by Alex Catt
The Greek gods are far from dead- they're alive & causing a storm in the town of Polis.
|All good stories start with something falling apart. A love, a life, a person. It doesn’t matter what. Just as long as it falls apart. And nothing falls apart better than the teenager. They blame us for everything; we are the hated generation, but they forget who raised us. How can someone not fall apart when they were raised to be perfect, to be silent, to be good. You can only swallow your fire for so long before it sets you alight, scorching your insides and choking you with thick black smoke. It manifests in too late nights, too loud music, too fast cars. A cigarette and a bottle of whiskey can only quench the fire for so long before it comes running out in strings of venomous words and equally venomous kisses. It come spilling out, burning everything it touches like cheap vodka at 1am. People with this in their blood play Midas with everything they touch. Half people, half hurricane. And no place has more of these people than the Olympia Institute For Troubled Youths.
The school broods just on the outskirts of a small town, Polis- a small, seaside town with little else to do but gossip. Olympia is the creepy house in the village that no one dares enter, the house that all the children avoid. The place where the unspeakable happens. Not that anyone from Polis goes there, oh no. Any good, self respecting Polis resident would never consider walking through the dark, twisted gates into the house could so easily be the setting of a long lost Hitchcock horror. Parents cross the road with their children when they walk past; Girl Scouts know to sell their cookies else where; the milkman leaves the milk on the other side of the street.
Those who do walk through those gates, are the people your mother warned you about. Dark, twisted, unwanted. The sons and daughters of the capitals wealthiest, sent there after crashing one too many Porsches or partaking in a few too many poisons. Or, perhaps, the children of the capitals most wanted, left out in the cold after their parents scandalous arrest or magnificent failure. They all get left here, in the place of the forgotten. We see them around town sometimes, in groups made entirely of cigarette smoke & expensive perfume. They lounge in Ambrosia Diner, swapping gossip and scars. They purge the Forge, the corner shop, of all junk food, liquor and smokes- they never get IDed. They make camp in vintage cars at the Muse Drive In, paying attention to anything that isn’t the movie or their ex a few cars down. Most people just ignore them, crossing the street when they meet them on their way to corner shop, and leave them alone. If you pay attention though, stories emerge. Stories so dirty, scandalous and heartbreaking they’re the ones who should make headlines, not their parents. There’s not a soul here without a story to tell.
The most well known students of Olympia are the three brothers- Victor, Dylan and Elis. All three are seniors, now infamous amongst our community for their escapades since their hurricane hit 3 years ago. They drove down from New York, the top down and the music loud. No one quite knows how they ended up here. Rumours flew at the time; the most popular, and of course the most scandalous, one was that they had killed their father in a fit of rage, their mother nowhere to be found. They were a mystery to our small town. A mystery that soon made a name for itself.
Victor, the youngest, knew just how to murder someone; kiss them once and then never again. He murdered every soul in Polis by Christmas. His touch was like a fire, his shocking blue eyes anything but vanilla, his blond shock of hair always perfectly styled. The air seemed to almost crackle around him. He was never without his signature dishevelled suit and a drink in hand; bourbon, top shelf, on the rocks. There always seemed to be blood on his knuckles. Violence was never a foreign language to Victor; in fact, he was fluent. No one crossed him, no one stopped him. He ruled with a thundering heart and lightening fuelled fingers.
For every violent bone within his younger brothers body, the middle child- Dylan- lost another care. He smelt of the sea and freedom, never apart from his surf board. Polis was known for its surf, and god did Dylan run with this fact. It was a rarity to see him out of a wetsuit, or with a shirt on for that matter. The rumour was he’d left a girl behind in New York- a rich socialite, drowning class and Manolo’s. The smell of heartbreak lingered around him wherever he went. He became a regular at the Jackson Bakery, known for its blue chocolate chip cookies, and could often be found there when the surf was bad, sipping a sweetened coffee & discussing the ocean with the owners son. He was the most human of the three. Someone once said they even saw him cry once, on a payphone overlooking the bay.
At least they assumed it was him. Victor was not known for emotion and the eldest, Elis, was a most private man. A stoic suited and booted gentleman of old. His crisp black suit was far removed from his brothers disheveled James Bond aesthetic. Elis was the quiet one, the one everyone was most curious about. Like his brothers, rumours flew. Some said he was married, leaving his young wife behind in the city to care for his brothers. Others believed his one true love was his money, which he laced with jewels and liquor. It fluttered around his jewelled fingers with ease, pouring itself out every night onto the gambling table. He didn't ever speak much. He didn't need to. One look was all he needed. That's what happens when a entire town is terrified of you. He made no secret of the fact he had the local sheriff eating out of the palm of his hand. A blind eye was turned whenever a head rolled; his calling card was a bouquet of flowers placed on his victims families doorstep. They always did say death is a gentleman.
It was two months before the second hurricane; this time in female form. Just like before, 3 came cruising into town in a ’69 Chevrolet with the top down. This fresh batch was LA born and had the tans to prove it. Olympia had a new type of trouble on their hands.
The eldest of this clan, Blaise, was nothing like the last. Where Elis had a razor sharp suit, she had oversized fishermen's knits. He had tamed black hair the colour of onyx, she had a thick mane of curls the colour of autumn leaves. He spoke too little, her too much. They got on famously. No one touched Blaise for fear of the unspeakable; the same was true for Elis. She packed one hell of a punch for a 4'9 girl. Luckily for all involved, this trait was not one that came out very often.
This trait was most definitely inherited by the middle child, Georgia, or Gia to her friends. Not that she had many. Her temper was known and feared by all in Polis. It could be sparked by even the smallest wrong move. This was, sadly, a fact that was learnt the hard way for many. It was so at odds with her outward appearance that it shocked all those who came into contact with said temper. No one ever considers the girl in a pastel dress with flowers in her equally pastel hair to have a temper akin to the Devil incarnate. She is best left alone in the gardens surrounding Olympia, tending to her flower beds and vegetable patch. She has a small stall at Gaia’s market every Sunday morning; her produce is sold out by noon. Georgia doesn’t have to try anymore. She lounges behind the stall like a old photograph, flicking through a magazine with John Lennon glasses balancing on her nose. The stereotypical Tumblr summer child.
Now, Chére, the youngest, was both the exact opposite and the exact same as her siblings. She was never without her signature look- a floor sweeping white or blush gown, always fit for a wedding. The question was always whose. She floated round town with a cool elegance only awarded to catwalk models and princesses, but she knew this. She knew her worth. She could be found lounging within The Grape, the towns closest thing to the wine bars of New York, sipping on one drink or another. Before 7pm, it was champagne, only the best; anytime after, wine the colour of cranberries. The bravest souls would go to her for advice- normally of the martial sort. Cheré seemed to have a knack at knowing exactly what to say to solve any issue.
With that second arrival, the town seemed to quiet down. There was now a balance, a sense of calm over at Olympia, and Polis was peaceful. But peace, for Polis and the Olympia children, was often short lived.
These infamous 6 were not the first students to ever grace Olympia; far from it in fact. Polis had been rocked by the scandals of past residents for years, each resident having at least one spine tingler concerning the older residents. Our scandal? Well, like all good ones, it starts off with a murder.