Sinners & Saints
Chelsea Ballinger
Sinners & Saints © 2015 Chelsea Ballinger
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Published by Chelsea Ballinger
Cover created by Chelsea Ballinger
This is a work of fiction. Names, titles, places, characters, and events are the
product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Any trademarks,
service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied
endorsement.
Playlist
“Music gives a soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination and life to everything.” –Plato
London Grammar –Metal & Dust
Frank Ocean –Super Rich Kids
Frank Ocean –Lost
Phantogram –Black Out Days
Hozier –Work Song
Hozier –Take Me Church
2Pac –Hit ‘Em Up
The Civil Wars –Devil’s Backbone
Taylor Swift –Wildest Dreams
Taylor Swift –Style
Beyonce –Jealous
Beyonce –Haunted
The Weeknd –Wicked Games
Skylar Grey –I Know You
Prelow –Mistakes Like This
Nicki Minaj –Night is Still Young
Nicki Minaj –Buy a Heart (Feat. Meek Mill)
Kevin Garrett –Coloring
Halsey –Hold Me Down
Kanye West –Wolves (Feat. Vic Mensa & Sia)
Vic Mensa –U Mad
Florence and the Machine –Long & Lost
Florence and the Machine –Various Storms & Saints
Laura Welsh –Ghosts
FOR THE DREAMERS AND INSPIRERS
Part 1
“There is no sinner like a young saint.”
- Aphra Behn
1
SCARLETT
Crying is good for the soul, or so they say.
If that’s true, I would suggest differently for me. My soul burns bright at the sight of other people’s tears. It’s something about seeing people in pain that sets myself inside an aura of tranquility and bliss. People say that doing bad things is wrong, but why? When people tell me to do what I love and then ask me why I did some horrible thing, my answer is…
I love to do bad things.
I love to do bad things and I never cry. In fact, I haven’t shed a tear since I was twelve at my father’s funeral and those tears were only fabricated. I forced myself to weep for the man I loathed so everyone would think I actually loved him and feel sorry for me, looking the other way when I started doing bad things. Most people do that. They cry when it is expected; they cry when it works in their favor. My father was a bastard and every day I smile more knowing he’s buried deep within the ground at Trinity Cemetery. Harsh, I know, but I’m a harsh girl. I don’t miss many people. I miss Gabriel, though, more than all these freaks here. They all weep for him, but they didn’t know him. They hated him. Despised him with every bone in their bodies. In my own way, I loved him. Love is a very irrelevant word for me. It exists but it’s for the weak. I have been taught that my whole life. My mother once told me that love only works in your favor when you don’t love them back. The bitch is right. It does. It’s always worked in my favor, that unrequited love men gain for me. Love can be so cruel—love and feelings. That is what tainted Gabriel, which is why he’s dead.
Blowing your brains out of your skull. Seriously, Gabriel? Bad taste, even for you. He should be happy that I’m even in attendance at his funeral. And I should be sitting up front too. I’m as much as family as they are. His father is a greedy little pervert who is married to his second wife, a failed actress and heiress to a hotel empire. He, along with everyone else, hated Gabriel. Gabriel was almost as cruel as I am, yet they still have false tears running down their cheeks. Their sad faces for the lost soul they knew nothing about. Besides me, the only one that isn’t crying is the boy up front with the rest of the family. Hugo Mandrake. He’s Gabriel’s little brother. He is also the twin of August Mandrake, the only brother of Gabriel’s that I know. When I first met Gabriel, he talked about Hugo a lot. His little brother who’s a good kid and how he’s so worried about him being alone at the boarding school their father shipped him off to. He said Hugo doesn’t do well when alone. Gabriel wasn’t kidding when he said August had a twin either. They are identical but of course different. Hugo sits straight. August slouches. August scratches his hands and twitches while his brother sits perfectly still. August is autistic and Hugo is not. I bet that has done some damage to him. Made him guilty that he came out right and August didn’t. Already he possesses the soul of a man who has experienced enough pain and loss to know the reality of the world. That reality is that life is fucking unfair. We always hear this from people, but it is truly something when you realize it at an early age. Now he will be staying with us at Ms. Eleanor’s and I look forward to that.
HUGO
It wasn’t even my dad who called to tell me Gabriel was dead. It was his secretary. I’ve been away at some shitty boarding school in some shitty town in New Hampshire for three long shitty years. Hadn’t seen my family once and he couldn’t even bother enough to call me and tell me my selfish brother killed himself. I call Gabriel selfish because he wasn’t supposed to do this. We promised each other we would never do the same thing Mom did. He promised me we would never go through this again. But can I be surprised by Gabriel’s change of heart? He had become a real dick through the years. Then again, I suppose we both changed. I used to smile a lot. I used to laugh more, but now it’s all for show. I show off my boy smile so no one will know how bad all this shit hurts.
He killed himself by blowing out his brains with a revolver he had received as a Christmas present from our grandfather. From what they told us, he placed it right in his mouth and pulled the trigger. Classy, but my mother still gets the grand prize for dramatic suicides. She literally went out in style. She dressed herself in a white gown and wore her favorite Harry Winston diamond necklace and diamond earrings from Tiffany’s. My brothers and I had gotten her those earrings for her birthday with our allowance. She even did her hair. She was dressed for a ball, but after putting on the finishing touches of her makeup, she went ahead and jumped off the balcony of our penthouse. She fell down fifty-five floors. It took 10.6 seconds for her to hit the ground. It took my father forty-eight hours to come back home from his business trip in Sweden. When he arrived, all he did was ask Gabriel, “Where were you?” Gabriel was thirteen years old.
I’m not crying for Gabriel. I cried for my mother, but I swore I would never cry for another person who gave up again. What they did is selfish, leaving August and me here with my dad?! The only bright side of this is that I won’t be attending the boarding school anymore. I’ll be staying here back on the island. Ms. Eleanor is a woman from very old money, my stepmother—I just met her yesterday—says. I remember how that conversation with Gabriel went when he told me.
“Dad got married to this woman.” He spoke in a monotone.
“What?! When?!”
“They eloped to Ibiza.”
“Oh,” was all I could say. I didn’t even know he was seeing anyone exclusivel
y. A silence occurred and I just waited for him to say something else. I miss you. How’s life? Anything.
“Yeah, so I was just calling to let you know. Bye.” He hung up before I could even comprehend what had just happened.
That was the day I knew he had officially become an asshole. He didn’t care about anything anymore.
Anyway, when rich and overworked parents don’t want to be bothered with their kids but don’t want them to be home alone on the island, they send them to her. When my mom died, Dad shipped me off to boarding school and sent Gabriel and August to her. Gabriel was already acting out and August is autistic, so my father saw me as his last hope for a wonderful heir to his fortune capitalist company. Now I think he’s sending me so I can keep an eye on August, which I am glad to do. He and I are all we have left of our tragic, beautiful family. That’s what people call us. They say Ms. Eleanor enjoys the company, that she’s a lonely old woman. She’s been married five times and claims to only have loved one of them. They say she’s bat shit crazy and judge her for her strange behavior. Yet, they send their children to live with her in a heartbeat. Yeah, the definition of crazy in this town is completely fucked up.
SCARLETT
Chad is the only one I know who takes pride in creating the perfect line of white powder before snorting it. He snorts the powder, trailing the line with the hollow glass tube, off of the mini bar.
“Do you really need to do that now?” Noel asks in disgust.
Chad sniffs and wipes his nose with the back of his hand. “It relaxes me.”
Noel harshly laughs and shakes his head. Chad, high, decides now is the time to place his hand on my thigh. I sink my fingernails into his hand and he winces, pulling it back.
“The fact that you think I’m in the mood to be groped by you is truly unbelievable.”
“Come on, Scarlett,” he smiles at me. “Let’s not pretend that you’re actually mourning.”
“I grieve in my own way. I will miss Gabriel deeply.”
“Yeah, but not enough to undo all the wrong, right?” Noel bravely says to me.
Grinning, I say, “Noel, let’s not be testy now.”
“Yeah, Noel,” Chad chimes in. “Stop acting like a bitch.”
“Chad, I will fucking end you.” Noel sits up from his seat, his shoulders and chest rising.
“Fuck you,” Chad snaps back and I roll my eyes at this childish tantrum. “Can you both give it a rest? Chad, go back to the drugs and Noel, go back to staying quiet. It’s what you do best.” Noel’s jaw tightens and he looks at me like he’s prepared to put me in my place, but he won’t. None of them ever do no matter how angry they are.
I put on my Chanel sunglasses and step out of the limo once everyone else has stepped out of their cars and I leave both of my idiot boys there, preparing myself to say goodbye to Gabriel for good.
HUGO
I watch my brother’s casket get lowered down in the hollow grave. I can’t help but think of my last good memory of him in person. He was ten. August and I, six. Mom took us to Central Park and we had a picnic. The sun was out and so were the mosquitoes. August threw a tantrum because of both of them. I tried to calm him down and he accidentally slapped me. I cried like a baby. Still, it was the happiest day of our lives because I swear that was the only moment we saw her happy. Through all the small chaos, she still found happiness. Little things never ruined her. Only the big things. She never let the fact that my father called and said he would be late for dinner for the fourth night in a row get to her. She never got alarmed when women gave her envious or gloating looks due to them knowing all her business. She never felt any type of way when my dad stopped telling her how pretty she was or would forget to hold the door for her when we went out. No, only the big things like when my father forgot her birthday for the second time in a row or when she found him in bed with another woman and again after that and again after that. Or how about when she told our grandmother that she would leave him and instead of getting comfort Grandmother told her, “We women of high rank look the other way when our husbands want to philander about. Don’t be naïve, Susan”.
I could list many times I witnessed my mother’s heartbreak, but if I do that then I will surely cry.
I grab the dirt off the ground and let it fall on the casket. White roses fall into his grave. Each drop of rose in sync with my heartbeat. Steady at first and then out of nowhere dozens of heartbeats go through my chest at the same time, racing because this is it. My brother is gone. He was a friend first, then a stranger, always a brother. That is what I would put on my own personal headstone for him.
A single red rose falls. It’s the reddest of reds. Curious to see who placed it, I look up. A girl stands across from me. Her blonde hair almost the color of light from the sun blows perfectly in the wind while her black fitted dress shows every curve amongst her slim body. She holds her hands together that are covered in black lace gloves. Who is she?
Finally, she lifts her head and catches my gaze. I can’t see past her black sunglasses, but I can bet her eyes are perfect because everything else about her is perfect. Her lips are plump and red like the rose. Her jaw is narrow and her neck is long and elegant. The corners of her mouth curve up as she continues looking at me. She’s smiling at me. It’s almost as if she hypnotizes me because for a moment I forget I’m at my brother’s funeral.
“You better not embarrass me, Hugo,” my father says as he looks around my new room. It was actually Gabriel’s room. The way he looks suggests he has never stepped foot in here. I asked Ms. Eleanor not to move out any of Gabriel’s things. I believe it only makes it harder for my dad. The guilt of knowing that the second person you were supposed to love ended their lives. He failed and he knows he failed.
“Hugo, are you listening to me?” My father snaps me out of my thoughts.
“Yes,” I quickly oblige. “I understand.”
“Good. Your brother did enough with his reputation here; I don’t want a repeat of that behavior in this family.”
“Yes, sir.”
He checks his cell. My dad never makes eye contact with us. August rarely makes eye contact with anyone, but he has a brain development disorder. What is my dad’s excuse? Oh yeah, he’s suffering from being a dick. “Well, I’ll have Daniel call and check up on you this week. I have meetings back to back so maybe by next week I’ll give you a call.”
“Okay,” is all I can say. There is no hug, no see you later, be safe, no anything. He just leaves and I now start my new life here.
Gabriel’s room is very Gabriel. The bed is made up of dark cherry oak wood. A dark red duvet cover with white sheets. His headboard has a lion carved in it. He loved lions. He was the lion in a Wizard of Oz play once. I look at his desk—same wood as the bed and dresser. Three books and a laptop. I open the doors of his walk in closet. Looking through his clothes, I realize my brother had style. He had suits for days and I see only two pair of jeans. Every designer of men’s suits from Armani to Hugo Boss. I like wearing Hugo Boss of course due to my name. He has a shelf where his watches and cufflinks line up in order of color. Gold, rose gold, silver, black. On top of the shelf is a pair of Ray Ban aviator sunglasses. The lenses are purely tinted black. The bridge and rim are gold leading up the earpiece that is also black. Ray Ban written in white on the top corner of the right lens. I definitely like these.
“You like your room?”
I jump and turn around and see the person with the voice who startled me. It’s her. The girl from the funeral with the rose colored lips. I open my mouth but nothing is coming out. I’m rendered speechless. She looks me up and down, studying me carefully. She has this calmness that comes out of her. She seems like a girl of no worries and I am envious of that. Her confidence is at a high level too. She knows she’s sexy. God, is she sexy and as a fifteen-year-old boy, well my Johnson has already fallen madly in love with her.
“Does it speak?” My Johnson? She had her eyes on it for a split second. I swear it on
my now dead brother’s grave.
“Yes!” I yell too loudly, getting my mind out the gutter. “I mean,” I clear my throat. “Yes, it does—I mean, I do speak and yes I do like the room.”
“Yeah, I always loved it in here.” She looks around, a sly grin on her face before walking away. I follow her out and take up space on the red Victorian couch that is located on the other side of the room from the bed. I try very hard not to stare at her legs. I love legs, next to breasts they’re one of my favorite body parts of the female body. She looks me up and down again and I hope to God my face isn’t red.
“You really do look like him,” she says softly. “Gabriel. August, of course, given he is your twin brother, but you look a lot like Gabriel. The way you stand and that nervous look on your face.” Her tone is serious but slightly amused.
“Is that a good thing?” I ask.
“Yes. You’re quite handsome, just like he was.”
“Were you Gabriel’s friend?”
“Yeah. Something like that.”
“What do you mean?” I press for more detail. “Were you his girlfriend?”
She giggles in this sexy cool way. God! Everything about her screams sex.
“Oh, no. I was not that.” She gets up and walks toward the vintage brown writing desk against the wall. She opens up the top drawer and reaches in, pulling a bottle of whiskey—I think—out of it. “Gabriel didn’t have girlfriends. Want a drink?”
“Uh, yeah sure.”
She takes a swig out of the bottle before handing it to me. The fact that I am coming close to feeling the touch of her lips by this bottle is exhilarating. I press my lips against the bottle. Closing my eyes, savoring the warmth her lips left, I drink the burning flavored liquid that causes me to cough.
“You don’t drink much, do you?” The question sounds more like a statement as she watches me, amused by my reaction.
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