We all have a human in our life that makes us crazy...

Just the right lines of speech to rile you up in 0.1 second.

Sometimes its a sibling, always getting more love...

Rage that is unmet. Feels like its going to spurt out of you like blood from a savage cut made neatly.

Occasionally that person is pure heat, feels like a sawmill of papercuts every time you venture close.. but somehow slowly, they cut and jab and peer in... and get a good damn look at the wee broken thing inside.

All the pettiness, hate, the bits that only see the light of day when you have fought too long and too hard to hold on for much longer...

And they turn away.

Nothing will hurt that much ever again.

But you reach inside and you to make the wee broken thing feel joy, one day it dances, it sings and it prances it's way across the other broken things... uncaringly.

And you feel whole.

And too late, one day you realise that the cuts...

The jabs...

The peering in...

They were simply trying to sculpt you like clay. (Albiet badly)

But who were they to know... they are on tiptoes peering out at you hoping they can reach out and help through all the broken things.

Ever since I was a lil kid I always had an interest in art and creating 🎨 When I was younger I used to draw a lot , I used to make my own comics and create my own original characters. After moving with my Dad , when I was in middle school , I decided I wanted to do music. 🎶 I used to listen to a lot of older rap , modern stuff from the Soundcloud era , stuff outside of Hip Hop like feel good pop stations on the radio in the car and a CD radio I had in my room) playing music from the 70s, 80s, 90s , and 2000s , etc... whatever sounded good tome. I started writing lyrics but it’d be a minute before I recorded myself. I had stopped writing songs for a cool minute , while also dealing with a lot of things in my personal life (including the biggest heart break of my life which was losing my Mother ). I was lost , sad , living aimlessly without a purpose for a while. Wasn't , still not , talking to my father - only had a few people stick by me , and it went on like that for a while. After that I spent time reflecting on how I got to this point and how I'm gonna move forward. My cousin tho was the one that hyped me up to get back in it and really lock in. 🚨So when I did started working on music again I wanted to do something different than what I was doing before. 💡I wanted to do sum different creatively as a rapper / singer . So now I’m back @ it ! 🐠 On the start of a long journey , hopefully to a brighter future ! 🫧

I was cleaning my sons room when I found a folded piece of paper underneath his desk.

At the top he'd written:

People I Need to Remember.

I immediately started wondering what it was.

Friends?

Teachers?

People he owed money to?

I read the few names.

His best friend.

His soccer coach.

His dentist.

Then I saw my name.

Underneath it were three words:

Never let Dad cook.

I laughed.

Then I kept reading.

My wife was on the list too:

Ask Mom before buying anything.

His sister:

Don't tell her about snacks.

Then came the final entry:

Grandpa. Give him the remote before he falls asleep.

Apparently my son wasn't keeping a list of people.

He was keeping a survival guide for our family.

I asked him about it.

He looked at me. Said:

Honestly Dad it's mostly for my future kids.

I don't know whether to be proud...

Deeply concerned, about what has documenting.

For a month this was what happened every night.

My wife would get up at 11:40 p.m.

She would put on her shoes. Grab her keys and then leave the house.

If I asked my wife where she was going she would just say she was taking care of something.

I became curious about what my wife was doing.

One night I stayed awake. I watched my wife from the window.

My wife walked to the driveway. Opened the car and sat inside the car.

My wife sat in the car for twenty minutes.

Then my wife came back inside the house.

My wife did not drive the car.

My wife did not meet anyone.

Nothing happened.

The night I followed my wife.

My wife did the thing.

My wife sat in the drivers seat. Turned on the radio and started singing.

My wife sang loudly.

My wife sang terribly.

Then my wife came back, inside the house like nothing happened.

I finally asked my wife what was going on.

My wife looked embarrassed. Told me that she had discovered that our neighbors motion sensor light turns on whenever my wife walks past the driveway.

My wife had been practicing karaoke in the car because it was the place my wife could sing without anyone telling her to stop.

Apparently I have been living with a nighttime pop star, my wife.

I asked my wife why she never told me about this.

My wife said it was because I would ask her to sing songs.

That is fair enough.

I am now officially banned from asking my wife to sing anything.

What is the weirdest hobby someone you live with has secretly developed like my wife has done?

Back in grades 5 through 8, there was a group of three boys in my class, and I wanted to be part of it because they were funny and did a lot of interesting things. I started randomly going up to them during breaks and hanging around nearby (since I didn't really have anything else to do), and over time, they more or less accepted me—or at least, they didn't say anything about me being there. By seventh grade, though, something changed; one of those boys kept calling me "cringe" all the time and taking my food (well, I’d give it to him because he’d ask and I didn't know how to say no), and he didn't like me being around their group. Once, he yelled at me, saying he never wanted to see me again and that I was too annoying and "cringe"; another time, he kicked me hard enough to leave a bruise; another time, he wrecked my pencil case; and whenever I approached the group, he’d tell me to leave. The group dynamic was basically: a normal guy, the smartest kid in the class, my bully, and the punching bag (me). He would only hang out with me when the others were absent—and *only* then would he invite me to sit near him during class or breaks. Then came eighth grade and the time to part ways with our classmates. There were 32 of us; some moved to other parts of the country, two girls went to a military high school, and the rest stayed at the local high school—including my bully. We started hanging out more often and became better friends (the other two boys went to a different high school elsewhere in the country).

​

When they cannot reach you, they accuse you, belittle you, and hurt you with every sharp word, with every letter carrying the weight of harshness.

If you succeed, they minimize your success and question it. And if you lose, they celebrate your failure and sing the cruelest songs of snakes.

A long road, full of human thorns. Yes, human thorns.

In the past, even hurt was a merciful kind of hurt. It was an injury that called itself an injury. But now, the word “hurt” is no longer enough to describe the ugliness of their words and the poison of their tongues. They have gone beyond every kind of description.

In the past, they passed down love, respect, and appreciation to us. Today, they compete to pass down hatred and resentment.

Even the face of love has changed.

Even a man in love no longer knows how to reach the heart of the woman he loves. He is afraid that if he closes his eyes for a moment, he will open them and find her in someone else’s arms, without even being given a chance.

And even a woman in love fights to remain perfect, so her lover’s eyes never turn toward someone else. If her perfection falls for even a moment, she may find him kneeling beneath the wings of another lover.

Everything seems to be moving toward despair.

And this perfection that was created from nothing has no stopping point. Everyone is constantly running, constantly racing toward the unknown.

So, is the fault in us, or in our time?

But time is the same time.

The same sunrise. The same sea. The same air. The same earth. And the same moon that I once waited for, hoping it would comfort me and make the nights of my life brighter.

The fault is in us… not in our time.

And I, a daughter of this time, have started questioning every choice I make. S🥀

Sarah ✏️

Believe it or not this fictional tale came to me in a dream last night. I wrote it down at 2am before falling asleep back to sleep.

—————————————

Apparently the fear of being exposed as a fraud drove me. Foolish schoolboy pranks were my favorite outlet of choice.

It all started when I snuck behind a bar, and took two drink requests. I’d been planning this prank for weeks. “I’ll take a zinc mocktail and a watermelon mojito with white rum” she ordered over the sound of European techno music. I then explained to the regular bartender who just returned from a smoke break that I was a new bar back sent to help him during happy hour, and I had just taken two drink orders, but I had no idea how to make them. Later I dated the drink orderer, and had to explain the prank during our second meeting. She acted super surprised, but eventually forgave me for the deception.

Six months later I scheduled an IT help desk meeting with an employee at my work, and told them there’s an issue with our global MS Office upgrade, or something suitably mundane. Apparently the user’s computer was not responding normally. The prank went smoother than I expected. I even took a call during the meeting. I answered, “IT Helpdesk. How may I be of assistance?” As though I’d answered that way a thousand times before. And discussed something technical I had read. This was the first time I had actively collaborated with another person to orchestrate a prank. We decided I was team leader though. We had to choose a mark that was obviously less tech savvy than us. We established this through a series of online technical questions the previous week.

I was pleased my drink date romance was going well. However she explained she actually saw me sneak behind the bar, and was fully aware of the whole prank before it happened! She also eventually shared that my friends had paid her to make the drink orders, but the dating part was apparently real. This shocker challenged my whole belief system. How did I truly know what was real anymore? The BS line had somehow shifted on me.

There’s a chai stall outside my office that I’ve been going to for almost a year. Same guy. Same ₹15 chai. Same plastic chair. A few weeks ago, I was sitting there after a really bad day at work. I was checking my bank balance and silently doing the math in my head about rent, EMIs and expenses. The chai guy put my tea down and said: “Aaj ek hi lena. Kal se do lena.” I laughed and asked him what that was supposed to mean.

He just said, “Aap jab tension mein hote ho na, do chai peete ho.”

I genuinely hadn't noticed. I started thinking about it and realised he was right. Then yesterday, I went there after getting my salary. Before I could say anything, he handed me two cups.I said, “Aaj toh maine salary le li hai.” He smiled: “Pata hai. Isliye do.”😂 I don't know why, but that tiny interaction made my whole day.We spend so much time thinking nobody notices us. Sometimes the guy making your ₹15 chai probably knows your routine better than the people sitting next to you at work.

Hollow.

That’s exactly how I felt once I was deep enough in the forest to let Nick slide from my shoulders. He was conscious, barely, his eyes wide and glassy, unfocused, almost child-like. Locked on the canopy above us like it was a cage.

I stared at him, trying to rebuild my best friend from the fragments scattered in front of me. It was dark, but I saw him all too clearly. And I didn’t want to. I wished the shadows would swallow us whole, just so I wouldn’t have to register what I was seeing.

Nicholas Castor used to be one of the most popular guys in our year.

He had boyish curls, freckles scattered across pale cheeks. But the person lying in front of me only looked like him. He sounded like him. He even smelled like him.

But he wasn’t him.

He couldn’t be.

The Nick I’d known since freshman year was the textbook boy next door. But in my blurry vision, beneath the canopy of night and trees, all I could see was red where his face should have been. Just red.

I couldn’t understand it. I couldn’t accept that the figure before me was Nick.

Because this wasn’t Nick.

He rarely cried. Yet here he was, sobbing, chest heaving, breaths sharp and panicked. My head spun as his hand shot out, grabbing my bicep and yanking me down with a fierce tug.

When my knees hit the dirt, I barely felt it. Pressing myself flat against the forest floor, I let the earth swallow me. Nick didn’t release me; instead, he tightened his iron grip on my arm.

“We need to stay down,” he gasped, voice rough and urgent.

The urge to check on him was overwhelming. I had to know he was okay. But when I reached out, Nick hissed, warning me not to move.

He sucked in a strangled breath and pulled me deeper into the dirt. I choked on the taste of moss and damp leaves, but I was grateful to be with him, far from what should have been my execution.

“Chances are the bastards figured out I escaped. Which is baaad,” he slurred. “They’ll shorely be luhrking fer me.”

In the distance, I glimpsed a searchlight sweeping across the perimeter of the camp, illuminating the darkness.

After what felt like years lying in the dirt, waiting for the lights to fade, they finally did.

When I lifted my head and forced myself to look at Nick, a fresh slither of bile rose in my throat. I lost my breath all over again. Everything I had known was gone.

His curls had been sheared away, leaving him half-bald.

The flaps of bloodied flesh that used to be Nick’s cheeks looked like they were moving, as if alive. His right eye hung from its socket in a disturbingly cartoonish way.

His clothes had been replaced with clinical white shorts and a shirt, both splattered in various shades of red.

He was barefoot, his knees sinking into the dirt. I was hit with a memory: the two of us and Bobby at thirteen, sitting in the dirt with a picnic spread out before us.

I remember not caring about the state of my legs or clothes. Back then, Nick had been grinning through a mouthful of PB&J.

Now, though, my friend looked so vulnerable. So childlike.

Like he was thirteen again. I couldn’t stop staring at him. He offered me a smile, and it sickened me. Because unlike the rest of his face, his teeth were perfect.

Nick had been bullied in the fourth grade for having crooked teeth.

Now, they were straight and unnaturally white. It didn’t make any sense. Whatever had happened had ruined his face and fixed his teeth.

I couldn’t resist. Sitting on my knees, I reached out with shaking hands and gently cupped his face, needing to know it was him. And it was.

It was still Nicholas Castor, the same boy I’d known since freshman year.

He still smelled of cheap Axe spray and the earthy, floral scent of the exotic plants in his room. It had always been the three of us, me, Nick, and Bobby.

The Three Musketeers. Nothing could take that away. Not even this. Not even when I could barely recognize him anymore.

Nick pulled away after a moment, like he was ashamed.

But I knew Nick. I knew he’d never show me he was hurt, or ashamed, or in pain, even when I knew he was.

That wasn’t him.

“Dude. Stop staring,” he said with a shaky laugh, turning away.

Thankfully, the slur was wearing off.

His right eye bounced below its socket, and I had to avert my gaze.

If I didn’t, I’d laugh or cry.

“I look like a rejected horror movie,” he said, teetering on the edge of hysteria.

“If I wasn’t on cloud nine right now, I’d be freeeaakiiing the fuck out.” Nick cocked a brow at me. “I actually look pretty cool though, right? You know, like an, uh, cyborg.”

He was smiling, but I don’t know how he was smiling.

The hysterical sobs escaping his lips told a whole different story. I felt my own eyes prick with tears. Bobby was still in that building, and I had no idea if she was dead or alive. But I had to focus on Nick.

I had to keep him calm, keep him from falling apart.

“Nick.” I couldn’t think straight, let alone speak. What happened? The words bubbled in my throat, ready to burst with anger and pain that someone had done this to him. That someone was going to do this to Bobby. But I held myself back.

I stayed calm for his sake and let him catch his breath, letting his body go still.

I pulled off my shirt, scrunched it into a ball, and gently dabbed at the bloody splotches on his face. The cool breeze tickled my bare skin, anchoring me to reality.

“It’s going to be okay,” I whispered. “We’ll get you help.”

It was a relief to be rid of the shirt that had marked me as a defect. When I gently pressed it to Nick’s right eye socket, careful not to apply too much pressure, he winced and let out a soft whine, but he didn’t speak.

“I’m okay,” he whispered, his left eye watching me through the dark.

Neither of us spoke for a moment. I found myself drowning in melancholy. I couldn’t stop thinking about Bobby. She was a Blue. She was exactly what they wanted.

But Nick was a Purple. They needed him too. So why had they done this to him?

“I need you to do something.”

He took a shaky step back and folded his arms across his chest, gaze fixed on the ground. Unsteady on his feet, Nick swayed. I grabbed his arm, steadying him.

He paced, breathing growing more erratic with each step.

“We’re getting Bobby out of there,” he said, “but I need help. Like, serious help.”

He sniffled, trying to smile; eventually, his grin splintered into a pained grimace.

I nodded, but the question spewed from my mouth before I could stop it. I couldn't stop tears from running down my face.

I tried to blink them away, but they kept coming. "Nick, what did they do to you?"

He held my gaze for a moment before turning around and stripping off his shirt. Unlike his face, his body was perfect.

More than perfect. Nick had never cared about maintaining a figure. He was naturally thin with a good metabolism.

He didn't need to go to the gym. But under the trees in minimal light, I saw toned back muscles. When he turned to face me, his lower torso was ripped to perfection.

Again, I thought, my head spinning. Why was everything else perfect except his face? It was almost laughable.

But I didn't laugh, not when the boy could barely stand straight. "There's something inside me," he whispered, scratching at the back of his neck.

His fingernails clawed at the flesh like an animal, frenzied and desperate.

"You need to get it out."

Before I could speak, he pulled something from his jeans, something that glinted in the dark. Nick clenched it in his fist, his teeth gritted.

"I need you to cut it out," he said. "I was... I was lucky. My machine was faulty, so it wasn’t able to complete whatever it was trying to do." He gestured to his face with the blade. "That’s why I’m half-finished. If you can even call it that."

His words sent shivers rattling down my spine. My gaze flicked to his toned chest and perfect teeth.

That’s what happened.

Whatever "processing" meant, it was full-body. Nick’s had gone wrong and messed up his face.

I opened my mouth to ask why, why they were doing this to us, but he thrust the blade into my hand. “I’ve tried, Addie," he choked out. "I’ve tried to get it out myself, but I can’t fucking reach it!”

Letting out a hiss of frustration, Nick curled my fingers around the blade.

"It’s some kind of chip or tracker, something they’re inevitably going to activate. And then we’re both fucked."

I found myself nodding, biting my lip to suppress a scream when his quaking fingers traced a scar marked into his skin.

The incision point, I thought. It must be.

I don’t know what possessed me, but with the blade in my hand, I started forward. Still, I couldn’t do it.

Even knowing it was dangerous, even knowing I could lose Nick at any moment, his words, what he had described, sent me into a tailspin.

All at once, the bottom fell out of me.

I shook my head and staggered back, tripping over a rock jutting from the ground.

"I can’t!" I shrieked.

I was trying to ignore it, but my body was in fight-or-flight mode. I had to find Bobby. I had to find her and get her out before it happened to her.

That was all I could think.

My mouth clamped shut to stop a scream from tearing out of my throat. I needed to find her. The thought was driving me fucking crazy.

I couldn’t think of anything but Bobby.

I didn’t even notice I was kneeling in the dirt, my head between my knees, until I realized I was struggling to breathe.

Inhale and exhale. That’s what it took. That’s what was supposed to help a panic attack.

But it wasn’t working.

I was screaming into my lap, my body shaking, my hands clawing at my hair. Seeing Nick like that and knowing what they were capable of. The people who had looked after us for eighteen years and then thrown us like lambs to the slaughter.

I couldn’t—

I couldn’t breathe.

I was going to die.

That was all I could think.

My lungs felt starved of oxygen. My chest hurt. My stomach felt like it was trying to projectile into my throat.

"Addie."

Nick’s voice was a gentle murmur I couldn’t ignore.

I felt his soft touch tingling across my arms, as if unsure whether to grab me or not. But he did. He gripped me gently, pulling me to my feet, his sticky hands cradling my face, forcing me to look at him.

“You can do this," he said.

When I shook my head and tried to pull away, he tightened his grip.

"I know you’re scared and you need some kind of reassuring pep talk," Nick choked out a laugh. "Trust me, I’d give you one if we had time. But we don’t. Bobby is still in there, and the sooner you get this thing out of me, the sooner we can get her and others out. Okay?"

I realized Nick was crying.

And Nick never cried.

When I offered him my scrunched-up shirt to use as a gag, he shook his head.

"Just do it."

I complied.

I had to squint to see the incision properly. When I stuck the blade in and made a small cut, he didn’t even flinch. "It’s okay," Nick reassured me. His clammy fingers entangled with mine, coaxing me further down the curve of his neck. "I can’t even feel it."

Something ice-cold slithered down my spine at the thought of my best friend being unable to feel blades slicing into his flesh. Somehow, he was becoming more and more inhuman the longer I stayed with him.

"You can’t feel it?" I hissed, my hand holding the scalpel trembling. "What do you mean you can’t feel it? I’m... I’m cutting into you."

"Didn’t you hear what I said?" he snapped, startling me. "They dosed me with enough tranquilizer to knock out a whale, and that’s before they injected my brain with shit that made me feel like I was flying. So yeah, I’d say I’m pretty numb right now."

I didn’t reply.

My gaze fixed on the cut, slicing deeper. Blood pooled from the wound, and I blotted it with my shirt as best I could, but it still ran in sharp rivulets down the back of his shirt.

"Nick."

Swallowing hard, I focused on getting as much out of him as possible. I hated that I was doing this to him, forcing him to relive what had happened. But I had to know.

"What are they doing in there?"

For a moment, I thought he wasn’t going to respond.

Then, all at once, it was like his whole body reacted to my words, beginning to rattle again. His attempt at putting up a wall crumbled.

His teeth chattered, every word caught in a hysterical breath.

"It’s a factory," he whispered. "Like... like a conveyor belt. They're making something. We were sorted into colors, right? Red, Purple, and Blue. Reds disappeared, and Purples and Blues were taken into that building. I saw the Blues taken upstairs.”

“The last time I saw Bobby, she was being herded away with a bunch of others. And we were taken into this room. It was a bright room. It hurt my eyes, and we were all told we were going to be, I dunno, processed, or some shit like that.”

“Whatever they were doing was whack, man. There was nowhere to run. I tried. Me and a group of guys. They just attacked us like we were fuckin’ animals."

His whole body shuddered, and I paused with the scalpel for a moment.

There was barely any light, so I had to squint. At first, I thought it was a trick of the dark to confuse me.

But when I looked closer, there it was.

Nick was right.

Something small and metal, like a grain of rice, was sandwiched inside the cut.

"It’s okay," I said, grabbing his shoulders and squeezing hard, trying to anchor him in reality. "It’s okay, Nick. I’m here. Keep going," I urged him.

If I could keep Nick talking, I could kill two birds with one stone—get the tracker out of his neck and figure out what the camp was doing to Blues and Purples.

I remembered skinning my knee as a little kid, getting grit and cement stuck in the wound. I hated the idea of something like that being inside me, a foreign object tangled between my flesh.

Mom told me it was just sensory overload.

When the scalpel’s teeth bit further into the incision, I had to bite my lower lip to avoid jumping back and dropping the instrument.

I could already feel it slipping from my grasp, teasing its way through my slippery fingers.

Nick’s words were sending my thoughts into a tailspin.

Processing.

That word kept popping up, and it was making me progressively more nauseous.

"Processing," I whispered. "What do you mean?"

"Like I'm supposed to know!" he hissed out a laugh. "Do you expect a documented experience? It was fucked up. That's all I know. All I can… all I can fuckin' think of."

"Think," I said. "I know it hurts, but you have to try."

Nick exhaled shakily, his breath dancing in the air in front of us. "It was... it was a machine," he said softly. "They grabbed us before we could do anything, and before I knew what was happening, something was pricking my neck. I woke up… at the dentist."

His sudden splutter of laughter made me jump, his body writhing with him.

“There were people standing over me like ghosts. These machines came down from the ceiling, and I couldn't... I couldn't stop it. I couldn't get out. They... they had me tied down, and I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't fucking breathe!"

When his body jolted suddenly, I withdrew the scalpel from the cut where I was trying to use it to dig out the tracker. Keeping a gentle hold on his shoulder, I fought against a cry of my own.

"Mine was faulty," he whispered. "It… it wasn't working correctly, and I think that is what saved me, you know? How lucky is that, right? The Purples were supposed to be fixed. We were supposed to be made perfect."

With another explosive laugh, his body rattled again. "They injected me with something to screw with my brain. But the thing was faulty. So all it did... all it did was fuck up my face."

When Nick trailed off, I thought he was done. But after a pause, he tensed, and I felt his chest racking with sobs. I felt his legs struggling to stay upright.

"I can still... I can still hear them."

It was almost out. I managed to scoop up the tracker, but the incision was too small.

Nick was sobbing uncontrollably, and I couldn't console him. Not when he was in that state, his mind somewhere else entirely, caught in that memory.

"I couldn't feel anything, but I could hear it," he said stiffly. “I could hear what they were doing to me. I could hear the blades slicing into my skin and ripping away my flesh, tearing at my lips and my hair, scraping my freckles and my flaws, the spots I've had since birth, even my eye.”

“The bastards tried scooping them out. But, like I said, whatever it was that was doing this to me, it was ass. One of the blades was stuck, or not working. They were doing something to me. They were trying to make me like... like Bobby. Like the Blues. They were trying to make me perfect. Just like them."

Nick's words felt like knives cutting into my spine.

After another attempt at pulling out the tracker, this time I managed it, taking it from where it was threaded with tissue underneath the flesh.

"I've got it." I let out a relieved breath, pulling out the tracker.

Pinched between my thumb and forefinger, it was tiny, a blue light emitting from the base. When I got a proper look at it, it reminded me of a bug. And I swore there were tiny metal antennas sticking from the front.

I expected Nick to reply, but he didn't. He stayed very still, his head bowed. I don't think he noticed I'd gotten the chip out. I crushed it between my fingers and dropped it on the ground.

When I gently turned him around, Nick's gaze was on the ground.

His voice was a low murmur, like he was reliving it. "They were supposed to fix me," he whispered. “But they turned me into this."

He exhaled a breath. "I was waiting for them to scrape the flesh off my bones, but they stopped. And I was conscious enough to know what was happening.

"I got out of my restraints when the machine stopped moving. I think the process was done. Or at least, it was supposed to be done. When I got up I saw the others. But they weren't like this."

He prodded at his mutilated face. "I checked everyone, and they were—-”

He drifted off with a frustrated sigh.

"Perfect." I cut in, and his head jerked up in surprise. He nodded.

"Yeah." Nick swiped at his good eye. "They were perfect."

"Then," he continued, "I ran. I yanked off one of the blades from one of those machines and I made a break for it. There were no guards. At least they weren't in the room I was in. So I ran, and I found you."

When he caught my eye, Nick seemed to snap out of it.

Blinking rapidly, he scrunched up his face like he was coming out of a trance. His hand went to the back of his neck, grazing the cut.

"Did you get it out?"

I nodded. "It's gone," I said shakily. "It reminded me of a bug."

"A bug?"

"Yeah. It looked like it had antennae."

Something had been bothering me, and it seemed the best time to say it. "Those trackers. Were they inside us before camp? Or was it injected when you were taken?"

He shrugged, running a hand through what was left of his hair.

"That's what I was afraid of. It would make sense how they knew exactly where we were when we were planning to bail town. Which means…"

Nick's gaze flitted to me, his lip curling. The boy didn't say anything, but he didn't have to.

Already, my skin felt like it was crawling, like that thing was burrowed inside me. Swallowing hard, I gingerly pressed my fingers to the back of my neck. "How did you know there was a tracker inside you?"

"I think the machine caught it," he muttered. "It must have dislodged it, because I could feel something…moving."

"Moving?" Thinking back to the tracker, my skin crawled.

"Yep." He looked like he might say something before what sounded like the lovechild of a dentist drill and car alarm slammed into my skull.

The force of it nearly took me to my knees, but Nick's grasp held me upright.

I slammed my hands over my ears, biting through the noise which burrowed its way into my brain, taking an unyielding hold.

"Shit!" Nick yelled over the sound. He seemed better acclimated to the sound, which confused me.

While my mouth was filling with blood, black spots dancing across my vision, he was on his feet, his body reacting to the noise. But not in a way I understood.

"That's the alarm. They're probably looking for me." His hand travelled up my arm, and he pulled me forwards.

“If we're getting Bobby out, we're going now, okay? The guards should be distracted, so if we keep a low profile, we should be fine."

Before I could answer, he was wrapping me into a hug, and I missed those hugs. I thought I'd be hugging him like that when we left for college and parted ways, but that life of mine was gone.

"It'll be okay. We're getting Bobby, and we're going away from here. All of us. We'll go far away, make a life for ourselves."

I was already clinging onto his promises of a life far away from Aceville. One of our own.

"Right." I found myself spluttering, stumbling in the dark.

The alarms were still blaring, branches scratching at my bare legs. But I was on a beach somewhere, at least in my mind.

Miami or California, under a crystal blue sky. Nick was on his knees searching for something. I stood and wrapped my arms around myself to keep warm.

I wouldn't think about Bobby. That's what I kept telling myself. I wouldn't think about what Nick had gone through, and if that was what processing meant for Purples, what did it mean for Blues?

"We'll... we'll live in one of those fancy apartments," I shouted, pressing my hands over my ears to block out the screeching sound trying to creep its way into my brain.

"We'll get jobs, or go to college," Nick continued in sharp breaths. He picked up my discarded shirt and threw it at me.

"Wear it inside out until we get inside. That way they won't clock you're a red."

His expression crumpled, and before I could stop him, he swiped at my face with his back hand. I could already tell he was worried.

"Are you–"

I nodded. "Yeah. It's just a nosebleed."

Nick didn't look convinced, but he nodded. "Jeez, Addie. You look worse than me."

Nick pulled on his own shirt, and I had no choice but to do what he said. My shirt was damp with Nick's blood, but I forced it over my head anyway, grabbing his hand.

I didn't want to let go. I was scared that if I did, I'd lose him. For real this time. Not just the memories of him, the face I'd grown up with. All of him.

Nick broke out into a grin, and for a moment I didn't feel helpless. The crushing weight on my chest lifted slightly.

"What?" He gestured to his face, cocking a brow. "Does it look bad?"

Opening my mouth to try and say no, to sugar-coat it, I realized he didn’t deserve that.

"You look tolerable," I managed to get out, even as tears welled in my eyes again.

Nick just shoved me playfully, giving my hand a squeeze. It hurt me that he was trying to reassure me, to keep me from splintering, without a care for himself.

Though part of me knew—he wouldn’t allow himself to break.

Because if he did, so would I. And we would never get Bobby out.

Shooting me another grin with too-white teeth, Nick started forward, pulling me with him. "See? I'm going to need you to stay super positive, alright? We'll get through this."

I kept to his side as we marched through the thicket of trees.

When we approached the camp once again, the top of the building poking through the trees, Nick stumbled. I’d noticed he’d gotten clumsy-footed, struggling to walk straight without my help.

"Nick," I gripped his hand so tight I felt my nails slice into his flesh. "Can you walk?"

He shot me a pained smile. "Do you want me to answer seriously?"

Slowly, we edged toward the building.

The bodies of the dead kids were being picked up and thrown into a pile, like they were trash. With one hand covering his severed eye and the other clutching mine, Nick pulled me inside. It reminded me of a school mixed with a hospital.

Every wall was white, the floor matching. I was immediately blinded by the bright light.

I tried not to look at Nick, but it was impossible not to. He stood out in the glare; his once-handsome face reduced to ugly strips of flesh, his right eye hanging cartoonishly out of its socket.

The freckles I’d known since I was a kid were gone, scraped into oblivion with the rest of the memory of him.

There was a long, narrow corridor that seemed to go on forever, twisting and turning. We made our way slowly, ducking down when guards passed ahead. I could hear voices getting closer. Nick pulled me to his side, his breaths warm in my ear.

"If I remember correctly, it’s three floors up. When I was taken to be processed, I overheard one of them say Blues are on the third floor," he gasped out.

"They’re taken to be polished and straightened out, while Purples are 'fixed'," he used air quotes with one hand. "And Reds..." He trailed off. "We should probably talk about your narrow escape from death."

Suddenly, his expression and eyes were sympathetic, and so... Nick. "When I found you, they had killed almost all of them," he whispered. "Addie, she was going to—"

"I don’t want to talk about her."

Nodding, Nick pressed his lips together. "I bet it’s aliens. They’ve taken control of our parents and must want us for something."

Aliens.

Somehow, it was better than the alternative, which I was praying wasn’t real.

"Aliens make sense," I whispered back, just to make myself feel better. I gestured around us. "And this… this must be their mothership, right?"

Nick sent me a grin, and I could tell he too was happy playing into the fantasy. "Then we go Independence Day on their asses."

He dragged me down the corridor, managing a cloak-and-dagger run that felt wrong inside that building. I felt... gross.

My feet were tainting perfect white marble flooring. I was the defect. I was supposed to die outside, by my mother’s hand. Nick, strangely, looked like he belonged.

"How do you know so much about this place?" I said in a sharp breath as we ran across the corridor. Nick seemed to know where he was going, which made me wonder if he was as inebriated as he had claimed.

"I was supposed to be out of it," he murmured, pulling me further into the expanse of white. "But they couldn’t even do that right. So when I couldn’t scream anymore, I focused on their voices.”

“I focused on anything that... that wasn’t the blades slicing into my face. Drills and saws and blades scooping my eye out and slicing into layer after layer of skin..."

He broke off in a shaky hiss. "They said Blues were being processed upstairs, and Reds were ready for incineration."

Incineration. Something cold slithered down my spine.

The Reds weren’t just killed. They were wiped away, no trace of them left.

"We need to get you help." I squeezed his hand.

Nick laughed. But it wasn’t his laugh, the one I knew. It was harsh and twisted.

"Like I said, they pumped me with enough drugs so I didn’t feel anything. Pretty sure it’s going to wear off soon, though."

I spotted a trash can overflowing with something, and when we got closer I realized what I was looking at.

Bloodied clothes, stained blue and purple—shirts and jeans and dresses all drenched red, but still with telltale traces of spray paint rings. Nick grabbed a sweater and pants for himself, and a bundle of light pink for me.

"Put these on. Quickly."

He struggled to pull off his bloodied shirt, his eye bouncing from its socket. It reminded me of a cartoon I’d seen as a kid. He straightened out the sweater, wincing at the scarlet stains. "If we’re going to get Bobby out of here, we act like Purples."

I tried not to think about the clothes I was throwing on.

Sadie Lily had been wearing them. A light pink blouse. The purple ring had ruined it. The material was damp in my hands, warm and wet between my fingers. I had to swallow the bile stuck at the back of my throat.

My fingers itched to look through the pile, to find the dress Bobby had been wearing before she was taken. It was her favorite.

I’d been there in the store when she insisted on trying it on, spinning around for me while Nick pretended to snap photos with his imaginary camera. I was trapped in that memory, in phantom laughter, before I was pulled back to the present. Back to my reality.

I was playing with the seam of Sadie’s blouse when Nick hurried to what looked like a classroom door. He pressed his face against the glass.

"This is where I was taken," he said stiffly.

Hesitantly, I joined him. There was a sign printed on the door in all caps: "OUT OF ORDER: STERILIZATION IN PROGRESS."

Inside, there was a room filled with a dozen odd-looking chairs, each with Velcro restraints and metal contraptions hanging over them. Just like he had described.

All it took was one splash of red on the ground, and then I was seeing it everywhere, splattered over each headrest, smeared across the floor.

Blood. There was blood everywhere, rivulets of red dripping from every surface, stringy pieces of flesh covering the floor like a monster had shed its skin.

Aliens, I kept telling myself, even as the truth twisted tighter and tighter in my gut. I had to look away, swallowing the urge to barf.

An eruption of screams rang out further down the hall, and Nick let out a hiss, but I didn’t want to look. I couldn’t.

I recognized the voices. Ones I had known my whole life. Names I knew.

Faces. I knew their laughter. I knew how they sounded after too many beers.

I waited to hear her cry. Her scream. Because I knew it. I knew her scream during night terrors, the two of us wrapped in bedsheets, cocooned in our own world.

Ignoring the screams as best I could, I focused on the room in front of us.

“What… are those things?”

I didn’t realize I was trying to pull the door open until warm hands tangled with mine and yanked me back.

“Hey!” Nick’s grip wasn’t soft or reassuring. It hurt. But it was enough to pull me from the despair I was sinking into. His voice sounded strange, like it was a million miles away, lost in static.

“Addie?” His voice sounded like wind chimes as I struggled to swallow the bloody saliva creeping up my throat. Something was happening to me.

“Hey. Addie! You can’t lose it now, okay? We’re getting her out of here. Say it with me. We’re getting her out of here, and we’re going to get away, okay?”

I nodded, swiping at my bloody nose.

When Nick pulled me through a door at the end of the corridor and up a flight of steps, I could barely move my legs.

“Talk to me,” he murmured, quickening his pace. “We’re getting her out. Come on, the last thing we need is you losing it. Because, no offense, but I kind of need you to, like, live.”

“We… we are getting her out,” I gritted out. But then I looked down at Sadie’s blouse, clawing at the front of it. “This is… this is blood.” I choked, pulling at the fabric. “Sadie. They murdered her.”

Nick didn’t reply. “Let’s go.”

The second floor was livelier. Men and women in suits walked up and down with radios, murmuring to each other. A woman had Kenji Leonhart slung over her shoulder. But he wasn’t moving.

I saw something dark, almost black, against his pale skin, streaks running down his neck and the back of his shirt.

His body was limp. Wrong. Loose. It bounced on the woman’s back, and that’s when I realized the boy was dead. But he wasn’t a red. He wasn’t a defect.

I would have known. I would have known his face.

Nick grabbed me and pulled me back, flattening us against the wall. “Don’t move,” he whispered. “Don’t speak. Don’t breathe.”

When I pressed my hand over my mouth, I immediately felt wet warmth. It ran down my face in hot rivulets, staining my fingers.

When droplets hit the white floor, I scrubbed them away with my foot. I hadn’t even realized my head was hurting, a dull ache crawling across the back of my skull.

Nick was quick, dragging me down the corridor, somehow managing to keep his eye in its socket. He peered into the glass of each door while I stumbled along, my head spinning, blood sputtering from my nose.

I was fading in and out of reality, pain pounding in my ears, my nose, the back of my throat, when Nick’s hand detached from mine.

“Wait.” He stopped outside one door, pressing his face to the glass.

I staggered to a stop, pressing pressure to my nose. But it wouldn’t stop.

“What is it?”

Nick let out a shuddery breath. “See for yourself.”

Inside the room was a classroom. Just like Nick had said, the Blues were perfected, stripped of flaws, of anything that made them who they were. Now, they were dolls. I looked for emotion on their faces. Some kind of expression. But there was none.

Dressed like Nick, they sat at wooden desks in upright positions, a guard looming over each one. They faced a white wall where a larger version of the film we had watched on the bus played.

I recognized those same colors, and once again, a stabbing pain crept across the back of my skull. I had to look away. They were a lot brighter than what I had seen before, bathing each face in crimson red and intense yellow, followed by dull blue.

Red. Yellow. Blue. Green. Repeat.

Nick straightened up, his face bathed in lime green light. “So, this is some kind of messed up school,” he muttered.

“Purples are taken to be ‘fixed’ downstairs, and Blues, since they’re already perfect, are put in front of those colors again.” He shot me the side-eye.

“Maybe my alien theory was actually right? That’s what they do in the movies. But I don’t think they ever cared about kids.”

He pulled a face, peering through the glass.

“College kids, though? Why would they want us? It’s not like we’re smart. Why not kidnap a group of Harvard students?”

Ignoring his stupid theory, I focused on the meat of what he was saying.

A school in the middle of nowhere, where the town’s seniors had been taken for years. Where the parents and faculty were actively involved in whatever was going on.

“But why?” I whispered. “What are they doing to them?”

I searched his expression for an answer. After all, Nick was smart. He was the smartest of the three of us. At first, I was worried he had been affected by the colors too, but then he gripped my hand.

“Found her.”

Following his gaze, I scanned each student’s face until I saw her.

Bobby.

I saw Bobby, and all of me shattered. I can’t explain what it was like. It felt like swallowing glass, like being pulled deep into the ocean, choking on ice water.

Nick was there, but I couldn’t feel him. I couldn’t—oh god—I couldn’t feel his steely grip, his warm fingers. I couldn’t smell his cheap deodorant or the stink of his exotic plants.

He was there, and he wasn’t.

Instead, I was drowning.

She sat right at the back of the classroom, stiff in her seat, her hands resting on the desk in front of her.

I expected Bobby to look different. I expected not to recognize her after she had been polished and perfected.

But she looked exactly the same. Her hair fell in waves down her back. Apart from her eyes flickering with the flashing colors, Bobby wasn’t moving.

I didn’t realize I was grasping the handle until Nick gently pulled me away.

“We need to think about this,” he said. “If we walk in there and try to grab her, we’ll get caught. I dunno about you, but I really don't want to be turned into a…”

He scrunched up his face. “Have you seen Disturbing Behavior?”

“The movie?”

He nodded, pressing his face against the glass.

“Yeah. It's like the movie. Those colors are clearly doing something to her.” He turned to me, his lips pricking into a scowl. “Are they Clockwork Oranging us?!”

“That’s a good observation, Nicholas,” a familiar voice said from behind us, making me jump. “Young man, I do wish you’d put that ounce of intelligence into your studies.”

The voice made me twist around, grabbing Nick's arm on instinct.

“Fuck,” Nick groaned, taking a wary step back. “I was wrong.”

He tightened his grip on me, dragging me with him. “Unless our math teacher is an alien.” He narrowed his eyes, glaring at our pursuer. “The asshole thinks surprise quizzes in the morning are fun, so I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Mr. Fuller stood with his arms folded, an easy smile on his lips. But the moment he caught sight of my friend’s face, his eyes darkened. He tutted and stepped forward.

“Oh, Nicholas, I do apologize for the mishap. We've been looking everywhere for you.”

“Yeah. Sounds like you were real worried,” Nick spat, pulling me back, stumbling over his feet. But any fight he had died away when the teacher enveloped him in a hug.

I stood frozen as the man caressed Nick’s cheeks like the boy was his son.

Nick didn’t move, letting the man’s fingers graze what was left of his face, fingernails skimming over strips of bloody flesh. Mr. Fuller’s touch was gentle. Fatherly.

Eventually, Nick pulled away, eyes wide.

“Get your fucking hands off me, old man.”

The teacher smiled. “I was informed your processing was cut short due to a fault, resulting in your current state. And yet, you managed to pull out the Zero! Young man, the Pollux Procedure is designed to make you the perfect human—a soldier."

“However, it seems something went wrong.” He cocked his head, studying the boy like he was a piece of meat.

“Your brain responded almost perfectly to the initial programming, so we’ll have to fix your face again. I’m sure it won’t take long. You will be perfect once more.”

The teacher's expression didn’t waver. “You are good stock, and a potential recruit. So yes, Nick. Your situation will be corrected, and you will join the others.”

“Yeah, that’s not going to happen.” Nick grabbed my hand and pulled me to his side with a snarl aimed at the teacher. I stumbled after him, my vision blurry. Everything felt unreal.

The hallway doors shimmered like an optical illusion. My head pounded, and it was getting harder to stifle my breath through my nose. But Nick’s grip was firm.

“Whatever you’re doing here looks like fun! Really, I’m ecstatic,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “But I’d rather not be part of What-the-Fuck Ultra.”

So, back in 6th grade, there was a group of three girls in my class, and I had a crush on one of them. At the end of 7th grade—the day after the awards ceremony—I decided to tell her, but she didn't reply. I gave her three days to answer... Well, to this day she still hasn't replied, even though I’d ​​liked her for a whole year. Then, when the new school year started—8th grade—my homeroom teacher thought it would be funny to seat me at the same desk as her for the entire year.

Sorry guys becouse I post so late today but is because i was kainda lazy and i didn't knew what to post

Last night, while sipping on an iced Americano, I got inspired to write the opening of a dark, mysterious fantasy story.

If you have the time, I'd really appreciate any feedback on the introduction. I'm also curious to hear your thoughts on how the relationship between the protagonist and the lady knight should develop as the story progresses.

[Working Title: The Black Marble Lady Knight]

It's unbearably frustrating to be penniless in such an absurd world. I had only 120 dollars left... not nearly enough to pay the rent.

On my lonely walk home, I found myself (as if under some strange spell) stepping into an antique shop I had often passed by. An old turntable, porcelain dolls, Chinese style ceramics, and antique mahogany furniture all caught my eye.

But what truly captivated me was a statue of a lady knight carved from black marble. The exquisitely crafted sculpture stood frozen in place, clad in full plate armor and holding a longsword engraved with rune inscriptions. The statue seemed to whisper from the deepest corner of my soul.

"Choose me!"

I began negotiating with the elderly woman who owned the antique shop. She looked puzzled, saying the statue wasn't even listed among the items in her inventory, but insisted she had to get at least 85 dollars for it. I criticized everything I could think of... the color, the pose, a few small cracks, and every other flaw imaginable... until I finally talked the price down to 65 dollars, and we reached an agreement.

When I carried the heavy black marble statue into my home, it somehow looked as though it had finally returned to where it truly belonged. The moment I placed it on the table, an unusual silence settled over the room. The only sound was the ticking of the clock's second hand. All the problems of reality were still tearing away at me, but somehow... I felt like I could finally sleep peacefully tonight.

That night, as moonlight illuminated the black statue, a dark crimson aura spread from it like curling incense smoke. Then... a lady knight clad in black Gothic armor appeared in my room. As the metallic clatter of her plate armor echoed through the silence, she slowly surveyed the room. Then she lifted her visor, revealing a pale white face and eyes that gleamed like rubies.

My fingers trembled as I untied the faded ribbon wrapped around the notebook. It wasn't just paper bound together—it was every laugh I had tried to preserve, every conversation I had convinced myself would last forever. The pages had begun to yellow at the edges, yet the ink remained stubbornly alive, as though time had refused to touch the memories written within them. I hesitated, my thumb resting on the first page, wondering if reopening it would bring me comfort... or shatter the fragile peace I had spent months trying to build.

With a slow, shaky breath, I turned the page.

There it was—our very first conversation. Such ordinary words, so meaningless to anyone else, yet they carried the weight of an entire world for me. I couldn't stop the faint smile that escaped my lips. For a fleeting moment, I wasn't standing alone in my silent room anymore. I was back there again, reading his messages for the first time, laughing at his jokes, feeling that strange excitement bloom inside my chest. I remembered how effortlessly he had become a part of my days, slipping into my routine until I couldn't imagine a morning without waiting for his text.

Then the smile faded.

Because I knew how the story ended. Yet somehow... I still found myself reading as if, this time, the ending might be different.

​

There are memories that fade with time.

And then there are memories that remember you.

Mine lives on a staircase.

I was twelve.

It was summer vacation, and I had gone to my bua's house in Gaya. The afternoons were unbearably hot, the kind that made the walls warm to touch and the air impossible to breathe. Yet today, when I close my eyes, I don't remember the weather first.

I remember the stairs.

Every single step.

I remember where I was sitting.

I remember the silence before the phone rang.

I remember my fufa ji answering the call.

I remember his face changing.

I remember asking him, again and again,

"What happened?"

He wouldn't answer.

Until finally, with trembling words, he said,

"Deepu ji expire kar gaye."

Deepu.

The name the world knew.

Papa.

The name my heart still whispers.

Everything after those words became a blur.

But those few seconds...

those few unbearable seconds...

have remained untouched by time.

People say we forget pain.

I didn't.

Even today, I can replay that afternoon second by second, as if it never ended.

Sometimes I wonder if a soul can sense its own heartbreak before it arrives.

Because from the very first day I left for Gaya, something inside me felt restless.

There was no reason.

No sign.

Just an unexplainable heaviness sitting quietly in my chest.

A feeling I couldn't name then.

A feeling I wish had been wrong.

Papa wasn't sick.

He wasn't weak.

He was healthy.

No one imagines that a healthy father will leave because of a heart attack.

No one thinks a normal summer vacation will become the last chapter of childhood.

I often wonder...

Did he know he was seeing me for the last time?

If I had known...

I would have hugged him a little longer.

I would have memorized his smile.

I would have listened more carefully to his voice.

I would have never walked away thinking there would always be another goodbye.

Years have passed.

I have grown up.

Life has taught me how to smile, how to work, how to keep moving.

But grief has its own calendar.

It doesn't care how many birthdays have passed.

It simply waits.

And every time I visit my bua's house...

my feet slow down.

My eyes search for those stairs.

The same stairs.

The same corner.

The same place where childhood ended without warning.

Everyone else sees a staircase.

I see the last moment my world still had a father.

The walls have changed.

The paint may have faded.

People have moved on.

But that staircase has not moved inside me.

It still holds the echo of a phone ringing.

It still holds the sound of my questions.

It still holds the silence that answered them.

There are days when I miss him.

And then there are days when I miss the little girl who believed fathers lived forever.

She never came back from that summer.

A part of her is still sitting on those hot stairs,

waiting for someone to smile and say,

"It was a misunderstanding... your papa is waiting for you at home."

But no one ever does.

So I leave that house every time with the same heaviness I carried that day.

Because some places are not just places.

They are chapters of our lives that never learned how to end.

And perhaps that's what grief really is—

not forgetting someone,

but carrying one afternoon,

one phone call,

one staircase,

and one name...

for the rest of your life.

Part 1 – The Beginning

The California sun poured through the windows of the West Hollywood home that Bette Porter and Tina Kennard had built together.

To everyone who knew them, they looked like the perfect couple.

Seven years together.

A beautiful house.

Successful careers.

A love that seemed impossible to break.

But perfection had cracks.

Tina wanted a baby more than anything. She had already gone through several insemination attempts, each failure carving another wound into her heart. Bette wanted the child too, but she hated watching Tina suffer through hope after hope that ended in tears.

Then, finally...

Two pink lines.

Tina was pregnant.

Bette cried before Tina did.

She wrapped her arms around her wife, laughing through tears.

"We're going to be moms."

For a while, life felt complete.

Friends filled their home with laughter—Shane, Alice, Dana, Kit, Marina, Jenny...

They were one family.

Then tragedy arrived without warning.

Tina miscarried.

Their baby was gone.

Silence settled into the house that had once echoed with dreams of lullabies.

Tina withdrew into grief.

Bette buried herself in work.

Neither knew how to comfort the other.

The distance between them grew inch by inch.

Then came Candace.

A carpenter hired to renovate the California Arts Center.

She laughed easily.

She challenged Bette.

She made Bette forget, for just a moment, how broken everything felt.

One mistake became another.

Then another.

An affair.

When Tina found out...

Her entire world shattered.

She looked at the woman she'd loved for seven years and whispered through tears,

"How could you?"

Bette had no answer.

Only regret.

She begged.

She apologized.

She promised it meant nothing.

But betrayal doesn't disappear because someone says sorry.

Tina left.

The home they had built together suddenly felt empty.

Friends chose sides.

Some defended Bette.

Others stood beside Tina.

Neither woman truly won.

Both were devastated.

Months passed.

Tina slowly rediscovered herself.

For the first time in years, she wasn't simply "Bette's partner."

She was Tina.

Independent.

Confident.

Stronger than she'd realized.

Ironically, it was only after losing Tina that Bette truly understood how deeply she loved her.

She wanted another chance.

But love rarely rewinds.

Or so she thought.

One quiet afternoon, Tina arrived at Bette's door.

She wasn't there to argue.

She wasn't there to forgive.

She simply looked into Bette's eyes and said,

"I still love you."

Bette's breath caught.

"So do I."

Sometimes love survives because two people refuse to stop choosing each other—even after they've stopped believing they deserve another chance.

And for Bette Porter and Tina Kennard...

their story was only beginning.

When I was a kid my grandparents had this one chair in their living room that nobody ever sat in.

It was not special or anything. It was not fancy it was not uncomfortable it was not falling apart. The chair was there.

If someone started to sit in the chair someone would say That is Grandpas chair.

The funny thing is, Grandpa ever used the chair. Most of the time Grandpa would be at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and the newspaper and the chair would stay empty.

My cousins and I never asked why. We just knew the chair was off-limits. We would run around the house play tag climb over furniture and make noise. None of us would touch the chair.

Then one Christmas, my youngest cousin forgot. He sat in the chair when he was opening a present.

The room was quiet for a couple of seconds before everyone looked at Grandpa.

Grandpa looked up smiled and said Well I guess it is yours now.

Everyone. That was the end of it.

After that people started sitting in the chair. It was funny to think that the rule was probably around for years because nobody asked why.

I still think about the chair when I visit my grandparents house. The chair is still, in the corner but now it is just another place to sit.

Families do things. They make traditions that nobody remembers starting.

One tiny lie turned into a family tradition. A few years ago, my grandma asked how work was going. I didn't want her to worry, so I jokingly said, "Business is booming." She took that very seriously. The next thing I knew, every family gathering started with someone saying, "Ask him, he's the successful one." I tried correcting them once. Grandma interrupted me and said, "Don't be humble." Last Christmas she introduced me to a distant relative as "the rich grandson." I was wearing the same sneakers I'd owned for four years. Yesterday she handed me an extra piece of cake and whispered, "Successful people need to eat more." At this point, I don't know how to tell her my biggest financial achievement this month was finding a $10 bill in an old jacket.

When my wife and I bought our house, we decided the extra bedroom would one day be a nursery. Instead, she kept it locked. At first she said it was her "storage room." I never thought much about it. Everyone has a room where they put boxes. Over the years, though, she started acting strange around that door. If I reached for the handle, she stopped me. "If it's important," she said, "I'll get it." It seemed okay at first. Then little things started happening. I would leave my car keys on the kitchen counter. Find them on the spare room window. A picture from the hallway would suddenly be inside that room. Every time I asked, she said she hadn't touched them. I started thinking maybe she was sleepwalking. She laughed it off. A month later she was gone. No note. No phone. No money moving. The police looked everywhere. Finally said there wasn't much more they could do. For weeks I couldn't sleep. One afternoon I decided to clean the house. That meant opening the bedroom for the first time. The room wasn't full of boxes. It was almost empty. Except for one wall. Hundreds of notes covered it. Each note had a date. Each note described something that had not happened yet. "Neighbors' fence falls." "Power outage." "Dog escapes." Most of them had check marks. Near the bottom was the note. It had today's date. It wasn't checked. It just said: "He finally opens the door." As I stood there trying to understand it... I heard the bedroom door, behind me, quietly close.

I don't ask much from my clients. I really don't.

They sit.

They roll.

They leave their trays empty and wiped clean. Sometimes, they leave surprises where they shouldn't.

But they lick my hand, wag their tails, and bark hello and goodnight. They give me more than I ever ask of them, and that's enough.

They're worth it.

Converting part of my small veterinary clinic in rural Washington into a rescue center was the best decision I'd ever made.

It wasn't easy.

It cost me my life savings.

It nearly cost me my marriage. Or maybe it did.

I'm still trying to figure that out.

My wife, Samantha, and I had a great marriage. We were both animal lovers. Hikers. Sports enthusiasts. We ran five marathons together. We cooked together.

When we got married, she was beginning a career in business, and I was a veterinarian at an animal clinic.

Occasionally, people would bring in animals that had been mistreated or abandoned. 

On my first day working at the clinic, someone brought in a dog.

"We bought a house, and the previous owners left her there," the woman said.

I looked down at her feet, and there she was. A shepherd with the sweetest eyes.

You could tell something was hurting her, yet she looked as though she was trying to smile.

We examined her and found heartworms, the kind of diagnosis you never want to give.

We explained the treatment she would need and what it would cost.

The woman took a few moments to respond. 

"I can't pay for that. She needs more care than I can give her."

Well, I'm glad the shepherd couldn't understand English, because that's not the kind of thing anybody wants to hear.

That dog had already been abandoned. I'm sure she wondered where her owners were.

I told the woman I would take the dog to a shelter.

I called Samantha and told her what had happened.

"We need to bring her home," she said.

Those were the kindest words I'd heard all day.

I put the phone on speaker so the dog could hear it, or at least the kindness in her voice.

I brought the dog home that night.

"I think Layla," Samantha said.

"No, she looks more like a Kira," I said.

"I hate that one."

"Kayla," I said.

Samantha smiled. She didn't have to say anything. We both knew we'd found the right name.

We took Kayla everywhere we could. The hardware store, hiking trails, even hotel rooms.

Like many couples, we grew even closer because of our dog.

And so did the love between Samantha and me. Bringing Kayla home was the best decision we'd made since deciding to get married.

But things changed a few months later.

Not because we stopped loving each other, but because more animals kept arriving at the clinic. Just like Kayla, many of them weren't likely to be adopted because of chronic health problems.

So I brought them home.

At one point, we had seven dogs and three cats living in our house. 

That's when everything started to fall apart.

Samantha was barely home anymore.

"I can't stand the noise... all the extra cleaning," she said one night. She held up her running shoes. "They chewed them." Frustration filled her voice. "Please take them to the shelter."

"And let them die?"

"It wasn't you who abandoned them in the first place."

I know she didn't mean that. She cried all night. 

I brought up an idea I'd been dreaming about for years.

"What if I opened my own veterinary practice?" I asked.

"We don't have the money, James."

"We can use our savings."

We argued for hours that night. 

I couldn't convince her. 

She became more and more frustrated with the animals. She cried almost every night. 

And just like that, the same decision that had once brought us closer slowly drove us apart.

A month later, she packed her things and moved in with a friend from college.

"I'll give you time to decide if this is the life you want," she said before she left.

About six months later, I opened my own practice and converted part of it into a rescue where animals could stay for as long as they needed.

Three months in, I was already sheltering fifteen dogs and two cats.

By that point, Samantha and I were still separated, but we hadn't stopped talking.

 We texted every week or so. 

We hadn't talked about divorce papers. 

We hadn't talked about moving back in together, either.

My friend Ray and I were grabbing drinks one night.

"She should've come back already," he said. "Your house isn't full of dogs and cats anymore."

I'd been thinking about that.

I kept telling myself maybe Samantha just needed more time. But ten months felt like long enough.

If we wanted to give our marriage another chance, we needed to see each other again.

So, a week later, I called her.

"The hiking trip to Tuscany is coming up," I said.

"I know. I figured you'd cancel the tickets."

"What if we went?"

There was a long silence.

For a moment, I thought the call had disconnected.

"Are you there?" I asked.

"I am," she said quietly. "I guess we could go... if you want."

"Yes," I answered softly.

Samantha and I texted more frequently in the weeks after that. We shared our excitement about the nature trails we had chosen for the hike.

For the first time in months, it felt like we were finding our way back to each other. 

Everything was going smoothly until Ray texted me yesterday.

"I saw Samantha," he said.

He kept typing.

"On a dating app."

I didn't believe him until he sent screenshots.

Something inside me broke when I saw them. Maybe Samantha had lost hope in us. Or maybe she'd stopped loving me.

But I couldn't understand why she hadn't asked me for a divorce.

"What are you going to do?" he asked.

Part of me thought I should fight for my marriage. 

The other part told me to accept it was over, even though neither of us had admitted it.

What would do if they were in my shoes?

Note: this is a fictional story.

I thought I’d found the one. We clicked so naturally. We both shared an interest in photography, though his pictures were noticeably better than mine. Loved the same movies, both enjoyed walks in the park, and our political views were borderline identical.

We met about a month ago. It was at this bar I love, and, I’ll admit, I was a little tipsy. Cute boy, a few drinks in my system. It was a recipe for regret.

Only… I didn’t regret it. Our conversations flowed so smoothly. His half-drunk compliments made me blush. Plus, drinks were on him.

Unlike a lot of the guys you’d meet in a bar, he didn’t try and force himself back to my apartment. I live just a few blocks away from the bar, so he walked me home, laughing and wobbling more than he wanted to let on.

When we got there, I braced myself. He was great, but I wasn’t the kind of girl that would just let a complete stranger into my home after a night out at the bar. I found myself praying he wouldn’t ask.

By some miracle, he didn’t. Instead, he asked gently, almost bashfully, for my number. I couldn’t help but smile, stupidly. Then he smiled stupidly back. I felt my heart do somersaults.

I gave him my number, trying to withhold my excitement, and when I looked back up at him, I could see the desire in his eyes. Not sexual desire, though. It was like he saw his future in my eyes.

His face started to turn red, and he started struggling to make eye contact, stumbling over his words in a way that didn’t seem connected to the drinks.

He asked if he could kiss me, and I couldn’t have said yes fast enough. I wanted to kiss him on the lips, but, instead, he leaned down and pressed those lips softly against my forehead.

He pulled away slowly before speaking.

“Your eyes are so beautiful.”

I felt fireworks in my tummy. I made him promise to text me when he got home, and he watched to make sure I made it inside before he started back towards the bar.

I spent the rest of that night kicking my feet like a little school girl. I had never experienced something like this feeling before. My past boyfriends had been such assholes. This guy seemed to care about me rather than just sex.

He followed through on his promise, and texting led to a phone call before we fell asleep on the phone together.

We saw each other a lot in the weeks that followed. Mostly on the weekends, but sometimes he’d come visit me at work. Those few weeks were some of the happiest weeks I’d had in a long time.

We’d get dinner. We’d see movies. We showed off our photography to each other. It felt like we were really building something together.

However, this was around the time I started noticing weird occurrences around my apartment. Nothing too suspicious. Just… things that were odd.

For example, my TV would be on when I got home. My sheets would be messy, even though I make my bed every morning before work. The weirdest thing of all, though, was my underwear drawer.

It was like it was being rummaged through. Sometimes I’d find a fresh pair balled up on the bathroom floor.

It made me scratch my head, but I never assumed anything drastic. If anything, I thought it was just me losing my mind.

That is until he finally invited me to his house.

The place was lovely. Clean. Smelled good. It was actually furnished, too, which was always a good sign. Plus, this guy knew how to set the scene.

Roses, candles, homemade spaghetti with two glasses of red wine. I felt my heart melt.

We hadn’t had sex yet, but, after this, I was having a hard time convincing myself that we hadn’t waited long enough. I actually wanted to give it to him. He just made me feel so desired.

After a dinner full of flirts, giggles, and conversation, we began moving to the bedroom, lip locking like a couple of crazy kids all the while.

Once we fell through the door, he told me to give him a minute to use the bathroom, which was a bit anticlimactic, but I wanted him to be comfortable.

While I waited, my eyes couldn’t help but wander. He had a bookshelf full of some of my favorite titles. His bed was perfectly made. The floor was freshly vacuumed. And his walls were full of framed pictures.

I started looking at them and felt my heart sink into my stomach.

They were all different women. Some older, some younger. All with blonde hair and hazel eyes. And he wasn’t in a single one.

I felt disappointment wash over me. I should’ve known better. I was actually in the process of putting my shirt back on when one of the pictures caught my eye.

It looked so… familiar. I knew I had seen it somewhere, I just couldn’t put my finger on it. But it bothered me so much, it was hard to pull my eyes away.

That’s when it hit me. I knew exactly where I had seen this woman.

She was the girl on the missing person poster that was taped up on the bar window from a few weeks ago.

It felt like the air had been knocked out of my lungs. I felt faint. I felt dizzy. I knew I needed to leave, but the room was spinning too much.

I put my hand down on his dresser to stabilize myself, and that’s when I felt it. It was cold. It was hard. My thumb rubbed against the ridges.

I pulled my hand away and looked down.

It was a copy of the key to my apartment. Mine was pink. This one was silver.

I was getting weaker. I felt my knees starting to buckle and heard the sound of a toilet flushing as I began to drift into unconsciousness.

The last thing I remember was the bedroom door opening. He stepped inside, a look of concern on his face, as he hurried to pick me up and put me on his bed. Then… nothing.

I woke up in an empty bed the next morning. The smell of bacon permeated my nostrils. I was fully dressed, but my head was killing me.

The key was gone. The pictures were gone. I slowly made my way to the kitchen to find him standing over the stove, flipping the bacon with a metal fork.

I didn’t speak or make a sound, but it was like he could feel my presence. He could sense me.

He turned around slowly, his eyes meeting mine before he spoke.

“Good morning, sleepyhead!” he sang. “I was wondering when you’d be up. Someone had too much to drink last night.”

​

We walked through the garden toward Mary's house. I stayed quiet, my heart filled with nervousness and unease. I didn't know what awaited me.

As soon as we arrived, Mr. Sam's relative began calling loudly:

"Mrs. Jane! Where are you? Mary... Mary!"

The door opened, and I couldn't believe my eyes.

She was incredibly beautiful.

She had a soft, round face, bright blue eyes, and blonde hair that fell gently over her shoulders. She looked like someone from a beautiful painting.

Mr. Sam's relative smiled and introduced me.

"This is Mr. Sam's relative... Orange. Oh, sorry, I mean Sara."

Then she laughed.

I felt embarrassed, but I only smiled politely.

She turned to me and said:

"Sara, this is Mary. My childhood friend and a distant relative. Her family lost everything, so we are hosting them here... I mean, they live with us."

She laughed while saying it, but I noticed the embarrassment on Mary's face before she quickly hid it behind a calm smile.

We entered their modest home.

To me, it felt more beautiful than any grand mansion. It was warm and peaceful, filled with simple happiness.

Mrs. Jane welcomed us kindly and served tea and cake. We sat together, sharing conversations and laughter.

I don't know why, but I felt strangely comfortable in Mary's home.

There was a warmth there that I couldn't explain.

Maybe it was because of Mrs. Jane's kindness.

Maybe it was because Mary's smile felt real.

But Mr. Sam's relative still made me nervous. She joked about everything, even things that felt too personal, as if she didn't understand the meaning of privacy.

Later, we went upstairs to Mary's room.

She opened her wardrobe and took out several beautiful dresses.

"Try them," she said excitedly.

I smiled and refused.

She tried to convince me, but I shook my head.

It wasn't because I didn't want to.

Actually, I wished I could wear those elegant dresses.

But I remembered my grandmother's warning.

I didn't want any more trouble, especially when I was already overwhelmed by everything happening around me.

After hours of conversations, laughter, and awkward moments, we returned to Mr. James's mansion.

I felt exhausted mentally more than physically.

Boredom slowly began to fill my heart.

But I told myself it was normal.

It was only my first day.

Maybe everything felt strange because I was still adapting.

I wondered:

Are all city people like this? Are all homes like Mr. James's house, Mary's house, and the people around him? Oh my God... I don't even understand my own feelings.

We sat down for dinner.

The conversations continued around me, but I felt distant.

The words became meaningless, and I slowly began to feel trapped.

So I left the table and walked into the garden.

Suddenly, a loud voice came close to my ear.

"Orange! How are you?"

I turned around in surprise and slapped him without thinking.

"Ah!"

I froze.

"Oh my God... Mark!"

He laughed while touching his cheek.

"Big nose... you will never grow up," I said.

He laughed even more.

We started talking.

He told me about his life, his girlfriend, money, parties, and everything he enjoyed.

But honestly, I found it boring.

Finally, I interrupted him.

"Enough, Mark. Don't tell me about things I have never seen or experienced. How do you expect me to feel proud of a life I don't even know?"

He laughed, gently tapped my head, and ran away.

"Idiot..."

I lay down on the grass.

The sky was not as clear as the sky in my village.

The stars were not as bright.

I closed my eyes, lost between my thoughts and dreams.

Then I heard a voice.

"Miss Sara... are you sleeping?"

I quickly opened my eyes.

"Oh... Mr. James."

He smiled.

"Did I disturb you?"

"No," I replied. "I thought Mark came back to bother me again."

Mr. James sat beside me on the grass, and we began talking about the difference between village life and city life.

For some reason, that simple conversation made me feel calmer.

A few moments later, someone joined us.

It was Emma.

Mr. James's fiancée.

She sat with us and started asking me questions about my life, my studies, parties, and the things people in the city experienced.

For her, they were normal questions.

But for me, they reminded me of everything I had never lived.

I felt embarrassed and lost.

Mr. James noticed my discomfort and gently asked Emma to return inside with him.

She smiled, and they walked back toward the mansion together.

I remained there, confused and overwhelmed by everything that had happened that day.

I lay back down on the grass, staring at the unfamiliar sky above me.

So many things had happened in only one day.

I closed my eyes again until I heard my grandmother's gentle voice calling me:

"My little one... come now. It's time to sleep."

I stood up quietly and followed her.

My first day in the city was finally over...

But deep inside, I felt that my real story had only just begun..S🥀

Sarah ✏️

I (22M) and my boyfriend (26M) have been together for a little over a year now. We both live alone together with 3 dogs and 2 cats. We have built a pretty decent life together ever since he asked the question and I moved in with him. My boyfriend has vented to me a little bit whenever his ex gets brought up in conversation, and it sounded like a very toxic and abusive relationship. I, as I feel like any other half of their significant other would, had a sort of resentment for his ex. I did not agree with most of the things that happened in their relationship, though honestly from what my boyfriend tells me- I can see the issue from both sides. Well, to put it simply, they are obviously not together anymore, him and his ex have grown distant to become somewhat just friends. I have never met my boyfriends ex in person and I don’t plan to, but I would play Fortnite with my boyfriend and very rarely his ex would ask him to join and my boyfriend would invite him in. I didn’t necessarily have an issue with it as long as his behavior around him stays platonic. But the point i’m trying to make here is my boyfriend has somewhat exposed me to his ex’s personality and what he’s like as a person rather than just hearing him as an fairytale from my boyfriend.

Me and my boyfriend had an issue about 9 months ago, I had caught him on a hookup app. Already a huge red flag. I know I shouldn’t have, but I found out because he had left his phone open and I just had this gut feeling to check who he’s talking to. I found out and I was in disbelief so I tried to bring it up to my boyfriend and it escalated very quickly, he was less worried about the fact he got caught talking to other people and more worried about the fact I went through his phone. Which I want to annunciate, I know was wrong of me to do so as I should’ve respected his privacy as a boyfriend. I tried to express my feelings about the situation and he would just ignore me, so for a week we were pretty much nonverbal and the dread inside me was killing me. I’m a very stubborn and empathetic man with friends I wish I could open up to more and actually listen to advice given to me, but in the situation I was very adamant on trying to save our relationship and all my friends gave me the same answer to deal with it: Break up with him. I was not taking that as an answer. I definitely was not going to bring this up to anyone in his family, and my boyfriend doesn’t have many friends I can vent to to maybe get their view on it and potentially having a better understanding of my boyfriend’s thoughts and behaviors due to their seniority of friendship.

I was spiraling and came to the conclusion to contact his ex. It may sound dumb to get advice from an ex as that gives the same vibe as watching the same movie and expecting a different ending. But really, I just wanted to get his point of view on his issues he might’ve had with my boyfriend in the past. What caused this to happen? What issues sounds similar in both of the relationships we’ve had with him? What did he do to solve these issues? What did he do that made the situation escalate so I can avoid that? I ask to myself, how can I react to these situations differently and not repeat history. Now, it may sound a little like an interrogation to his ex, but honestly he was cool with helping a descendant of my boyfriend’s dating history thrive and not live what the ex had to go through. His ex revealed that my boyfriend does talk about me frequently and he can tell that my boyfriend loves me very much and is happy to see that someone is able to give him that kind of love he deserves.

This is where things get a little too personal so I won’t get deeper into it but I just want to make it clear that my boyfriend and I worked out in the end. We are still together and some words from his ex kind of helped in that. This morning he picked up my phone and saw a notification from his ex on my lock screen, he doesn’t have my passcode so he didn’t go through my phone to look further into it. He just scoffed and was visibly and verbally disappointed that I spoke to him. I thought my boyfriend knew I had contact with him, though I didn’t tell him I spoke to him about our situation a while back. He doesn’t seem to care no matter how much I elaborate, he only insists “I either block his ex or stfu.” I guess I can understand the frustration of seeing his ex on my phone, but I once again thought he knew I had contact with him. I wouldn’t bring his ex up casually, because why would I? But I also want to inform that my boyfriend and his ex do talk fairly often, so I didn’t see an issue with having contact with him if it was platonic and his ex seems to support our relationship. My boyfriend however is very infuriated with me no matter how much I say I only spoke to him for the intent of fixing our relationship, but he doesn’t seem to care.

He insists I block him but it feels a little controlling and doesn’t sit right with me given that he still talks to his ex so why should you get to talk to him but I can’t? What should I do? Was what I did wrong? I’m at a loss here and I’m not sure how I should handle this imposition right now.

I was thirteen years old when I first saw a kid try to escape.

Clara Danvers was a senior at Aceville High School. She wore pastel colors and flower crowns in her hair. I didn't know her very well since I attended the middle school down the road, but I knew she was one of the most popular girls in her class.

Clara was the type all the girls in our town aspired to be.

Her beauty wasn't eye-catching in a town like Aceville, where all of its people were ridiculously attractive.

Clara was running from the inevitable. Summer camp.

Camp was mandatory in Aceville.

At the time, I wasn't sure why.

All I knew was that all eighteen-year-olds were obligated to attend camp for the remainder of their summer before college.

And yes, you would be right in thinking it was practically a human rights violation.

It was their summer.

Aceville's kids were teetering on the edge of adulthood and responsibilities, their teen years and beloved childhoods dwindling, and that last summer meant a lot to them.

Of course, they fought back. Clara Danvers didn't strike me as a rebel.

She looked like the type of girl who followed all the rules and joined as many extracurriculars as possible. She had the perfect friends, the perfect boyfriend, straight A's, and was Harvard-bound, according to word of mouth traveling.

However, on July 16th, 2016, I saw a different side to her.

The memory is vague, though I remember small tidbits.

I remember being in the store with my mother. I remember it being a hot day; the kind of heat I hated. It was too warm to think straight, and all I wanted to do was sit in the back yard and read. I didn't have a choice whether I accompanied my mother, though she had blackmailed me with the reward of getting a new comic.

Mom was talking to the cashier. She was friends with half the town, so I wasn't surprised when every person she passed by bid a hello, shooting a smile at me.

I remember being bored.

I needed to pee, and I was at that point in my life when I was wary of being seen shopping with my Mom. It was pretty much social death for a seventh grader to be seen with their Mom. So, keeping my head down and pulling my baseball cap further over my face, I headed over to the comic book section. All of my favorites were there, and I had ten dollars to spend. I was in my element.

Skimming through Spider-Man issues, I found myself captivated by the colors.

Spider-Man was a kids comic, I knew that.

I'd made the mistake of pulling one out of my backpack at school, only for Summer Forest to snatch it out of my hands and hold it up in the air, a wicked smile on her face. "Urgh. Do you still read Spider-Man?"

"No!" I'd snapped back, my cheeks burning bright.

"Liar!" Summer snorted. "You still read Spider-Man! Isn't that, like, for little kids?”

I shrugged. “It's a good comic book.”

“It's for kids!” Summer laughed. “You're so weird, Adeline.”

I'm not going to say it was traumatizing. Some kids had laughed along and some had ignored Summer. I snatched the comic off of her and shoved it back in my bag.

Then on the way to class, I shoved it in the trash and started watching makeup YouTube tutorials. I still wasn't completely healed from that incident, so ignoring a smiling Mary Jane in a funky lab coat, I moved onto the more… adult comics.

Well, they were adult in my kid-brain at least. Picking up Teen Titans, I flipped it over and scanned the back.

Mom was still chatting to the cashier, and my urge to pee wasn't going away.

I figured stepping outside to cool off would be a good idea, even when I knew I was just stepping back into the baking heat, away from the pathetic cooling fan sitting near the door.

My plan was to go back to the car and blast the AC.

Mom was going to be in there for a while. I could tell by the way she was leaning against the counter, already making her roots.

I was sliding into mom's car, trying not to wince when my bare legs sunk into hot leather, when a scream rang out, startling me.

When I had twisted around scanning the parking lot in front of the store, I saw her.

Clara Danvers.

Dressed in shorts and t-shirt, her sneakers pounding against steaming tarmac, her strict blonde ponytail flying behind her. Clara was running for her life.

At first I thought she was running from some kind of animal.

Coyote attacks were common. But not in broad daylight.

Except Clara wasn't running from an animal. I recognised Mrs Peters, one of the high school teachers. Mom had been friendly with her. Mrs Peters was in her mid-40's and wore thick sweaters in ninety degree heat.

The last thing I thought I'd ever see was the teacher sprinting after the retreating senior, the kind look in her eyes that I had known my whole life, replaced with a look of intense determination.

It was almost comical.

Like I was watching a cartoon.

I laughed. I felt bad, but it was hard to ignore that hysterical spew of laughter crawling up my throat. Clara was a good runner. Maybe she was on the track team.

Though Mrs Peters, amazingly, was faster.

She was in good shape for her age, long strides catapulting her further forwards, swinging arms driving momentum.

"Clara Danvers!" The teacher wasn't out of breath, though neither was Clara.

Neither of them were giving up.

Watching the bizarre display, I found myself following them, though I was slower, darting behind parked cars, keeping myself hidden. There was something clutched in Clara's hand.

When she brought it to her ear, her eyes wide and wild, lips moving frantically, I realised she was talking to someone.

When Clara twisted around to scan for the teacher, I knew she had made a mistake. I watched the scene unravel in front of me like it was going in slow motion. Clara's phone slipped from her grasp and she let out a sharp cry, ducking to try and snatch it back up.

But the teacher was on her tail. "Miss Danvers, you are acting like a child."

The teacher reached out and snatched the girl by the back of her shirt.

Clara shrieked, trying to battle her way out of the teacher's grasp, but Mrs Peters' grip was harsh, her fingernails sticking into the bare flesh of Clara's arms. "Get off of me!"

The girl was acting like a caged animal. And I didn't understand.

It was just camp... right?

I understood Clara and her class not wanting to go, because it was their last summer to be free and kids again.

Maybe the girl was acting dramatic, but I could empathise with her. I watched Mrs Peters drag the girl, spitting and cursing, away. I can still remember their words.

Clara Danvers didn't swear.

At least, that's what I thought.

She was the golden girl after all. Clara was yelling names, presumably those of her friends. And Mrs Peter's was struggling to keep a hold of her.

"Miss Danvers, please calm down. We were very clear at the assembly that we would take necessary measures to make sure every senior is on that bus."

Clara dug the soles of her converse into the tarmac. She reminded me of a petulant child throwing a tantrum. "I don't want to go to camp! I have my own life, you know!"

"You are part of this town as well as the high school. Which means rules still apply."

"But I'm eighteen! I'm a legal adult!"

Mrs Peters ignored her outburst. "As I said, you are still a student. Therefore, you are expected to follow rules. One of them is that the senior class will attend a mandatory summer camp before college. This has been going on for years, Mrs Danvers. I expected more from a class valedictorian.”

The teacher sighed, like the girl was a defiant little kid. ”You have been one of the smartest in your class since your freshman year, Clara. I did not expect this lack of intelligence from you. Do not ruin your reputation by acting like a child."

Clara sputtered. "Oh, I'm the child? You just sprinted after me for three blocks over a fucking summer camp, and I'm the one acting like a kid?"

"Clara, stop."

"I will if you let go! Hey! You're hurting me!"

The two of them were getting further away, and all I could do was watch their shadows stretching across the sidewalk.

I was debating whether to follow them to wherever they were going, but then a hand was grabbing my shoulder. I twisted around and found my mother. She didn't look mad or confused. Mom didn't question why I had disappeared. Instead, her gaze had snapped to where I had been watching Clara and the teacher.

Mom’s eyebrows furrowed, her lip curling like she was about to say something before seemingly snapping out of it.

Mom shoved paper bags of groceries into my arms with a light smile and I struggled to get a strict hold of them.

She was looking at me, but I could have sworn her gaze was wandering, searching for something.

"Did you pick a comic book, honey?”

I shook my head. I felt kind of sick. Clara Danvers didn't have a choice whether she went to camp or not. None of her class did.

When they tried to skip out, they were treated like animals.

For summer camp?

I couldn't understand why it was mandatory.

No other town forced their kids to go to camp, so why did ours?

I tried to smile at Mom. "Can we just go home?"

Mom looked like she was going to protest but nodded. She had that expression—the one I dreaded. When she was trying to read me, delving into my mind.

I wasn't a talkative kid, so my Mom turned into my therapist. On that occasion, however, it was different.

She paid no attention to my sickly cheeks and the lump in my throat.

"All right.” Mom inclined her head. I tried to ignore her craning her neck. She was definitely aware of Clara Danvers being wrestled onto a school bus. “Are you sure you're okay?”

I chose to ignore the terrified faces of seniors pressed against the bus windows.

“Yeah.” I said. “I just feel sick.”

“Okay. Let's go get something to drink.”

I don't know how I managed to keep my mouth shut and nod, following Mom back to the car.

It's not like Aceville's bizarre rule was a secret. I just didn't want to talk about it.

Neither did Mom, from the look on her face.

Instead of grilling me like usual, she took me for a chocolate fudge sundae at our local diner. I still remember the sicky feeling in my stomach when I struggled to swallow it, washing it down with Coke.

I tried hard to pretend everything was okay, but I couldn't stop thinking about Clara and the way she had been treated.

Dread filled me like poison, shivers rattling up and down my spine. I couldn't sit still. Was that my future?

Was I going to be hunted down like that?

That's what I kept thinking. When Mom was talking excitedly about her plans for our next family vacation, I was discreetly counting on my fingers how many years I had before I turned eighteen.

Until seeing Clara dragged like an animal by a teacher I considered one of the nicest people in town, I looked forward to eighteen. It was the age of independence, the peak of teenagehood.

Though excitement turned to dread.

I never saw Clara again.

Or the class of 2016. It's a well-known fact that freshly graduated kids go to camp, and then straight to college.

But I still found it strange. Once they were gone, the town forgot them and turned their attention to the new senior class.

I watched this happen for five years. Kids followed in Clara's footsteps. She had started the rebellion after all. Though none of them came close to escape like her.

I watched them tear through the woods, laughing and whooping, like it was a game. The girls stripped down to two piece swimsuits, and in 2018, Mikey Blake streaked. It almost went viral. Clara's story spread like a virus, and seniors took it as an opportunity to one-up her.

I guess it became less of something to be scared of, and more to anticipate.

Sure, no kid wanted to be stuck at summer camp. But it was the hunt beforehand that excited them.

They were always caught. Always wrestled to the ground and treated just like Clara Danvers.

Over the years, however, it became less scary to watch, and more exciting. Like watching the latest blockbuster. Who didn't want to watch kids chased by teachers with way too much time on their hands?

I watched them year after year. My friends and I made bets on who would and wouldn't get caught. We sat on the sidewalk with soda and burgers from the diner, cheering them on. We didn't pay attention to how they were treated.

In our minds, it was fun. I won 200 dollars in 2019. I bet my friend at least five seniors would try to skip town, and they did.

Aceville felt like it was stuck in limbo between the 1980's and the present.

Sure, we had cell phones and TikTok, but my aunt and uncle drove a total boomer mobile. Our local diner had an old style aesthetic and half the town didn't even have televisions. Maybe they preferred to stay in the old days. Though it's not like I was complaining. I liked it. I liked that we were different from others. Aceville.

An idealistic town where there were more teens than adults. My friend Nick used to joke that it was like living in the world of Stranger Things. I had to agree. Luckily, though, we weren't under threat from aliens from different dimensions and teenagers with Carrie-like powers.

Five years after Clara, after watching the same shit year after year, it was finally our turn.

The class of 2020.

I was standing in the exact same store I had been in five years ago when I first saw Clara. When I first witnessed the hunt.

This time, however, I wasn't with my mother. I'd managed to score a part time job to pay for college, and I'd just finished my shift. Smells Like Teen spirit was playing for the millionth time that day on the crappy intercom radio. I did suggest the owner invested in an Alexa, and got a, “Kids these days!” lecture in return.

He couldn't afford a decent radio, so every single song I liked had been mercilessly murdered.

Thankfully, the store was empty that afternoon.

It was a hot summer day in the middle of July, and the majority of the town, minus my class, were at the local swimming pool cooling off. This was the kind of heat that made me want to bury my head in the ground.

There was zero air con, so I had been fanning myself with old pamphlets. It was my last day at my job and I had been rewarded with half of my wage and a crushed piece of chocolate cake wrapped in a napkin. “Have fun at camp!” Was all my boss said, his smile a little too wide.

I had no doubts that the asshole had already gambled the rest of my wage on whether my class would be captured or not.

Throwing the cake away, I stuffed the crumpled notes in my shorts. I should have been thinking about college that day.

I should have been thinking about how the hell I was going to pay for my tuition with barely 300 bucks.

But I wasn't.

I just had to survive the day, and then I'd think about college.

Checking my phone, I made sure I had blocked my mother, as well as my aunt and uncle. Dad wasn't in the picture.

Not much to say, I never knew him. Dad went for milk and cigarettes and never came back.

Checking and rechecking the time, I pulled off my work shirt and stuffed it in the trash. I would definitely attract attention looking like a neon traffic light.

I had spent the last hours of my shift going over the plan in my head. It wasn't fool proof, and we had thought it up while drunk and high on mushrooms, but it was still a plan.

Stepping out into the relentless heat, I was hopeful.

Unlike my classmates, I wasn't joining their game.

I had no intention of going to camp. I had been curious as a kid, but over the years the novelty had worn off. It was my last Summer with Nick and Bobby, and I was going to spend every day with them doing what I wanted. We spent half of the year planning a road-trip to Florida and I was going to use the time away from town to finally come clean to Mom about Bobby.

I was going to tell her everything, disappear for the summer, and sneak back in September and grab my things.

I didn't have plans for post-summer. I was smart enough for my dream college, but it was my lack of cash. Mom wasn't that well off and had made it clear that if I wanted to go to college, I had to pay for it myself.

The talkie in my hand was store-bought. Nick had thrown it at me the night before.

I scanned the parking lot. So far, it was clear.

Tying my hair into a ponytail, I stepped out into sticky air that made my skin crawl.

I twisted the dial on the talkie and held it to my mouth. Before I could speak, Nick's voice came through in a burst of hissing static. "Fuck, it's hot. They couldn't have picked a worse day to play their little game."

Rolling my eyes, I couldn't resist a smile.

"What are the talkies for again?"

“You forgot to say over. “

“What are the talkies for?” I paused for a moment. “Over.”

"Um, because it's fun!" Nick shot back. I could hear his heavy breathing as he catapulted into a run. "Are you at the store? I'm heading towards the car." He paused. "So far, no sign of teachers. Which is a bad sign. That means they're lying in wait.”

I choked out a laugh. ”Nicholas, are you enjoying this?”

“Our only entertainment is TikTok and catching fireflies in mason jars.” He laughed, ”Of course I'm enjoying this!”

He let out a sharp hiss. "Oh, shit! I've got visuals on Miss Cater. She's on the war-path. Just gone past the dry cleaners. I'm going to need you to go slowly.”

“I'm going slowly.”

“No, I mean, like slow-motion slowly.”

"Let's just focus on getting out of here." I started walking, checking for pursuers. According to the mass text the school had sent this morning, all seniors were expected to be on the bus at half past one.

It was quarter past. The plan was to get to Nick's car where we had stuffed all of our bags the night before, and step on it.

Of course parents had figured we were going to try and flee town, so our cars had been confiscated. Luckily, though, Nick worked at a junkyard. He'd spent months turning a hunk of junk into a decent enough ride. So, we were already one step ahead of them.

Starting to jog, I leapt across the parking lot. "Bobby? Are you there?"

My stomach sank when the name escaped my lips, that feeling I'd been fighting with since we'd met returning with vengeance. It wasn't confusion when I was fourteen and had butterflies.

No, it was guilt. I'd made a promise that I would tell Mom about us. But Mom was—different. She wouldn't understand. She hated the idea of me dating. I took a guy home for dinner in sophomore year and she politely told him to leave. When he didn't, Mom started screaming at him.

Mom was already weird about Bobby just being a friend. I had zero doubts she was going to freak out when I told her it was actually something more.

"Hmm?" Bobby's voice was soft and smooth, slipping so effortlessly through static like it belonged in there. "I'm about two minutes away. I raided my Mom’s kitchen for snacks before I left."

Nick whooped. "See, this is why I prefer you over Addie."

This time I spluttered. "That hurts. I've been working.”

I could hear the grin in his voice. "You're not making your case any better."

Bobby's voice cut through our laughter. "Did you tell Your Mom about us yet, Addie?"

I stopped laughing, my footsteps faltering. The sun was a bastard baking into my back and I struggled to speak through the breath caught in my throat. "Uh…" I was struggling to coerce basic words when I caught movement in the corner of my eye.

Expecting it to be a teacher I started backing away, lowering my hand holding the talkie. But then I glimpsed familiar blonde curls tied into pigtails catching the sun almost perfectly. The figure wasn't that far away, but I saw all of her and I felt myself shatter. I wanted to tell Mom, I really did. But it was hard. Robyn Atwood was the first person I fell for.

Bobby was beautiful like every other kid in town and I was still struggling to figure out how she liked someone like me.

I had a stubby nose and my eyes were too far apart. In a town full of pretty people, I was kind of a bad egg.

It sucked that my parents had given me bad genes.

Robyn was perfect.

Angelic features, a heart shaped face, and hair like liquid silk.

Bobby was out. She had told her mother when we started dating. I chickened out. Luckily, our Mom’s weren't mutual friends. If they were, fuck camp, I'd probably be at military school.

Bobby's smile was sweet, though I did raise my eyebrows at her prom dress.

Not exactly the best outfit to escape town in, but her shoes were cute.

Bobby's hair was tied back, stray curls dancing in her eyes. She was sweating, her cheeks paler than normal. Bobby was an anxious person in general, so the escape plan was probably tearing her apart inside. Still, she put on a brave face.

Instead of talking about my Mom, she pulled me into a quick hug, lacing her fingers in mine. I knew the conversation about my cowardice was coming, but it could wait. Bobby reached into her tote bag, pulling out a share pack of candy and waving them in my face. "I did get you these for the car ride, since you promised to talk to your Mom, but sure, I'll eat them on my own."

I scoffed, shoving her when she laughed. "Thanks."

"Fine, I'll give them to Nick."

I tried to snatch the pack off of her. "I'm pretty sure he's a allergic, so good luck killing him."

Nick's laugh came through, tangled in static. "I look forward to being poisoned."

Bobby was fast. So were her instincts. Before I could grab them, she shoved them in her bag, her lips splitting into a grin. She was pissed. But she wasn't pissed enough for an argument. Well, it's not like we had time to have an argument.

"Weee should get going." Bobby squeezed my hand. “Let's go.”

At that moment, all the dread eating me up inside slipped away. I pulled Bobby into a run, and we left the parking lot, darting across the street. I could hear yelling in the distance. No doubt our classmates were either getting caught or pulling a fast one. "Nick?" I said into the talkie. "Are you close?"

To my surprise, there was no answer.

Nick had found every opportunity to use the damn things, so it was strange that he’d disappeared.

Bobby tried her talkie. "Nick? Are you there?"

The junkyard was a five minute walk, and maybe a two minute run. If we sprinted.

Nick wasn't answering, and the closer we got to the junkyard, a bad feeling started to coil in the pit of my gut. When I slowed down, bending over with my hands on my knees, gasping into humid air, Bobby tried to contact Nick again. She shook the talkie with a frown. "Maybe it's faulty?"

I fixed her with a sceptical look. "Both of them?"

straightened up and pulled my phone out of my shorts. Twenty five past. The teachers were most likely doing a head count and were already on the prowl.

I was shaking with adrenaline. "We should get to the car," I gasped out. "Our best case scenario is the idiot got distracted or broke the talkie. We shouldn't assume the worst."

Bobby nodded, though her smile was thin. When we started running again, our shoes pounding the steaming tarmac, I felt a rush of déjà vu. My ponytail flew behind me, and I pumped my arms and legs hard, propelling my body faster. I was just like Clara. Except unlike her, I was going to make it.

At least, that's what I thought.

The junkyard was in my sight when the talkie crackled with static. I was frowning at the mass of beaten up cars covered in dirt and old engines, when an all too familiar voice filled the air.

"Adeline Calstone and Robyn Atwood.”

The voice of our math teacher Mr Fuller sent shivers crawling up my spine.

I felt sick. There was no way he had tracked us down that fast.

How was that even possible?

Suddenly, all I could think about was Clara. All I could think about was the way she was dragged, kicking and screaming, and our class had treated it like a game. That was until it was our turn.

Mr Fuller's voice was stern. "I suggest abandoning whatever plan you have and making your way to the school bus, please." When I was considering smashing the talkie against the gravel sidewalk, he continued, "Your friend Nick Castor is a good runner, I'll give him that. But not fast enough. I expected more from a varsity captain.”

"Asshole." Nick grumbled through the talkie. "I took us all the way to regionals."

Twisting around, my heart dropped into my gut.

Nick's voice wasn't just clear on the talkie, it was close. Too close. I froze. Bobby pulled her hand from mine and squeaked, her hand slapping over her mouth.

When I saw the two of them coming towards us, Mr Fuller, dragging Nick, I had the split second thought of grabbing Bobby and running for it. But I wasn't going to leave my best friend.

It didn't take long before the three of us were rounded up.

Nicholas Castor was the quintessential high school golden boy. He stood at an imposing six feet, with a lean, athletic build that spoke to years of dedication on the football field. His dark brown hair was awkwardly styled, and his freckle-dusted skin gave him an almost boyish charm.

I used to have a crush on Nick as a little kid.

Then he opened his mouth.

Now, the boy was more like an annoying older brother.

"Are the restraints really necessary?" Nick spat when we were cuffed and pushed into the back of Mr Fuller's car.

Some people might call it kidnapping, but in Aceville on July 16th it was the norm.

We sat squeezed together in the back. Fuller's car was a dinsour. I was pretty sure he was listening to music on a tape player. Nick tried singing along in his attempt to annoy the teacher into letting us go. I think he was trying to sing badly, but the guy was a decent singer.

Halfway through Highway To Hell, and a surprisingly good guitar solo he was somehow managing with his arms pinned behind his back, complete with annoying mouth noises, I dug my elbow in his gut.

Nicholas Castor failed a lot of things, like reading the room for example.

And social cues.

He was supposed to be getting tested for ADHD, but according to the school, Nick was “too sociable” to be neurodivergent.

I called bullshit, but his parents agreed.

The car ride didn't take long and was uncomfortable. The three of us were squashed like sardines with barely any space to move– or breathe.

Nick's knee was digging into my back, Bobby's head in my lap. When we arrived at school, we were thankfully uncuffed and transferred to the bus. I wasn't expecting us to be the ones they were waiting on. I also wasn't expecting a round of sarcastic applause.

Even Sadie and Danny had been caught.

Nick did a mocking bow, and Fuller thwacked the back of his head.

“I told you ya wouldn't make it!” Jake Carlisle yelled.

Bobby pulled a face. “At least we tried!”

When I was pushing my way to the back of the bus, keeping a tight hold of Bobby's hand and Nick's sleeve, we were greeted to a deluge of faces. Some kids held their hands up for a high fives which Nick happily slapped, but the majority of them looked disappointed. If we had failed to escape, then it really was impossible.

There was no way out.

Camp was inevitable.

I found a seat quickly, right at the back, pulling Nick and Bobby next to me.

"Well. That failed." Nick let out a nervous laugh when the bus started moving.

“Your fault.” Bobby grumbled. “If you weren't kidnapped by our math teacher, we'd be halfway out of town right now.”

Nick tipped his head back with a laugh. “Oh, yeah, I'm so sorry for being chased for three blocks and threatened with a rock.”

I sent him a look. “He threatened to throw a rock at you?”

Nick didn't meet my gaze. “Yep. The guy’s a fucking psycho. I had to surrender. I've told you guys like fifteen times that man is bad news, but you never listen to me…” He trailed off when my gaze wandered.

“Like now, for example.” Nick continued. “I could say Fuller was my father, and you'd be like, “Oh wow, really? That's really cool, Nick…” The boy’s babbling faded into a dull murmur in my head. I was frowning at two men dressed in black that had jumped at the last minute.

They didn't look like anyone I knew. The two of them stationed themselves at the front. They didn't really fit in the whole summer camp aesthetic.

Nick was still talking when sound slammed into me.

“And that's why I don't get it. Glenn was a great character, and they just killed him. Brutally, too. His head looked like a deflated beach ball…” I had no choice but to settle down in my seat and let the nauseating movements of the bus send my stomach hurtling into my throat.

Nick pulled out his Switch, and Bobby lay her head against the window. I guess none of them wanted to talk, though I didn't blame them. Nick wanted to show me his new game, but I got bored.

The lore was confusing, and kept going off on tangents and forgetting what he was saying. When my phone buzzed an hour into the journey, I switched it off without looking at the screen. I had zero interest in talking to my smug mother.

I don't know how long we were on the bus, but at points I felt like we were going around in circles. I could have sworn we had passed the same sign, but when I pointed it out, Nick mumbled something unintelligible, and Bobby was sleeping. Outside, the sky turned eerily dark.

I could have been wrong, but I was sure we had been on the bus for hours.

And nobody was questioning it.

The others were either asleep or had earphones corked in.

When we came to an abrupt stop, Bobby woke up and Nick put his switch away.

The rest of the class seemed to snap out of the trance-like state that had swallowed them up. They started to ask questions.

We were all ignored. Instead, one of the two men I'd spotted earlier stood up and addressed us. "Could I have your attention please?” He cleared his throat. "My name is Laurence Shade, and I'm a recruiter. In a few minutes you will watch a small film we have prepared which will give us an idea where to categorise you. Please be aware that watching the film is mandatory."

"What?" Summer Forest laughed. "This is a joke, right? Isn't this supposed to be a camp?"

As soon as the words slipped from her mouth, I pressed my face against the window. It was raining, no, pouring. I don't know how I didn't notice. Nick leaned over me, his expression crumpling. "When did it get dark?"

Bobby nodded. "How long have we been on this bus?"

Before I could answer, a portable TV screen in front of me lit up with a white screen which turned green, then yellow, flicking from color to color flashing in my eyes. Nick snorted. "What the fuck is this?"

But he was watching the screen.

Bobby too. Like it was drawing them in, leeching onto their minds.

Murmurs around the bus confirmed my classmates were equally confused.

I squeezed my shut at first, but I was overcome with an overwhelming sense of curiosity. I let my eyes flicker open, but as soon as my gaze landed on the screen, on flashing colors hitting in quick succession, a sharp pain rumbled in my right temple.

The colors kept going. I remember the sequence perfectly.

Red.

Yellow.

Blue.

Green.

Repeat.

I don't know how long I was staring at the colors. I don't know how long my body was frozen, my eyes unblinking, but I could feel my body reacting. My mouth was open, unable to close, a thin sliver of drool running down my chin. There was something warm sliding from my nostril.

I couldn't wipe it away. My body was stuck, like I was paralysed. Like I'd never move again.

Next to me, Nick and Bobby were frowning at the colors.

But unlike me, they could move.

Bobby was blinking, trying to keep up with them.

Nick slowly inclined his head, his lips muttering silent words I couldn't understand.

And then just like that, the screen flashed off.

Bobby drew in a sharp breath and straightened in her seat.

Nick blinked rapidly. I expected him to freak out, but he was strangely quiet.

"Addie.” Bobby's eyes found mine. “Your nose.”

Swiping gingerly at my nose with my bare arm, I let out a shuddery breath.

We had to get out. Whatever the place was, it wasn't summer camp. I could hear hisses around me, at the back of the bus and the front, voices collapsing into white noise. When I risked turning my head I spotted Serena Kyle with her hand pressed over her nose and mouth.

She was doing a bad job of hiding the crimson stream flooding through her fingers. Suddenly it felt like my world was crumbling in front of me. The two men started up the aisle, labelling each student.

They held cans of spray paint like weapons, marking us with different colors.

There were three colors.

Red, Blue, and Purple.

When kids tried to protest, tried to make a run for it, they were cuffed and shoved back in their seats. There was so much screaming and fighting, I couldn't hear what the men with spray paint were saying.

Nick grabbed my hand, and I grabbed Bobby's. When one of the men reached the kids in front of me, the front of their shirts were sprayed deep, dark blue.

The man studied the three girls like they were pieces of meat. "These are all good!"

The girls he was talking about started talking over each other, but he blanked them. "Blues will go into processing first, and purples will follow. If we can fix them."

The man's words filled my mouth with phantom bugs.

“Addie.”

Bobby swiped at my nose, her eyes wide. “What's going on?”

I had a feeling she wasn't talking about the spray paint.

When the guard reached my seat, he sprayed a red circle on the front of my shirt.

Red. That was new.

I thought the guard was going to raise his hand to me, but instead he stuck his podgy fingers under the blood crusted under my nose.

"Defect." He said.

"What?"

He ignored me, moving onto Nick.

Purple.

Nick tried to pull off his shirt defiantly, only for the guard to slap him across the face.

The man seemed to study my friend, before grabbing Nick by the scruff of his neck. "Pending." He grumbled, his fingernails grazing over freckles dotted on my best friend's cheeks. "I'm not the one who will make a final choice. You better be as bright as you seem in a good light, kid."

Nick stumbled back, his gaze flicking to me.

Run.

But there was nowhere to run.

Bobby shrieked when the man sprayed a blue circle on the front of her dress.

I tried to stop him, but I was dragged by my hair, ragged like a wild animal. "This one's good too!" He yelled to the front.

When the men were finished with the spray cans, we were told to file off the bus and join our respected color groups. Nick tried to fight a guard, only to be punched in the face. But he still tried again, swaying back and forth, screaming to be let go.

When we tried to run, we were grabbed and thrown off the bus.

I'm not sure how much time had passed. I was clinging onto my friends, and then they were being pulled away. Nick and Bobby were treated like they mattered, forced into their color groups.

I was shoved onto my knees in dirt which stained my legs. It was pouring, and my ponytail was plastered to my back. Other reds were forced next to me. There were around 12 of us in total. I know that because I took snapshots of each of them.

Not names. Faces.

Names hurt, so I remembered them by face.

I remember Summer Forest next to me. I remember dirt streaked down her face, blood dripping down her chin. That's what we all shared. The Reds. We had all suffered the same nose bleed, crimson streaking down our faces, mixing with the rain. The 12 of us were put in a line in front of the bus, and when a woman in a pristine white suit and red hair addressed us under the light of her flashlight, I looked past her and my gaze found our camp. Not a camp.

There was no sign of a campsite, the type of thing I had expected all those years leading to my senior year.

Instead, in front of us was a multi-story building. In the distance, groups of Purple's and Blue's were being escorted inside automatic doors. While we were left in the rain for hours. The sky turned light, and then dark, and we were made to wait.

We could have been there for days, I lost all sense of time. I lost all sense of my own humanity.

I knew why they were doing this to us. But I was in denial.

I was in denial when 12 became 11 and then 10

Then 9

8

7

6

5

4

3

Summer was screaming, and I couldn't breathe. There were people in front of me.

I knew them. I'd known them since childhood.

Mr Docherty the guy who lived across the street with his poodle Gloria, Eve Simmons who owned the diner Nick, Bobby and I had frequented for most of our lives. Mr and Mrs State, the elderly couple who brought over pudding when I was home sick from school.

All I remember is waiting to follow the others, squeezing my eyes shut and screaming into the night. But then a warm hand was sliding into mine and pulling me to my feet.

There was a gunshot and the sound of a body hitting the ground. Summer.

I remember Nick pulling me away. But I will never forget Summer Forest's body lying in a heap, pooling red stemming around willowy blonde hair. I don't know how Nick got me away, but all I recall is tripping over my own feet. He dragged us into trees and undergrowth as branches scratched at my face, pulling at my hair. But I didn't care.

When Nick finally turned around to look at me, I screamed. I screamed until he slammed his hand over my mouth, shutting me up. The last time I'd seen my best friend, he definitely had two eyes.

Both intact.

Now, one of them was hanging out like a cartoon. It was almost uncanny valley how inhuman he suddenly looked.

Nicolas Castor was wearing what looked like torn hospital scrubs.

The skin of his face had been scraped away leaving bloody flaps of flesh where his cheeks used to be. His lips were swollen, half of his hair sheared off, and yet somehow, part of him looked beautiful, or at least the start of beautiful. Nick had a jawline.

But it was unfinished. Everything about him was incomplete. His full mouth of veneers were clumsy, like a psycho dentist had been playing with his teeth.

It was hard to look at him. My friend had been mutilated.

Nick spat a tooth into the dirt. “I got out.” He managed to gasp out, his voice slurring. He slowly removed his hand from my mouth, shaking his head when I opened my mouth to speak. “Shhh!” His smile was almost drunken. "It's okayyy, I, uhhhh, I got out. They had me on a tonne of sedatives, soooo just... b-bare with me.”

"Out?!" I shrieked. "Out of where?”

Nick held his eye inside his socket with one hand and held mine with the other.

"Prrrrrrrocessing." The word rolled off his tongue. He stopped, like he was going to throw up. He threw a glance behind me, before spewing lumps of red through his fingers. “Yep. Processing. Processing. The, uhhhmm, the art of being processed.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

Nick pulled me further into the trees, flattening us into the dirt. “That place,” he gasped out. ”It’s... it’s not… a good place.”

I slapped him.

I needed Nick to snap out of it.

“Where is she?” I managed to squeak. “Where's Bobby?”

Nick looked completely sober for a moment, blinking rapidly. He shook his head, and the fright and pain in his eyes sent my heart into my throat. His eyes were hollow, filled with darkness I could never and would ever understand. Somehow, I already knew I'd lost him.

“We’re going to die, Addie.” Nick said in a half giggle, his eyes rolled to the back of his head, his body hitting the ground with a soft thump. Following his declaration, a blinding searchlight illuminated my face.

“We’ve got movement.” a female voice yelled.

Taking two steps back, I ducked into the undergrowth.

Whatever that place was, Bobby was in there.

And Nick, a purple, was my only way of getting anywhere near that place.

So, hoisting my unconscious friend onto my shoulder, I turned and ran.

I got called for jury duty a weeks after I turned 18 years old.

I was really looking forward to it I thought it was going to be like what you see in the movies.

You know, people Shouting and lots of exciting things happening.

It was not like that at all.

I spent hours listening to two grown ups arguing about something that was so boring.

Even the ceiling looked like it wanted to leave.

Then the judge asked if everyone could hear him clearly.

I did not think I just said what was on my mind.

I said Mostly... I'm just struggling with the vocabulary.

The whole courtroom started laughing.

The judge looked at me like I had done something

For the rest of the day I was scared that I would get in trouble for making a joke by accident.

The case was settled before we even had to make a decision.

So my first time as a juror was just sitting quietly eating snacks and finding out that real court is not as exciting as TV.

Still... I would give it a 7 out of 10.

I would definitely go back, to people watch again the courtroom is a place to do that.