Chapter Text
“Love your mother, yeah she’s a good one. She’ll build you armour; keep you warm as a hen”
The plan was for her to sit idly by while her best friend, Chloe Price, drew closer to her ultimate demise at the hands of the school’s token poor little rich boy, Nathan Prescott. As much as it tore at her insides and left her in an emotional ruin, she accepted this plan and her best friend’s fate. Like clockwork, she captured the photograph of the blue butterfly with her old-time instant polaroid camera. The shot was just as beautiful as she’d remembered but this was harder to appreciate knowing that in just a few short moments, the girl she loved as a sister, a friend and confidante, would be gunned down.
The thought destroyed her and in a moment of sadness, instead of pocketing the photograph, she let it fall to the ground and failed to notice it travel underneath the cubicle door she drooped herself against. On schedule, she heard the door fly open, welcoming the deeply troubled Nathan Prescott into the female bathrooms. She heard his inane ramblings for the second time that week, castigating everyone around him in a desperate attempt to elevate his conscience. She knew he was troubled and unstable, it was evident enough for anyone to see. In deepest realms of her mind, she could not blame him for his maniacal behaviour and outbursts, given his obvious mental instability and the traumatising events Jefferson had subjected him to. But knowing that he would take away the only person she truly cared about was enough to cause him to deeply upset her.
Moments later she heard Chloe enter. She clutched herself in an attempt to restrain her use of the rewind powers she had at her disposal. Unbeknownst to her, Chloe slamming the entry door shut created an air current that blew the forgotten photograph toward Nathan’s shoes as he turned around to address Chloe’s rage.
* * *
He caught the flicker of blue in the corner of his eye but chose to ignore it for the more immediate display of blue that was in front of him. He eyed the blue-haired punk menacingly; regretting the day he ever so much as brushed passed her at the Vortex Club party. He had gone rogue with this one and he should not have. Jefferson warned him that she would be a liability but out of desperation to appease the man he considered a father and mentor, he had gone ahead with dosing her anyway and now his mistake was coming at him and threatening his family.
She spat wanton abuse at him as he allowed the anger he felt in the pit of his stomach bubble. This feeling was all too familiar and he knew the repercussions of allowing this fire to swallow him. The gun in his pocket beckoned to him and he relished the moment where he could point it at her and turn her unbridled rage into fear. As their confrontation escalated, he pulled the gun out of his pocket, aiming at her and watching the fire in her eyes dissipate. Internally, his mind battled with his emotions, begging them to cease and crying for them to see reason. But the anger was too strong this time and he felt it overpower him the moment he put pressure on the trigger.
He caught a glimpse of the hint of blue in the corner of his eye again and without thinking, he cocked his head this time for a split second to see what it was. He spied the photograph lying innocently on the bathroom floor, its subject matter causing him to do a double take. He became mesmerised by the blue butterfly and allowed the surge of nostalgia he felt to overcome him. Despite the urgency of the situation, he allowed his mind to wander and soon, he became lost in his memories.
* * *
His five-year old hand reached out before him, smaller and more delicate, searching for the reassurance that immediate contact could bring him. Without fail, always without fail, he soon felt the grasp of his mother’s hand, tight and secure around his own. She led him toward the sunlight and he followed her obediently and without question. He would never question anything about his mother. How could he, when she had shown him nothing but love, affection and support from the day that he was born into this world?
As she propelled him forward by her lead, he ran his hands through the long grass that engulfed them, mystified by their picturesque surroundings. Nathan had always loved this field. There was no playground and no one ever ventured there save for he and his mother but it was open and beautiful and he could run through it forever and forget all of the times his father failed to grasp his hand.
He made out a flash of blue in the corner of his eye and immediately released himself from his mother’s grasp to seek where it had originated from. Atop a long stem of grass, he spotted a blue butterfly, the fluttering of its wings had slowed down as it settled itself where it landed.
“Mom look!” he exclaimed, drawing her attention toward the source of his excitement.
She turned her attention to where her son pointed, a smile beginning to spread across her face.
“Good find Nate! It’s beautiful!” She rummaged through the bag at her side and pulled out an old instant Polaroid camera. In one fluid motion she captured the small creature and showed Nathan the photograph. His steel blue eyes widened in excitement as he gazed upon the butterfly in the photograph and the butterfly in front of him.
“Can I touch it?” he asked his mother earnestly, fascinated by the creature.
Without a word, she moved closer to the butterfly, slowing her movements down until she looked as though she was almost gliding. She approached the creature and slowly extended her hand out, letting it sit there patiently. The butterfly drew closer and propelled itself onto the outstretched hand. His mother smiled and slowly moved her hand down to meet her son at eye level. He looked in wonder at the butterfly before him, allowing his curiosity to overcome him. Instead of mimicking his mother’s patient and gentle strides, he propelled his hand forward instantly, startling the creature and causing it to fly into the distance.
He watched as it disappeared into the sunset, tears forming in his blue eyes. At such a young age he had grown oddly accustomed to disappointment. He hated the feeling but he was used to it. His chest grew tight and his breaths hitched in his throat, already anticipating the tears to fall down his cheeks. Before they could drop, he felt a warmth at his back as his mother engulfed him in her embrace.
“Don’t worry Nate, sometimes when you love something you have to set it free. If they come back, then they’re yours”.
* * *
His consciousness snapped him back into the harsh reality before him. The anger that had overpowered him moments ago had vanquished and the weight of the gun felt exceedingly heavy in his hand. He felt himself lower the barrel and allowed the weapon to drop on the floor, sliding next to the photograph.
He bent over and stared closely at the picture for a few minutes before pocketing it.
“What the fuck?” he heard the blue haired girl say as he lifted himself back up to her level.
“I have to go,” he responded, squarely meeting her gaze before brushing past her and outside into the halls of Blackwell Academy.
* * *
He knew that this was where he would end up, but seeing the headstones around him, each displaying the name of a different Prescott, made him feel anxious about his decision to come here. He shook his head and continued forward until he stopped in front of a particular headstone.
Meredith Anne Prescott
1969 – 2001
His eyes began to sting as a deep sadness enveloped him. She had been so alive in his memory just a moment ago; he could not fathom the fact that she was anything but underneath this cold, hard stone. He fell to his knees in front of the grave and wept. He clenched his fist and slammed it into the stone before him, unable to feel the pain of the fresh wound that opened amongst his knuckles and caused blood to trickle down his fingers.
After what seemed like hours, he struggled to pick himself up, brushing the dirt off his jeans and beloved red jacket.
“Get it together dammit,” he grumbled to himself before moving forward and refusing to look back.
* * *
He awoke to the sounds of fists pummelling his door. He rose from his mattress, not bothering to put on a shirt. Before he could open the door fully, a man in a police uniform forced his way into the room, carrying a clear ziplock bag containing a gun.
His gun.
“Nathan Prescott,” he said in a loud, booming voice. “You are under arrest for the possession of a deadly weapon".
His mind clouded as he tried to register what was happening. He had barely uttered a word when his rights were swiftly read out to him and the handcuffs were placed on his wrists. He was lead outside of his room into the halls if the boys dormitory. Behind one of the police officers, he spotted a pair of cornflower blue irises staring at him on a face framed by mousey brown locks. He tried to turn his head but before he could examine clearly who it was, one of the officers dragged him away.
“Fuck” was the only word he could manage before his head was lowered into a police car.