Van had always considered himself an orphan growing up, but having it confirmed in one blow, one single sentence spoken in solemnity by the gentle tones of a banshee, hit harder than he ever expected.
For a brief moment, Van wasn't with them anymore. In his mind's eye, the image of his mother - he imagined her to be so beautiful - was in labor. His father - he saw him as an older, more refined version of himself - was in the hall and paced nervously, chain smoking. He imagined the priest - an evil gleam to his eyes - taking up the silver bridle from where it rested at the bedside. He heard the cry of an infant. He saw the mother, already breathing her last breath, reaching for the baby. He saw the bridle thrown into the fire and heard it steam and hiss with a flash that made him flinch back.
Death was in that room and it left a bitter dry taste in Van's mouth.
It was only a moment, but Van now clutched at the silver necklace he wore, something he never did in public to not draw attention to it. His heart was racing and his black eyes were wide, showing very little white. He looked around as the mental image faded and caught the last of what Mr. Cavanaugh said.
Ms. Hallowfen had already told him that the herd wanted him back. He'd had time to think about it. But with the new information of the death of his parents - all his fault - put some more things into perspective. Van wet his lips and swallowed, trying to find something to say. He wanted the words that would brush this heavy feeling away so he could return to his comfortable armor of scathing sarcasm and apathy.
Apathy eluded him. Tears were forming - not again, please not again, not here.
"Oh god," he croaked and covered his mouth to keep the sob in the back of his throat from escaping. The weight was too much for him. He couldn't stop it. In the middle of the courtyard with students passing to and fro, Van sank down to his knees and cried.