2000 AD.

  In the dead of night, inside the main hall of the church, moonlight shines through the glass, clouds floating past and occasionally casting a shadow over the world which, through the ogee curves of the windows, look like fragmented pieces of shadow scattered on the ground. Above the organ pipes is an ornate star—a (likely false) diamond, as if made of white light.

  Some self-important, idiotic arctic star.

  Sitting alone in the front row and looking irrevocably isolated, with his black CD player in his pocket, dark wires leading up to his ears, is a boy. Hair darker than black. Impossible darkness in the eyes and gaze…even though his eyes are white as the star.

  In his ears—Change by Deftones. The haunting melodies remind one of a drug addict. He is only here because even though he hates all this, the light and divinity, he couldn’t quite stay away. There is always something about it. He doesn’t believe in god and the Light hates him, so there is a unique feel of hauntingness in these sorts of places. Addicted to the hauntingness, like some sort of ghost.

  (He’s already cursed the doors shut and barred them with intimidating-looking black metal bars so the devout won’t come in here and start praying in the middle of the night out of overdramatic religious fervour.)

  He doesn’t pray.

  Yet when the moonlight is blocked out and the star shadowed, like a black diamond, only then does he clasp his hands together in prayer—to the abyssal star.

  ‘Amen.’

  #

  Isaac Ivkov has a nightmare of tall, shadowy silhouettes, stuck in that haunting, agonizing dreamworld and not wanting to leave the sorrow, as if he would be leaving behind something important…deep in that world yet vaguely aware of this world, but not wanting to wake, only to stay asleep just to stay in that world and find the answers…

  …until it occurrs to him in his half-unconscious state—today is Invitation Day.

  At once his eyes apprehensively snap open, and the feeling of faint loss overwhelms him like a dark fog—Isaac ignores the loss of a world as he always has, used to it by now, only irritatedly blinking a few times as if to forcibly shake that useless world off—feeling as though he’s just stepped out of the semi-warm fog into the icy cold—before sitting up, black metal of the bed creaking. It’s good that he’s used to the cold.

  Moonlight shines in through the window like chilling rays.

  Today is August 25th…only a few days left until the start of term. (Not that he’s been counting, obviously.)

  Isaac covers his mouth in a yawn that’s more like a heavy sigh. Inside, there’s an inkling of wanting to go, yet he also can’t help the feeling that he’s walking into suicide. And a feeling that he is going to walk into it regardless.

  Idly, he twirls a knife in his hands, the metal glinting in the light of the stars.

  …Suicide. So interesting.

  All of a sudden, Isaac stabs the knife down onto the bedside counter with a thud, arises out of bed and imperiously resolves he’ll go, if only to show those idiots their place. The sorcerous world could do with a new dark lord.

  Until the letter arrives, however, he can only impatiently wait. He uses a curse to switch out of his sleepwear in an instant with his usual outfit, what he calls the White Pony one—obviously, all black, with a White Pony shirt, jeans, combt boots and accessories such as chains, cross earrings and anything the orphanage would find offensive, looking like some stereotypical 2000s grunge kid.

  Throughout his immense room, CD jewel cases, cassettes, and horror games are scattered in various places. Knives, switchblades and…instruments with blades strewn about. On his bedside counter, a stolen glass ashtray shaped like a heart. A bible. An upside-down black cross from the old days.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  Immersed in his thoughts, unconsciously tapping his fingers on the metal of the bed, metallic, high-pitched sounds ring out and almost echo. What should I bring? CD player of course…cassettes? Horror games & Playstation for sure…he can’t live without his Playstation…

  …his eyes land on a few cracks in the wall; black grime; the beams of the ceiling as if on the verge of collapse, giving it the appearance of a haunted mansion. It’s an infamous rumour in Ilaver that this orphanage is haunted (Isaac’s fault). Once, several residents swore they saw a reaper-like phantom in the night, and it all spiralled out of control from there. It isn’t like he hates it; it keeps others away like the plague—St. Isabelle’s Orphanage seeming like some gothic place with a mysterious dark history, isolated on the outskirts of the city and dark as if not of this world.

  Isaac continues looking in the room for things to bring. Bible on his bedside table, which he only read with contempt to see what all this cadaver religion fuss was about…obviously, no. Switchblades—yes. Lindor dark chocolate—yes. Instant coffee—perhaps. There isn’t much else. He never kept much.

  (He could bring everything, couldn’t he? Throw it all in his cache cursed to have infinite space. It’s useless pondering what to bring.

  Perhaps it’s because he unconsciously doesn’t want to vanish and leave nothing behind, like some ghost, or like trash and used cigarettes.)

  Isaac lights up a cig, black lighter embedded with a cross looking like the St. James one, and smokes in his room, not bothering to open the windows. He doesn’t have a babyface or anything like that, none of that immature demeanour of a literal child, so he doesn’t look idiotic doing it. Unlike others.

  Snuffing out his cigarette on the counter, he uses a quick hex to clean his teeth, face, body in general, looking clean as innocence.

  In order to kill time until the letter arrives, probably at about midnight, Isaac powers up the Playstation and loads his last saved game in Silent Hill.

  Kills a nurse. Then another.

  It’s cold as shit. His hands are frozen but if it isn’t affecting his gameplay, he isn’t doing anything about it.

  (Sometimes he wonders what in the world is he doing. Then he remembers that ultimately, he’s just waiting to die.

  So, he may as well live like it.)

  …

  At midnight, trying not to act like he’s staring intently at the window for a certain envelope, Isaac takes a drag again. Eyes flick back. Kills a monster. Eyes flick back.

  (Honestly. He’s already received like ten letters from other schools already, even some from Europe and one from Uzbekistan for gods’ sake, it could hurry up its pace.)

  Until at last—

  The ray of moonlight through his window turns black, with a black envelope, white ornate patterns lining the edges—it has to be because he’s officially under the name of Ivkov, clearly tailored to his house’s alignment.

  It falls slowly, and impatiently Isaac uses the hand presently not in use for smoking to snatch it ruthlessly from the air.

  On the envelope in white cursive:

  Isaac Ivorovich Ivkov

  Isaac’s face sours upon seeing the full name, but it’s impossible to sour fully on a night like this.

  He carefully tears open the dark wax seal with the school symbol, an ostentatious V. Inside, the letter is addressed to:

  Isaac Ivkov

  St. Isabelle’s Orphanage

  Inswood St.

  Ilaver

  ON, Canada

  He’s in Ontario, of course, so it’s in English by default. However, if he waves a hand over it, it turns into French, ink rippling over. He waves a hand over it again.

  (Not like his French is bad but…whatever.)

  In pretentious cursive:

  Dear Mr. Ivkov,

  We are pleased to inform you that a place is reserved for you at the Arcturus School of Sorcery & Icial Arts. Please find the included list of imperative materials, as well as the papers outlining important information.

  Term 1 begins on Sep. 1. The deadline for a reply is Aug 31. Docking for the ship will be on Argentus Isle.

  Sincerely,

  Adalina Issartelle

  Headmistress of Arcturus

  Lady of the Arctic Star | Order of the Arctic | Order of Crystal | Order of Winter

  …And so it begins. The start of his suicide.