Mother wakes me early Monday morning to help Father with the chickens, as she always does. I know if I refuse, she’ll whip me, so I reluctantly comply. 

“Morticia, would you move your rear?” he yells from the yard. I resist the urge to roll my eyes and swing open the back door. A few dead chickens rest in the coop, blood staining the dirt. Father shakes his head. “Coyotes got ‘em again.” I frown. 

“Again?” He nods, wiping the sweat from his forehead. 

“Well, what are you waiting for? Clean ‘em up!” he shouts. I pick the chicken carcasses up by the feet and toss them in the fire pit. Later, we’ll burn them. 

When I come back to the coop, Father tells me to collect the eggs. While I’m bent over, attempting to get the eggs, he throws the chicken seed in the coop. It sprays all over my greasy ponytail, and I jerk up. 

“What the h–” I can barely get the words out, because then I see what Father’s holding. The whip. 

“What did you just say?” he growls. I raise my hands above my head.

“Nothing, I–” I don’t finish. He raises the strap and smacks my already bruised backside. I wince, but don’t cry. Never. In this family, if you cry, you’re as good as the ancient mules in the barn. Which is to say, worthless. 

Another slap. And another. After six lashings, he relents. 

“I hope you’ve learned your lesson, girl.” Father grunts.

“Y-yes.” I stammer. My rear aches already. 

“Well, Morticia?” my mother prompts. They’ve just read my acceptance letter to Wyvern Academy aloud. I sit there in shock, unable to register what they’re saying. 

“I..” Father removes his whip and I will myself to speak. “You mean you’re sending me away?” 

“Yes, Mor, what else?” my eleven-year old brother says snidely. “Glad to be rid of you.” My heart cracks. Sure, I’ve been wishing to get out of here, but this seems…brutal. I know I shouldn’t be surprised. Father is brutal, and Mother doesn’t give a crap whether or not he treats me like this. 

“He’s right.” Father replaces his whip. “A carriage should arrive around noon today.” Tears well up in my eyes. I blink rapidly, and then turn to leave. 

It’s only when I’m alone in the carriage that the tears come. My heart aches from crying. I’d be happy to leave, except..It’s Wyvern. The private boarding school that trains teenagers to be assassins. It’s estimated that each student will kill four hundred and fifty people by the time they reach nineteen. I’m only seventeen, which means I have six years there. At twenty-three, you are allowed to leave, though you must send a sacrifice of two bodies each month. The unfairness of it all overwhelms me. Father has to know what’s in store for me, and yet he simply allowed it. Encouraged it, in fact. I know he only cares about the money, since Wyvern sends four thousand pounds to each family every two months. 

We travel for three days. Each meal consists of a small skin of water, a few strips of dried meat, and hard cheese. I curse at the driver throughout our trip, though I know he didn’t do a thing. I simply need someone to shout at. When we finally arrive, my mood is sour, and my stomach is empty. The driver ran out of rations the previous night. 

I step out of the carriage, my bones sore from the days of traveling. Waiting for me is a tall boy around my age, about seventeen or eighteen. His eyes are dark and cold, wintery abysses of pain. He fixes his eyes upon me curiously. 

“So you’re Morticia Hart.” he pronounces. I nod. 

“And you?” I say.

“Graeme Cosima.” the boy replies as he fidgets with his navy jacket. “The head sicarius.” I inhale sharply. His sad eyes tell me he didn’t ask for the title. 

“Well? Where do I go now?” I ask sharply. Graeme gestures toward the bronze gates. 

“I’ll show you to your quarters.” he tells me. I incline my head and follow him through the towering entrance. 

That's all! Sorry about the whole cursing thing lol-thought if I bleeped it out like I do in my normal writing it'd be fine. Please please give me some feedback I really need it. This is a really rough draft and it's not my best work but..yeah, that's all. 

I'm doing a creative writing unit at my school, and we got an assignment to write about an ordinary sort of ritual (I chose doing homework, I promise it'll be less boring than it sounds (I hope)) using second person (you walk into the room, you pick up the pencil, etc.) and I wrote this! I'd love constructive criticism but I am unfortunately a very sensitive soul so emphasis on constructive just please be nice thank you!

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The glow of your desk lamp shines a too-bright light over your papers when you flick it on, the blank whiteness becoming somehow sharp. You blink a few times, and the feeling dissipates, leaving only your math homework again. You shift in your desk chair.

The first problem isn't too difficult, and neither is the second, but on the third, your pencil lead breaks. You unzip your pencil bag with a sigh, rooting through the contents for your handheld pencil sharpener. You find it, use it to sharpen your pencil, and tuck it neatly back into your bag. Then you get back to work, solving the third problem in the next few moments. Then you move on to problem four. 

Is this all? some thought-voice whispers in your head. Is this all we do anymore?

You try to ignore it, try to keep your focus on the not-dull-important work in front of you, try not to look at the sunset streaking across the sky through your window, because if you look, you won't be able to stop looking. You move on to problem five.

Why are you doing this, your thoughts murmur.

Because I have to, you think back, halfway between angry and tired, then curse yourself for losing focus. 

Because you have to. Your thoughts just won't leave you alone tonight. Because an unfinished assignment means a bad grade, and a bad grade means a bad time in school, and a bad time in school means a bad time later on?

This is, of course, exactly right, so you leave your thoughts alone. Problem six. You sharpen your pencil again.

But the sunset, hums your thoughts, and that almost distracts you.

There's a sunset every night, you tell yourself. It's all right if I miss this one.

But I miss all of them. 

That thought doesn't fade after thinking it, and your hand stills, pencil tip hovering over the formulas in problem seven.

Imagine just going outside and watching the sunset. Or even watching it through your window. There'll be time for math afterwards.

You close your eyes for a moment. Numbers dance behind your eyelids, Xs and Ys and fraction lines, parentheses and negatives and decimals. They won't go away, and somehow you know that you'd see them superimposed on the sunset if you let yourself look.

I can't, you think quietly, and the thought-voice in the back of your head seems to understand that, because it doesn't reply. 

You take in a deep breath through your nose, trying not to notice the shaky way you let it out. The room smells like dust.

You do not look at the sunset.

You do not let yourself wonder what the stars will look like, once they appear. 

You do not let yourself long for the chill brush of wind on your cheeks after the oppressively still air of this room.

You simply sharpen your pencil and return to problem eight.