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// Denude // ~Styles Triplets AU

// The Privileged and the Unprivileged //

// Derora Elainey Deman's P.O.V //

"Byron,” I spoke.

“What?”

“In five years from now, what do you think you’ll be doing?”

“Why?” He laughed, but when he saw how serious I was, he stopped, cleared his throat and shrugged. “Maybe I’ll be the next Tupac Shakur or Notorious B.I.G”

“You mean maybe you’ll be the next dead rapper with a bullet lodged into them”

“As long as I go down a legend, I don’t mind dying,” he said, flashing his gold tooth as he strutted with a small swag, his body swaying so he could make himself look tough.

The back of my hand whacked his chest.

“Ow, bruh, “ he rubbed the spot on his chest, his eyes crinkling and his bottom lip pulling up.

“For a rapper, you’re not all that tough,” I teased.

“You hit like a guy, man.”

He dodged my aim for the back of his head.

“Anyway, there’s a slim chance you’ll be a successful rapper, so what else do you plan for your life that you’re almost guaranteed to be doing?”

He shrugged again. “ I don’t know…”

I waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. We walked in silence to math class. He walked in front of me and knocked on Mr. M. Styles’ door. It opened. Byron motioned with his tattooed hand for me to go in front of him. Once we sat down, the bell rang. Both of us took out our math journals and worked the three math problems on the board in the span of four and a half minutes. We were done before everyone else. Not to brag, but I knew we were both exceptionally good at math. That’s why we were in pre-ap classes.

Repetitive tappings of a pencil against desk were the only thing that substituted the quietness, along with the occasional coughs, sniffs, and the sound of lead scrawling across leaf paper.

Thinking about the question I raised several minutes ago, I whispered over to him and said, “Byron, remember when you were younger, you wanted to be a doctor?”

“Yeah?”

“Why didn’t you want to be a fireman, policeman, or some astronaut like most boys thought about becoming. Or even a pro-wrestler or something?”

Byron’s light, brown eyes flickered from me to his desk. Hunching over, he shrugged his shoulders. “I was young back then, you know. Thinking I could save the world and help people. But, I know damn well better now."

"What...what do you mean?” I leaned forward, but before he could answer, Mr. M. Styles’ light voice cut in.

“Have you two already finished bellwork?”

We nodded in unison.

“May I check both of your work?”

He traveled towards us and scanned over the three math problems on my notebook paper.

“Excellent,” he whispered.

He slowly stepped over to Byron’s desk and scanned his. His eyes went back from my work to Byron’s several times.

“Miss...uh, Dedman? All of your answers are correct, not one step omitted,” he started, then paused to glance at Byron. “Mr. Brown, these are not the methods I’ve taught you. You should not have learned the methods you used for the three problems I assigned at any point during your entire math curriculum throughout your years, but nonetheless, your answers are all correct as well. Your methods are surprisingly thorough and missing no steps.”

Heads turned in their seat, and some sneered, and some rolled their eyes. Others were just curious glances.

“Do you wish to tell me how you’ve managed to achieve this advanced method solving?”

“Not really,” Byron replied curtly.

Mr. Marcel sighed with a long face. “Very well then.”

Class went on with Mr. M. Styles avoiding our section of the classroom, but slipping small smiles at me when he could. We copied notes, listened to his lectures, then we were released.

Again, we walked side by side down the hallway. Byron opened his mouth to speak but he quickly shut it. There was something on his mind, but I guess he wanted to tell me another time.

The lockers were around the corner so I dropped my eyes to the stacks of books in my arms and let Byron outpace me.

Seconds later, my shoulder knocked into the wall where, unfortunately, a fire extinguisher in a glass case resided. School material fell from my hand as I clutched my left shoulder in anguish, but I didn’t cry out. The edge of the metal and glass case had cut through the layer of skin on my shoulder blade. Blood pooled in that area and I pressed my hand to hinder the flow of it.

“What the f#ck, b*tch!” I heard Byron roar.

Familiar brown hair, filled with the scent of almonds and vanilla, whipped past my face.

“YOU THINK YOU’RE SO PRIVILEGED BECAUSE YOU’RE IN THE SAME CLASSES AS US, a voice bellowed. “NO MATTER HOW LONG YOU’VE BEEN HERE, OR IF YOU WERE BORN HERE ON HARRISON’S SOIL, YOU WILL NEVER BE WELCOMED SO JUST LEAVE WHILE YOU CAN BEFORE YOU END UP LEAVING A WAY I’LL PERSONALLY MAKE SURE OF. A WAY YOUR DUMB MONKEY LOOKING OF A DADDY WILL!”

All time had frozen. I could no longer feel the sting of the cut in my shoulder.

“W-what?” I stuttered. Finally, I looked at her. “How do you know about my-”

She threw her head back into a mocking, contemptuous, and derogative laugh.

“He should consider himself lucky to be able to be in one of my father’s hospitals. But I doubt that even one of the most refined of establishments such as our own, updated to the best of technology, could help your abomination of a father.”

Anger pulsed at the temples of my head and clouded the edges of my vision. My eyes snapped closed. Darkness. Then, the words of my father poured into my head as if his spirit was speaking to me. Maintain your temperance, have faith, and in the end, you’ll always come out victorious…

A shriek erupted. My eyes opened to see Arielle thrashing in Byron’s grip.

“Hey, hey, what going on here!” A voice rang throughout the hallway.

It was so similar to Mr. E. Styles, but with more emotion. Similar to Mr. M. Styles, but with more depth and deepness to it. Like a mix between both. Somewhere in the middle.

A tall and lanky man, just like the rest of is brothers, bolted to us. His hair was disheveled and long. His shoulders were broad. He wore skin-tight jeans and Chelsea boots accompanied with a peach and white striped buttoned-down shirt. His brunette hair cascaded behind him as if a soft breeze caressed and gently tousled it. He approached in front of Byron, who had pushed Arielle to one side of the lockers.

The man’s features set into a deep and worrying frown. His eyes swiveled from Arielle, who was clutching her arm, to Byron.

“You know…” he started, and gently picked up Arielle’s arm, then continued, “ It’s not nice to put your hands on a lady.” Twitching, the corner of Arielle’s mouth lifted into a devious smirk.

Tension and fury wafted from Byron’s pores. “And it’s also not nice for this b*tch to hurt my friend and start yelling some racist sh*t at her,” Byron snapped, grabbing my arm, and his other fist clenching. I took his fist in mine and ignored the pain above my shoulder to rub my thumbs over the protruding bones under his skin. Bad things happened if Byron was too angry. He relaxed and drew in a deep breath.

“Mr. H. Styles, you have to believe me. They are lying. She started it-” she pointed her finger at me, and started sniffling- “so I had to defend myself. And when I did, he-” she directed her finger to Byron- “came and grabbed me.”

She broke down into tears and clung to Mr. H. Styles' strong arms and then burrowed her head in his chest. Mr. H. Styles’ looked puzzled as he stood with his arms loosely around her smaller frame, a natural reaction that had occurred when she had unexpectedly hidden in his chest.

“Is this true?”

Arielle turned her head to peak at us. I was so confused. What did we ever do to her?

"No," Byron stated calmly.

Mr. H. Styles' eyebrows furrowed and pulled Arielle away from his chest, keeping her at arm's length with his hands enclosed around both of her arms.

"Are you telling me the truth, love?"

Heat flashed in Arielle's eyes and cheeks. She liked the endearment from him. But just as quickly, her eyes turned cold as she whipped her head around at us.

"Stop lying. You know that's what happened, don't try to lie. If you don't tell the truth, I'll tell my daddy, Sam Freds, on both of you!" She hissed.

My eyes darted to Byron, his eyes wide with masked fear only I could discern. His hands tightened around mine and drew me closer to him.

"S-Sam Freds..." Byron managed to get out in a low rasp.

Arielle nodded slowly, her eyebrows raised, thrilled she got the reaction she wanted from us.

"Um, we lied. What she said. T-that's what happened," I piped up nervously.

"Yeah," Byron said after me.

Arielle smiled victoriously, and her mouth parted to speak, but someone else spoke up.

"No, it wasn't."

Our heads snapped to a small guy casually leaning against a wall behind us. He had blond hair and bright blue eyes. A trait that stuck out was his tiny feet.

"Stay out of this you fag-Barren!" She quickly corrected, scowling.

"That's not what happened at all." He looked her dead straight in the eyes, and she backed away. "I saw you push that girl into the wall and she hurt her shoulder on the fire extinguisher. You started screaming at her and saying how she thinks she's privileged and some nasty things about her father."

Arielle's breaths rose in anger and she threw her hands in the air. "Absurd! I would never do such a-"

"Girl, why da fuq you lyin'. Why you always lyin'. Mhhm, oh my gosh, stop f#ckin' lyin'," someone behind us sung.

A different guy with hair blacker than the night's sky placed a hand on the blonde's shoulder. This guy was a whole foot taller than blondie.

"Anyway, Miss, Arielle Freds," he said with royal mockery. "You can stop now with your bullsh*tting, dear. You don't have facts or evidence to support that excuse of a claim."

Arielle seethed. Her complexion turned tomato red. "You. Don't. Either," she said through gritted teeth.

"As a matter of fact, honey-boo-boo, we do. If you'd just tilt that head filled with air and dust particles back, you will see that itsy, bitsy camera the three blind mice could spot just up above you. Plus, it's your word against four. So see ya laterz."

"Hah, none of the cameras here have audio, you stork looking buffoon."

The dark haired boy laughed, smacking his knee. Mr. H. Styles clearly wanted to interfere but had no clue how.

"Ooh, sweetheart, the only one your burning with that insult is your self, deficiente." His tongue was fluid and fluent as he spoke the Italian word. "It doesn't matter if we have audio or not. You pushing that sweet girl over there is going to be on that camera footage along with your redder than menstruation skin tone as you soundlessly yell your lungs out like a damn maniac. You better watch yourself, gurl. I don't think you can go crying into your daddy's arms this time with you manipulating the truth as always. Oh, and by the way, you're hideous when you're angry. Try being a happier person. You'll be guaranteed to look your best."

Arielle screamed and stormed off, but Mr. H. Styles bounded after her, caught her arm, and halted her. I'm pretty sure he was beyond confused with this whole interaction. "Why don't we have a small and calm chat in my office? All four of you. "

"Sir, with all due respect. We can't," Byron said. Suddenly, I felt pressure against my wound. The pain made its way down through every nerve ending in my shoulders. My hands clenched around Byron's. "She needs to get to the nurse as soon as possible."

"May I have a look," Mr. H. Styles asked, already traveling towards me. Without hesitation, he gently removed the fabric of my blue blouse away from my injury. He gasped and swiveled his head towards a death-glaring Arielle, his long hair whacking my face in the process. Shockingly soft.

"Oops...sorry," he smiled briefly. "But, by all means, go. It probably just looks and feels a lot worse than it actually is, but, just for safe measures and the possibility that it is as worse as it seems to be, head along now. So sorry for keeping you. You must be in a great deal of pain."


"Tell me again the reason you took me to the Men's restroom instead of the nurse's office?"

"Shut up and let me work." He turned on the faucet and grabbed paper towels. My mind instantly went back to Maybeline and the first time I met Mr. M. Styles at the cafe...and the day I learned my...

"I can't believe that little... did this to you."

"I know, right. This is crazy! What did I ever to do her to make her that angry? I have never interacted with her throughout our classes in dance so I don't see her motive of hatred against me at all."

"People like her don't need a motive to hate someone," Byron stated matter of factly. "They don't need valid reasons. They use their privilege cards to get away with murder. Privileged white females use their tears, and white privileged men use the power handed to them to get what they want. We see it every day on the news, in the media, and especially in America."

After a moment, Byron slipped out a cotton ball, some alcohol, and some needle and thread. It was apparent I needed stitches, but he still didn't want me to go to the nurse for some reason.

"Byron, don't you think I should get medical attention if I need stitches?"

"You're getting medical attention, Derora. I'm an expert at this. Grandma taught me everything I need to know. Besides, I don't really trust anyone in this school with you as you can see that our kind isn't really wanted here- so I'm doing this myself."

"But what about the two guys who stood up for us. Do you think you'll ever be able to trust someone besides me? Do you think eventually, if they wanted to get to know us, you'd be able to trust them? Because all white people aren't like that, Byron. A lot of white people won't think to judge us because we're different. It won't even cross their minds that we're anything but human. It's just that we happen to be living in a town that seems to be sixty to seventy-five years into the past."

"Look, Derora. I'mma be honest. I don't know if I'll be able to trust anyone other than you and family. That's just the way it is and that's just the way it's gonna be."

"Fine. But, when you were little and you wanted to be a doctor, I bet you didn't think the same."

"Don't be f#cking stupid, Derora. Of course, I didn't. I didn't know any better then."

As he cleaned the wound on my shoulder, he looked me square in the eyes. " Derora, I wanted to be a doctor because of my father. "

He sighed as if the next words would pain him, "When dad was going through dialysis...I wanted to help ease his suffering and when I told him, he only smiled at me and said that before God would take him..home, he said he'd promise to pray to God every night he had left so I could become a doctor when I grew up. I laughed and had said, Silly daddy, you're already home. His eyes had glossed over and his bottom lip trembled. That was the first time I had ever seen my dad cry, and I was scared," Byron admitted.

"Don't cry, I had told him. It will be alright. He would be better. I could fix him." He continued the light dabs at my shoulder.

"Dad had cupped my face and whispered, 'Not this time, son. I'm going to go away for a really long time, and I'm so, so very sorry. I don't want to leave you, your mom, or your sister, but it's what God thinks best for me."

Byron turned off the faucet and then stared unseeingly into the mirror. "I can fix you, I can fix you, I had screamed at him clinging onto his shirt. I will be a doctor so I can fix you and then you will live with me and mom and Rici, forever. He had taken me into his already weakened arms and held me to his chest...then I had fallen asleep in them. When I had woken up...his body was so cold-" his voice broke- "So cold and stiff against mine. That's when I knew ...he had already gone home... "

"That's when I made up in my mind, I would do my daddy proud and become a doctor and help people. People who don't give a damn about me. Hmm, sounds pointless. But, somewhere deep down, I guess I still want to accomplish that dream."

"Then why don't you work to get your Ph.D. or work in a medical field or something like that?"

He didn't answer. It was quiet for a long moment.

"Byron?"

Silence.

"By-

"I doubt I'll even go to college...or accomplish even being a rapper in life."

"Why?" I asked, confused on his sudden shift from his passions.

"I'll probably be dead before the age of 21."








Notes

*Sorry, this is a long chapter. Took several hours to complete. That means it probably has a lot of grammar and spelling errors.*

PerciaxXXx

Comments

@AmatheiaStorm

Thank You So Much!

Can't wait to see what happens next in yours, too!


PerciaxXXx PerciaxXXx
9/13/18

@PerciaxXXx
Editing is half the battle and a victory for the war. Can’t wait to see what’s next, good luck!

AmatheiaStorm AmatheiaStorm
9/13/18

@AmatheiaStorm
Don't worry, my precious angel will come to no harm...well, except for his feelings being hurt...poor baby. I already have the next chapter in preparation, I just need to edit it... a lot...

PerciaxXXx PerciaxXXx
9/13/18

I wouldn't call it a lousy chapter - trying to figure out what the hell just happened, but other than crazy woman trying to take his blood - I'm def interested in what will happen next with this particular Styles. As they say, the most beautiful places hold the most danger and he got himself into a whale of trouble. The sacrifice people aren't wound too tight, that's for sure.

AmatheiaStorm AmatheiaStorm
9/13/18

@Prinny1321
Thank you for your review, I really needed it!

PerciaxXXx PerciaxXXx
8/22/18