As a poet, and an educated aristocrat, I found it fascinating how the snow can be described in many different words; be it white, cold, wet, thick, beautiful or dangerous. But at the moment, I, for one, would describe it as a pain-in-the-ass.

And I meant it quite literally.

With my heart in my stomach--close to tears, I was thrown out of the Wells manor--the wealthy manor in which I grew up in, property of my family--into the cold cobbled streets of Grapwall.

It would’ve been bad enough, being kicked out of my own home, my arm hitting the ground with a sharp jab of pain. The blankets of snow made it worse--it  wasn’t as soft as you thought it would be when you first saw them. My fall was painful, the cold air hugging on me, and I almost sunk into the snow.

But I left barely a carve out of it, not enough for anyone to notice the weird hole in snow--if they did, they didn’t show--not that there were much people there, save for the beggars and street sweepers. My skin felt twisted, burnt, from the cool.

“Good riddance!”

“No, wait-” I scrambled to sit up, the crisp biting on my thighs. “Mother, please!”

“I am not your mother!” she shrieked, her kindly face red with rage. Her neat curls fell in places by her face. Arthur stood well at the back. “And you are not my son! You can’t be my son! Bring me back my son!”

“I am your son!” I insisted. Last time I recalled, I was, and always had been the only son of the family. “I’m Emerett Wells, mother! I’m your son!”

She snorted, as if the reply to that--the evidence that I wasn’t Emerett--was glaringly obvious, which it was. “I know my son,” she said. “I can see him well, and you’re not him.”

“Mother-”

She slammed the door shut.

My heart wrenched, frost biting on my body, clinging to my sole. Snow fell from my hair and my face, along with my hope. It returned when the white lacquer door creaked open--only to have her scream at me.

“And here’s your coat!”

It was thrown directly into my face, and I knew it wasn’t purposeful--couldn’t be purposeful. But it was welcoming to my stiffen cheeks.

Then she slammed the door with a greater force, that the snow draping the roofs shook, threatening to fall.

“Mother, please!”

I heard the loud locking of our door, and she scowled at me from the tinted windows, closing the curtains, and shut me out for good.

I knew then she’d never take me in.

No one would. Not even Arthur, or Rosie.

The thought left me making a strangled noise out of my throat, hurriedly wrapping my bottom with the coat--supposedly out of cold, and not embarrassment because that would be pointless (though I’d still maintain my morals)--slowly, painfully rising up to my feet.

I couldn’t wear it on the spot. I needed to hide.

Because it wasn’t natural. It was a differ in the social norms, not acceptable by the conventional standards--or any logical standards in general. What happened to me shouldn’t be possible. It happened before--recorded in literature--and the man was a lunatic psychopath, chased down by mobs and shot to death. Frankly, I wasn’t a lunatic, or a psychopath, but it could happen, the pressure already on my shoulders.

Oh, and when I said had nothing with a coat, I meant that in a literal way as well.

I was in the nude--a disgrace for the upper class--but it didn’t matter much as keeping my body warm, as I was invisible.

Wow, this was short. What do you think would happen to Emerett now? Can he survive in the streets?

Sorry for skipping chapters, guys. I'm just really excited to post this one. This is the first thing I wrote for the whole story, and it gave an immediate start to the story.

Please vote if you liked it, and give feedback if you desire! 😘