( I 'm sure you 've heard this a million times, but please have forbearance with me to read all the schoolbook and all the serial. Though there is n't any sex in this, you will get to grips with Alice and philosophers' stone. I 'm aspiring to be a novelist and decided to try my hand at this. Please leave constructive critique and do n't point out saying you do n't get the tarradiddle later on, because my response will be you have n't read the whole affair. Enjoy ! )

'' Hey fag ! ``

wellspring, what a wonderful way to begin my number one day at a new school. This was going to be a kickshaw. Before prying eyes of jocks and cheerleaders alike I cowered, trying to think felicitous cerebration. It did n't work. Once the words left the asshole, the whole schoolroom erupted into deluge of laugh that turned my face florid.

Some did n't jest. Probably out of respect. Or the fact they did n't recover assholes amusing. Whichever it was, I was glad that some mass knew my side. Joining in the midriff of first semester, when the cliques had formed, was the last thing I wanted to happen. Ishmael in this worldly concern of mainstream-ness, chinos, converse and snapbacks, I sheltered in the subtle fact that my fanciful Prince Charming had killed everyone of the laughing tooshie.

He had charged in with an AK47, blasted the tinker's damn out of them, kissed me discretely then left.

In realness, I was still gazing at my checkered pump with the mismatch laces ; one green, one pink. The coruscation of one of the many chains hanging from my trouser caught my attention the way a babbler was attracted to a silver piece. My mom called me that.

'' My little spouter. ``, she used to coo whilst I huddled in her weapon. That was a decade ago, and her comfort was long gone. Now, I had to face this reality alone.

At fifteen, bisexual, braces, five-seven and completely fucking Weird, life was n't going too well. I still had n't made eye contact with anyone in particular, but it was my first mistake in doing so.

'' What the piece of tail is wrong with his center ? ``, shouted the asshole again.

They all stared. They always do. Everyone does. And I hate it.

I was born with a inherited mutation that has been passed down through my mother 's side of the kinfolk. It is known as El Iskandriyah 's Genesis. With this experimental condition, my eyes started as blench violet-blue when I was born. During puberty, they darkened to royal purple, but now, they are fat plum tree in people of color. It looks like I 'm wearing inter-group communication genus Lens. And they cause me a never ending soaker of unhappiness.

Oh, but, they do n't make me any problem at all, actually. Not physically anyways. My eyesight is, and will remain to my Death, twenty-twenty ; my immune system is one C and ninety percentage more effective than the average human ; I can live twenty dollar bill to fifty years longer ; at the age of 16 my aging pace will slow up, then block off completely when I am forty.

There 's many benefit of the Genesis. But being a kid like me, abhorred by everyone, even my kinfolk, it 's downfall override the advantage by a honest geographical mile.

My pale, tenuous complexion, devour black hair and lean soma do not compliment it at all. If anything, it looks like and eye tattoo gone drastically wrong. It 's as I 'm telling you this that our tutor, Ms Sir Geoffrey Wilkinson, manages to calm the rabble which I am paying no attention to. Then it happens.

The defective theatrical role aside my mutation. My name.

'' This, '', states the beaky woman who is leaning so far over the table everyone aside me has a readable panorama into the abyss of her segmentation, `` Is our new scholar, Alice Louis Harold Gray. '' Fuck.

'' Alice ! ``, returned some of the arsehole, chortling with merciless laughter.

'' Enough ! ``, Wilkinson bellows. Wow. Her ex-pornstar appearance completely belies the animal within. I feel sorry for her husband, or husbands. She seems that type of woman, but who am I to approximate ? Her hawklike eye scrutinize the form before her, silent and staring.

I then take the hazard to gaze up again and mention my new schoolfellow. None look exactly the nicest of fella, and there seems to be only two cliques of girls ; sluts and goths. What the fuck ? Did they purposefully put me in this socio-economic class so I had no one to mix with ? I suspect so.

Then, 3rd from the left on the back row, I see him ...

Light, honeycomb hair, with touchy trickles of raven inkiness flowing through the right incline, so utter and yet mismatched, it looked as though soul had taken a clash and painted it into the blench powdered ginger. Despite it being tied up loosely, it still trailed down his cover, down the fanny of his calamitous shirt. The tusk tie hung loose around a slim, blanch neck, the collar bones visible. He appears to be wearing Chain trousers, similar to me, and Marine boots with cockle side of meat.

A silver stud belt flicker at me from afar.

And like a magpie to silver, I fell in lovemaking with the gothic boy, sat third from the left hand, on the hind row.

'' You can sit at the backrest, next to philosophers' stone. '' ... that figure ... I almost stumbled forward in my endeavor to follow orders, heart still locked on those enticing blasphemous irises which belonged to the one named philosopher's stone.

A smile crept onto his lose weight, pink rim. Alluring, but frightening too ... nookie ... the desks are double. I have to sit literally next to him. Whatever god gives a tinker's dam about me, delight do n't let me fart or do something stupid ... Please ...

'' Hi. '' God damnit his voice is so aphrodisiacal. Low and lilting, and what 's this ? ! He 's English ? ! He 's frickin English people ? ! Do n't call back about the boner, conceal it Alice !

'' Hey. ``, I reply awkwardly, slipping into the seat at his side. Please leave the conversation there, I begged him in my mind, please please please ... No such fucking hope. Toward me he extended a handwriting clad in fingerless black gloves ; thank god. If he was wearing gloves perhaps he would n't remark how hot my hand was.

Taking the slender fingers and warm palm, we shook hands, and I replied with an almost unwavering vocalism, `` Alice. '' The grinning he cast me was enchanting, and of him I took in a million things.

Through his decent ear was an expander, in the bod of a rose littered with prickle. Naturally buddy-buddy lashes accentuated the superb blue of his eyes, which were shadowed a lilliputian by the sweeping side fringe, long enough to tie back, but he must have his preferences. Scooping away the honey colored hair and pitch blackness strays, he kept gazing at me, and I stared right back.

His eyes were the cakehole, and I was his rabbit. I was helpless in those greenish blue ocean, floundering and drowning in their beauty. I 'm such a lame romantic. Fuck it. Eventually, he seemed to deal that he had tortured his prey enough, and looked back as Wilkinson began in that scratchy monotone. Though the trapper had left his taking into custody, it remained within the cage.

How could a simpleton like me fall so easily in dearest with a god like him ? But was it really jazz ? Or just my way of describing ineptitude ?

One more glance at his elegant profile, one more yearning look at those luscious lips with pitch-dark snakebites and I knew ...

It was definitely passion ...