear, telling her everything would be fine. Telling her that they would be okay.

Violet could hear nothing but lies.

Oscar pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. He let go of her, "Let's clean this up and leave, okay?"

Violet simply nodded.

Oscar smiled and started to clean up the room. After all the pieces of paper were stashed away in a box, they left the apartment together. Violet brought nothing but her school bag, enough clothes to last her for the week, her toothbrush and her meds. That was enough — she'd been to Oscar's house enough times to know what she had to bring.

Violet and Oscar piled into Oscar's car and they set off for Oscar's house. No one said a word in the car ― Oscar knew that Violet was always quiet after one of her panic attacks and he knew to respect that. The rain pattered against the glass as Violet looked outside.

Once they reached the apartment where Oscar lived with his brother, Violet immediately walked inside Oscar's room and unpacked. She'd been here too many times and she knew what to do.

"So, how's the poetry going?" Oscar asked as Violet sat on a bar stool, her eyes bloodshot and her fingers clawing into her skin, leaving little crescent moon shaped marks. Oscar was cooking spaghetti over the stove as Violet watched.

She knew not to help him in the kitchen; that was his thing, like writing was hers. Violet respected that.

"It's going fine," she replied. Her throat was itchy.

Oscar hummed in acknowledgment, "Did you write anything new?"

The moment when Sofia had pointed to her forearm flashed through Violet's ebony black eyes. She wondered if she should tell Oscar. 

"I did."

Oscar looked at her and grinned. "You wanna tell me?"

She nodded. "Oh to be silent but screaming inside. Oh to be quiet but dying inside."

Oscar's gaze was still on her. Now, he turned back to the stove and stirred the pasta. 

"That's beautiful, Violet," Oscar whispered though he was wondering when Violet would write something more happy, for once. He loved her philosophical, broken, fucked-up poems, but he wouldn't mind seeing something bright once in a while.

He plated up her food and his, grabbing some cutlery. Oscar slid onto a bar stool on the other side of the table. "When was the last time―"

Oscar was interrupted by the creak of the door hinges opening as his brother walked inside, staining the floor with his muddy football shoes. Oscar stood up swiftly. 

"Fucking hell, Shawn. Watch your step."

Violet watched as Shawn held his hands up and walked inside. "Alright, dude. No need to fucking yell."

Shawn looked much like Oscar. But of course, they were twins, so perhaps that was called for.

They both had the same gleaming hazel eyes with specks of brown ― though Violet had never got close enough to see the brown in Shawn's eyes ― and the same wavy toffee brown hair.  The only difference between the two was that even though the brothers both had mixed heritage, Oscar's skin tone was darker and more on the brown side while Shawn's was light. Shawn, being a football player was also the smallest bit more muscular. 

He groaned as he caught sight of Violet, "Fuck, dude. Are you going to have her over all the time?"

Oscar rolled his eyes and sat back down. "Yeah, I am. You got a problem with it?"

Shawn heaved a sigh and threw his sports bag onto the couch. "No, I'd just appreciate it if she wasn't over like every day."

Shawn jumped onto the couch. 

Oscar rolled his eyes again. "Well she's staying here for the week, so you better sit quiet."

Shawn looked up and laid his head back against the couch. "Alright, fine."

Oscar smiled and pointed to the kitchen stove. "There's spaghetti if you want it," he looked at Shawn's sweaty and grass-stained jersey, "and take a bath before you eat."

Shawn sighed and got up from his seat, waving to Violet as he went. As Shawn disappeared into his room, Oscar turned back to Violet.

"Sorry about him."

Violet shook her head, "It's fine, Oscar."

Oscar tilted his head and sighed lightly, "When was the last time you ate?"

Violet looked down at the plate of spaghetti. It was still hot and the smell of the tomato sauce wafted up to her nostrils. 

"Lunch."

Oscar leaned forward and shook his head. "You mean the five or six fries I forced you to eat?"

Violet nodded, feeling guilty. Oscar had always been so nice to her and she felt like she was being rude to him by not eating. 

Oscar didn't say anything. He just nudged her hand towards the plate.

"I'm sorry," Violet said. Her voice shook.

"No, don't be sorry, Vee," Oscar sighed, smiling at her. "It's alright. You finish eating and we'll head to bed. And then tomorrow, after school, we'll do something fun. Just you and me."

Violet nodded as she took a string of spaghetti and pushed it into her mouth. As she ate, she wanted to tell Oscar how wonderful he was at cooking, but the words wouldn't get out of her mouth. Violet wanted to tell him so many things. She wanted to tell him how kind he was, how funny he was, how grateful she was to have a friend like him.

But she couldn't.

Her tongue was twisted into a tight knot and she felt like her mouth was clamped shut. So, instead, Violet simply nodded and started to eat again.

Oscar kept his promise. Like he always did.

They went out to the library, just the two of them. Oscar laughed and smiled while Violet just shook her head and told him that he was stupid. They pored over books and old poems and wonderful stories which were hidden in the folds of time. 

Just Oscar and Violet.

But it was going to take more than just an evening with Oscar to brighten up Violet's life. She was buried so deep in her pits of misery that it was proving more and more difficult to find her way out.