Chapter 4 – The First Cut
1069 Words
The dorm walls felt smaller with every breath. Even the air seemed poisoned, heavy with
whispers that didn’t stop, even when the halls went quiet. By morning, I couldn’t take it.
I shoved a hoodie over my head, shoved my phone deep in my pocket, and walked. No
destination — just away. My feet carried me past lecture halls, past coffee carts, down streets
where no one looked me in the eye.
The flower stall stopped me. The air was thick with the damp sweetness of lilies, and my hand
moved before my head could stop it. Lilies. My mum’s favorite.
The vendor wrapped them in brown paper, rough against my fingers. I carried them like armor,
pressed to my chest.
The cemetery lay on the edge of town, quiet and wind-swept. The gates creaked as I pushed
through, gravel crunching under my shoes. Rows of stone stretched out, but my body already
knew where to go.
Her stone was simple. Elena Morgan. Beloved wife. Cherished mother.
I knelt, knees damp from grass, and set the lilies gently on the earth. For a while, I just stared.
My throat locked tight, my chest ached, and nothing came out.
Then the memory flooded in.
Her fingers combing through my hair, smoothing strands back with lavender-scented lotion. I
was small, legs swinging off her bed, staring at her in the mirror while she braided.
“You’re so beautiful, Bri,” she said, smiling that smile that always made me believe her.
“Beautiful in and out. Don’t ever let anyone make you forget that.”
The memory cracked something in me. My lips trembled, but a smile — small, broken — tugged
anyway.
“I miss you, Mum,” I whispered. “So much. I love you.”
My fingers traced her name on the stone. The granite was cold, unyielding.
Movement caught my eye. A figure, tall and hooded, far down the row. Still. Watching.
My breath hitched. “Malik?”
I blinked. Empty. Just graves.
A dry laugh scraped my throat. “What is wrong with me? Seeing things now. Maybe I just need
food.”
Still, I pressed my palm to the stone one last time. “I love you,” I whispered, softer, like a child.
Then I rose, pulling the hood low, and left.
The bus ride back rattled my bones. I pressed against the window, trying to make myself small.
My reflection in the glass looked hollow-eyed, ghostlike.
Two seats ahead, a girl’s phone lit up. My picture. The one. She snickered, showing her friend.
Heat burned under my skin, shame crawling like insects.
The driver called out stops in a bored voice. A baby cried in the back. The world went on, cruelly
normal, while mine tilted.
My phone buzzed.
Malik: 12pm. Same place.
I swallowed hard. Noon. Not midnight. No shadows to hide in.
The library at midday looked ordinary to everyone else — sunlight slanting across tables, dust
turning to glitter. But as I walked down the aisle toward the farthest corner, every step sounded
too loud, like I was walking into a trap.
He was already there. Hoodie up, slouched in a chair like he owned the silence.
“Still want revenge?” His voice slid across the space, smooth, mocking. “Or was that just a
midnight fantasy?”
The words stung, but I forced my chin up. “I said yes.”
His mouth curved. He rose, slow, deliberate, circling me with the patience of a predator.
“Good. Then here’s the deal, angel. You’re going to post. Not just admit what Jade’s saying —
own it. Twist it until they choke on it.”
My stomach dropped. “You want me to humiliate myself?”
His laugh was soft, cruel. “No. I want you to make shame your weapon. Shame only works if
you’re afraid of it. You take that away, and they’ve got nothing left.”
“You’re just like them.” My voice shook, but louder than I meant. “You want to watch me burn.”
He stopped, close enough for the scent of soap and cigarettes to brush against me. His shadow
swallowed mine. He bent just enough to meet my eyes under the hood.
“No, angel. I want to watch you rise from the fire. But first…” His smile cut, sharp as broken
glass. “…you’ll have to burn.”
Something in me wavered, broke. I turned on my heel, storming out, anger choking me.
Then my phone buzzed.
Another post.
My heart lurched.
This time, a video. Me, months ago, laughing on Jade’s livestream. The edit twisted it, clipped it
until it looked like I was begging for Luke. Subtitles mocked: I’d do anything for him. I threw
myself at him.
The comments clawed at me:
“Pathetic.”
“Thirsty much?”
“Morgan’s daughter? More like Morgan’s shame.”
My chest caved. My ears roared.
I staggered back inside, legs weak. Malik was by the exit now, hands in his pockets, like he’d
been about to leave.
“Wait,” I rasped. He turned, one brow lifting.
“Tell me what I have to post.”
The smirk spread slow and dangerous. “Already written.” He tapped his pocket. “All that’s left is
your finger. If you can’t push it, you don’t deserve revenge.”
He pulled out his phone, and within seconds, the draft appeared in my inbox. My hands shook as
I opened it.
All I wanted was love. And if you call that desperate, then fine. I’d rather be desperate than fake.
Although I regret ever loving Luke.
It was a confession. It was a dagger. A suicide note dressed as a post.
I stared at the words, bile rising. My thumb hovered over the button.
A sound slipped out of me — not quite a sob, not quite a laugh. Something fractured.
“What… what will happen if I post?” I whispered.
His hand rose, slow, deliberate. His fingers brushed my cheek, too gentle for the cruelty in his
smile. My breath caught, every nerve sparking under a touch I didn’t understand.
He tilted my chin, forcing my eyes up to his. His grin was sharp enough to cut.
“Then?” His voice dropped low, velvet laced with razors. “Then we wait for the fire to catch.”
- Writer
