"I used to encounter tales like this solely within the confines of novels and stories, but the idea of their reality never crossed my mind," Lily remarked, her face aglow with amusement.
"Indeed, I never entertained the possibility that such occurrences could manifest in the real world. Even now, it feels like a narrative spun from imagination," Angelina added thoughtfully.
"Evans must have endured a truly harrowing experience," Rose said empathetically, understanding the weight of his situation.
"All the sentiments you've shared mirror my own reactions and thoughts. I went as far as to question Evans once more, ensuring the veracity of his words. His sincere affirmation reinforced my sympathy for him. I inquired why he chose a boarding art school, only to discover that the decision wasn't rooted in his preferences, but rather his parents'. Their frequent absence and the inadequate care provided by the maid led them to enroll him in a boarding school equipped to support individuals with physical challenges. This revelation brought Evans and me even closer. We became study companions and playmates, often joined by his dog, Bolt, whom I enjoyed carrying. Evans even assisted me in redesigning my room. When my roommates returned one evening, they were astonished by the artistic transformation. Laurette and Catherine expressed eagerness to meet the mastermind behind the designs. Luckily, they spotted Evans and me during lunch, though unaware of his true identity. I introduced them, sparking friendly exchanges."
As time progressed, envy toward Evans festered among my classmates. They gossiped behind his back and harbored ill intentions. One morning, I entered class late, the target of amusement as Angelina questioned the cause. Recognizing the childishness of my excuse, laughter erupted. I observed Evans in the classroom, his demeanor downcast and gloomy. I couldn't decipher the source of his unhappiness. Mr. MacPherson permitted my entry, and as I settled into my desk and opened it, a note awaited me. Its content bore the words:
"Obstacles and discouragement often arise from those you expect to support you."
While pondering the note's sender, Evans entered my line of sight. After class, I swiftly retrieved the note and reviewed its contents. I anticipated Evans' handwriting, yet it was a different script. The note seemed designed to weaken our connection, possibly aimed at driving a wedge between us. The tone was more ominous than anything else, unsettling me. My attention turned to Evans, who appeared pallid and visibly dispirited. Approaching him, I inquired about his distress. He divulged that Bolt, his puppy, had vanished.
I struggled to fathom the loss of the charming brown puppy adorned with black patches and a pink ribbon, the very dog that bore the golden tag designed by Evans. The circumstances of Bolt's demise were heartrending: Bullies subjected her to merciless beatings with hefty sticks. Despite Evans' pleas, they responded with threats. This ordeal prompted me to reflect on the intricacies of friendship. Envy and animosity can infiltrate even the closest bonds. I couldn't bear the thought of Evans suffering due to my association, compelling me to initiate a gradual withdrawal. It wasn't an easy decision, but I believed it was necessary.
Consequently, I dedicated myself to my studies, forging ahead at my own pace. Amidst the challenges, moments of joy punctuated my journey. This blend of experiences ultimately forged my identity through diligence and determination," I concluded.
"Your narrative is remarkably engrossing, urging profound introspection within each of us. Although I can't speak for everyone, it undeniably resonates with me," Rose remarked.
"Your storytelling is exceptional," Angelina affirmed.
"Your past is a wellspring of intrigue," Lily chimed in.
"We eagerly anticipate more tales of this caliber," the women chorused, bidding their farewells.
Mitchie was poised to dial Trelly B's number when his phone rang, preempting his action. He answered the call.
"I was just about to contact you concerning the message you left earlier," Mitchie initiated the conversation.
"Alright, what ideas do you have for the event?"
"At the moment, my thoughts are scattered, and no clear concept has emerged. However, you might consider featuring either a dance group or a live band performance."
"The notion of a dance group is appealing. As for the band, you already have one, correct?"
"I was referring to a drum and brass ensemble."
"I personally find those a bit lackluster, so I believe a dance group would be a more engaging choice."
"Your preference will be honored," Mitchie replied.
"Yet, I greatly value your insight," Trelly responded. "I must go now; a pressing matter demands my attention."
"Take care," Mitchie conveyed before ending the call.
The clock struck midnight, and a sprawling, eerie hall hosted an assembly cloaked in oversized black coats and hoodies, shrouding their identities. With heads bowed, an air of solemnity pervaded the room. Positioned at the forefront was an altar for sacrifice, adorned with a sacrificial table and a box on one side. On the opposite end, an ornate chair cradled a man whose coat bore red patches, his eyes ablaze with intensity. This clandestine assemblage comprised influential figures, a secret cult known as the Black Palacers. Guided by Albert Marshawew, they practiced sacrificing human lives to the gods of fame and wealth, striving for renown and affluence. Their worship centered around Lord Ziba-Ziba.