“Please look at the camera for the picture. Oh, and comb that hair of yours; your hair looks like a seagull’s nest.”

I was just in time for the appointment photoshoot for my school ID, and Roxie was behind me, struggling to run because of her six-inch cigarette stilettos.

“Geez, Arthur, calm your legs down, I can’t walk anymore if you keep going!”

“Well, if you actually minded your clock and not on the tea spilling in front of your cerulean eyes then we would’ve been a bit early.” I all said that in my mind. I just chuckled at the idea and said “Roxie, you’ll need to be accustomed already.”

“What a medieval choice of word.” She sat down on the vacant couch beside me as she pulled out a bunch of clothes.

The Public Information Office, compared to the auditorium and the cafeteria, is a small, bland office with an aura of a brokerage firm at the opening bell. What is left alive is the bright maroon backdrop behind me and the 3-foot stool I am sitting on. The university provided its students with two backdrop choices: gold or maroon. I chose maroon because it fits my tan skin and white cotton polo shirt. The ensemble also consists of a pair of black pants tucked in and brown leather shoes. The operator-slash-cameraman gave me a mirror and comb to apparently fix my obviously messy hair from a hurricane of time insufficiency. Roxie stepped in and fixed my hair.

“Girl, you should have a hairdo once in a while. Your stinginess is a bit concerning considering you’ll have to spend four years here.” Yada-yada, just why did she have to enter into the peaceful equation of my not-so-planned life? And chastising my being a stingy bitch?

“Sí, señorita, pero could you try and not spend too much, ¿por favor?”

She shrugged. She’s definitely going from one ear to another. I sighed in defeat.

“And . . . done!” I looked at my hair to see neat, wavy hair all shifted to the right side. A smile of satisfaction etched between my lips.

“You have a thing in hairs, girl. I’m making you my stylist.”

“Great, what’s the pay?”

The operator coughed to have our attention. “Could we please stop the chit-chat so that we can go and shoot this young man, miss? I suppose your lovey-dovey can wait.”

I looked at her in instinct just as she looked at me, and we both said, “Ew.” We both laughed, and Roxie bid me good luck before going back to the couch full of shopping bags.

The operator ordered me to give a natural smile, and I gave him one where my lips were curved upwards, showing a bit of my pearly white teeth. He took his camera and pointed the same toward me. As he counted to three, he took three pictures and then showed me those to let me choose which I liked. I chose the middle one, although all photos are the same.

“Could you spell your name and state your program, please?”

“Arthur Reyes Seymour. Business Administration in Marketing Management.” I then spelled my name to which the operator took note of.

“By any chance, are you a relative of Jane Seymour?”

How I wish I were. “Er, no.”

“Lemme get this straight, Rox,”  I started, legs crossed. I leaned closer in her direction, my ember eyes glaring at her, “You have been friends with that monster for five years, and you have seen all his bullshits he did, and he probably told you about me.”

We are currently on the third floor of the building, inside yet another auditorium for our Accounting class. We were 30 minutes early, and because the heat was intense, we decided to take advantage of the air conditioners here. The shopping bags snug right into the bottom of the table.

“Well, in my defense,” Rox justified, “he never dropped names like planes at the Twin Towers. He reasoned out I won’t even see them throughout my lifetime.”

“And I existed.”

“Correct, that is why I was shocked to find out you are one of his victims.” Silence reigned as some students trickled into the auditorium. “Look, Arthur,” Rox continued, “I have seen all fifty shades of Kaizer Woodsworth. I’ve seen how he was a literal angel and a literal Satan. Not that I’m invalidating your pain, but the Kaizer I know has changed right in front of my eyes during the five years we have been friends.”

“But mind you, he never told you the full story.”

She slumped at the table in defeat. “Art, you have full control over whether or not you choose to be close with Kaizer.”

“That sounds like it was my fault for accepting the offer.” I chuckled bitterly.

“Take it with a grain of salt.”

I can’t blame Roxie entirely on the mishaps, to be honest. I really just wish that she doesn’t force her “Kaizer is good” mantra on me because, if she were in a position where she is disrespected of boundaries and mentally tortured, she’d understand the proposition at hand. This house firmly believes that Kaizer Woodsworth has made mistakes and deserves to be punished for that, and I am proud to be laying my reasons as the prime minister of the government bench, my alter-egos being its deputy prime minister and whip.

As I fixed my seat out of discomfort, the bell rang, and the professor strode into the classroom with all its authority.

Okay, I never understood anything about accounting, and part of the reason as to why is because my pea-sized brain is on full storage. Don’t ask me, it’s too obvious. I never had a thing with bookkeeping in senior high, let alone auditing. Luckily I am not in the accounting field; that would’ve made my life a living hell.

My mind is fluttering away from accounting and into my shitty decisions in accepting Kaizer’s offer a while ago. Why do I have to make myself suffer more than I can take? Adding the fact that I just landed on Canada just like three days ago doesn’t help either. I facepalmed with both of my hands in stupidity. For fucking heaven’s sake, please tell me this is just a prank in my already-shitty life.

“Suffering from assets and liabilities, Art?”

My mind jolted awake, and my nerves were getting through me as that familiar voice in my right spoke. I slowly turned towards the voice and saw a young man in his what could be the most iron-pressed maroon school uniform I have ever seen. His brown hair is as messy as that when one just got out of bed, and his bright brown eyes behind that round pair of eyeglasses are looking toward me.

Speaking of the devil.