Where the Locket Breaks

The lights slice through the club like knives, searing my eyes with every pulse of color. Red. Blue. White. Back to red again. Each one hits like a slap—sharp, disorienting, unforgiving. Every thud of bass, every shriek of excitement, makes me flinch. It’s too loud. Too bright. The kind of chaos that presses against the skull like a vice, relentless and throbbing. A headache dances behind my eyes, but I stay frozen in place, suspended above the madness like a ghost who never really belonged. I didn’t want to be here tonight. But it’s Emily’s birthday. And Emily wanted to dance. So I said yes. I put on the satin top she liked, shrugged into the black blazer I hate, and followed her into the storm because that’s what you do when you love someone who shines brighter than the world around her. You let yourself burn a little just to be near them. I lean against the velvet rail of the upstairs balcony, half in shadow, the neckline of my top digging into my collarbone. Sweat clings to my skin like a second, unwanted layer. The club reeks of perfume, spilled cocktails, and overheated bodies—a humid, heavy perfume of human excess. Down below, the crowd moves in waves, a thousand strangers tethered to rhythm, grinding, swaying, laughing like gods with no memory of consequence. My blazer sticks to my back, stifling. The black curtains behind me breathe in time with the press of moving bodies. Shadows flit through them—half glimpses of strangers lost in the blur of strobe light and bass. Gold-draped tables glitter under colored lights, their surfaces littered with half-empty glasses and the chaos of indulgence. Vodka glows ghost-white. Wine seeps ruby. Bourbon flickers like firelight. I raise my own drink—a short glass, half-melted ice, bourbon sloshing—and toss it back. It burns the whole way down. But I need it. I need something sharp to remind me I’m still in my body, still here. Across the main floor, I spot her. Emily. She’s a blur of color and joy—red dress, black stockings, long legs and longer hair, laughter curling from her lips like smoke. She spins, head tilted back, arms thrown wide like she’s daring the world to disappoint her. Her dress clings to her like the night itself. She glows. God, I love that smile. She doesn’t see me watching. She never did. Emily always needed the heat of the spotlight, and I—I was the shadow behind the curtain. Arms crossed. Eyes scanning exits. Always on edge, always listening for the thing no one else could hear. The bad feeling. The shift. The wrong note in the song. And then—there it is. A ripple in the current. A group of men, dark silhouettes, push through the crowd like wolves in a herd of sheep. Too fast. Too clean. No smiles. No dancing. Eyes fixed. Movements honed. They don’t belong. The air changes—like static crawling across skin before lightning strikes. Laughter falters. A girl yelps, offbeat. A drink spills, forgotten. Voices rise—sharp, cracking the illusion of revelry. It’s not a bar fight. It’s something worse. I move. I don’t think—just move. Down the red-carpeted stairs two at a time, my breath catching, my shoes slamming hard against each step. The walls lean in, pulsing with the throb of music that now feels sinister, warped, the beat of something dying. Faces blur as I push through them. Security is too slow, caught in disbelief. No one expects this—not here, not now. Not on a birthday. And then— Screams. One. Then another. Glass shatters. A bottle? A light? A body hits the floor with a sound that feels wrong—wet, heavy, final. I shove past a couple frozen in fear, their mouths open but useless. “Emily!” I scream, voice raw, cracking. But it’s swallowed by the pounding music, the chaos. I look everywhere. Red dress. Red dress. Red dress. There. There she is. Crimson fabric like a dropped flower. Pale limbs folded wrong. Her hair fanned across the sticky floor, like spilled ink. No. No, no—no. I drop to my knees, the floor cold and smeared with something slick. People run past me, trampling everything in their path, but I only see her. Tasha, her best friend, lies a few feet away—blood blooming beneath her, her silver heels useless. Her hand twitches once. Then nothing. I don’t even scream. I can’t. My throat clamps shut. Emily. I roll her toward me, cradling her like that could fix it. Like I could hold her together with my hands. Her dress is torn. Her chest soaked in red. So much blood. Her lips are parted, her eyes wide and unseeing, fixed on some point far beyond me. “Em—please, baby, wake up—” My voice breaks like dry leaves. “Please, please, not like this—” My fingers cup her cheek. Her skin is already too cool. And then I see it. The handle. Dark. Jagged. Buried in her chest like an accusation. A knife. I reach for it—God, why did I do that?—and yank it free. Maybe some part of me thought it would help. That she’d gasp. That time would rewind. But it doesn’t. A rush of blood follows. Her body sags deeper into mine. She’s gone. The blade glints in the chaotic light. A simple thing. Cold. Unfeeling. But there, etched into the slick steel— A broken locket. What the hell does that mean? I stare. My mind spins, dizzy and fragmented. I know that shape. Somewhere. A memory I can’t touch yet. A sound tears through my head. Not real. A ring, high and shrill, like metal shearing through glass. I gasp— And sit bolt upright. My room is dark. Too dark. The hum of the city murmurs beyond the windows. My skin is damp with sweat. My breath comes in shallow, frantic gulps. The sheets are tangled around me like a straitjacket. Only a dream. Only a dream. But the weight of her is still in my arms. The blood. The panic. Her smile. That damn knife. My hands are trembling. I rub my face. Try to breathe. But it sticks in my throat like glass. The broken locket. It wasn’t just a nightmare. Because I’ve seen that symbol before. And whoever left it—killed her on purpose. They wanted me to find it. They wanted me to know. And now I do. I lie back down, staring at the ceiling, haunted by a truth that won’t let me sleep. She’s gone. But I’m not. And I’m going to find out why. Even if it kills me.