Born to burn

10. HIGH SCHOOL HELL. _______________________

PHOENIX POV

•

Silverton High, Monday.

•

Alright. Little recap of my morning? Walked from Fez’s place. Got p.unched in the face by Gregory. Again. Didn’t cry. Didn’t scream. Did I sleep? f***k no. I climbed out the window instead. Sitting on the f.ucking roof for two hours with a split lip and a blooming bruise on my cheekbone. Watched the sun crawl out of the sky. Still h.igh… At 7:19 a.m., I said f***k it. Changed into what I could find. White graphic tee. Oversized, borrowed-s***h-stolen. Probably from Donovan. It still smells like him. Wide-leg jeans. Worn in. High-waisted. Not baggy enough to erase what’s underneath. My a.ss? Still very round and very much present. Thighs? Thick, strong, and impossible to hide, even under denim that tries. And my chest? Well. Let’s just say this shirt? Not made for girls with this much f.ucking weight up top, but my very full C’s are firm and I love them, so that's not the issue here. I love my curvy body just the way it is, but the problem here? I’ve got the kind of body that doesn’t disappear. Even when I try. So, that's that. White sneakers. Scuffed. Cheap. One sole’s trying to peel off, but they’re still moving. Like me. And my backpack… Old. Faded black. Denim-washed and fraying at the seams. Didn’t bother with makeup. No point. The bruise is already claiming its territory across my cheek, and the lip? Split open. It both beautifully accompanied the two black eyes I have, so it's great. I didn’t look in the mirror. Why? Also, I couldn’t. Not with the swelling. Anyway, I know how I look. Like a girl who survived something. Like a girl who might not make it the next time.

•

The walk to school is only twenty minutes, and every one of them tastes like blood and last night's bad decisions. Silence is crawling up my spine like a second skin. My jaw aches. My ribs burn. This is what I’m walking into school with. I’m not here to blend in. I’m here to survive for long enough to run away and never come back... The streets here are clean. Too clean. Like the kind of clean that covers something up, you know? But I know better. Silverton’s just like everywhere else… right? Anyway, as I reach the school gates, just one beat. One breath. And then I step through. Welcome to the f.ucking jungle. High school. Well, f***k. It smells like bleach and testosterone. Fake lavender cleaner, stale hormones, and that undercurrent of something feral.

•

They handed me my schedule. A map of the school. A school P.E. outfit, whatever the f***k that is… and a stack of books I’ll probably end up using to beat back some entitled p.rick before I ever open one. Advanced Lit. Psych 2.0. Two electives in "creative expression" because, if you’ve got enough unresolved trauma and a paintbrush, you’re suddenly a f.ucking artist. Cute, right? Like if I just sketch a few watercolour trees, I’ll forget I usually climb out of windows to survive. The lady at the front desk smiled with that tight, practised kind of smile. Her eyes flicked to the bruises, then dropped like she hadn’t seen anything. Everyone else? They didn’t even try to hide it. Teachers, students, the office guy stapling paper… they all glanced, stared and turned away. Like my face was too loud, but not surprising. No one said a word. Just kept smiling through their teeth. Staged and fake. It makes me sick, but then again…no one would or could do anything about it, so I get it. It's a typical f.ucking torture structure. A f.ucking test. So… what else can you do than pretend? I pretend to care. Pretend I belong. They pretend they don't see s.hit and everyone is "happy". Please, stay calm. Don't stand out too much. Say "thank you", smile, nod when you’re spoken to, make yourself special, yet very forgettable… and maybe it will work after all. Anyway, that's something you get better at as you grow up.

•

Silverton High. They call this place a school? No f.ucking way. I call it the mental Olympics. They’re big on recreation here. Why? They probably want you tired. Enough not to riot, or ask questions you aren't ready to get the answers to. Art classes. Therapy hours. Something about "self-discovery" and "healing through movement." The idea being, if they keep you distracted, you’ll forget you’re angry. If you colour enough f.ucking sunflowers, maybe you won’t set something on fire. Nice try. I guess someone somewhere thinks if they make you draw enough, or run enough? You’ll forget you want to kill yourself. Me? I’m not playing their game, but… every step I take through these halls feels like someone’s already holding the match. I feel the eyes. Not the curious kind. The calculating kind. The ones that strip you down without touching, but I won't flinch. I didn’t come here to make friends. I came here because I didn’t have a f.ucking choice. I didn’t come here for them. This school is just another battlefield. Same rules. Same lies. Different zip code. And I know how this game works. They think they can weigh me. Judge me. Break me. But I’m not something you measure. Cause this place? It’s just another performance. Another illusion of safety with too many exits and too few truths told. Everyone looks like a f.ucking headache waiting to happen. And if today’s the start? Good. Let’s f.ucking begin…

•

I don’t see them coming. One second, I’m walking. Floating halfway in my head, teeth clenched against the throb in my ribs, mapping the hallways with quiet contempt and having a full-blown monologue with myself, the next? Bam. Shoulder. Bam. Chest wall. I’m slammed back so hard I hit the f.ucking floor. Books scatter. My schedule skids. My elbow crushes and someone swears… Was that me? My breath catches sharply in my throat as I blink and see two shadows. Towering. Unbothered. And then I’m looking up into two pairs of black obsidian eyes I’ve never seen but somehow already f.ucking hate. They don’t speak. Just stand there, staring down at me as I offended them somehow. So, I blink again to straighten my vision and see them clearly now. The one on the left…dark, sharp, bored. Hair dark, longer on the front and messily fallen on his forehead like he just got out of bed. He’s got a hoodie half-zipped over a tank, silver chain glinting against his throat, jaw flexed like he’s fighting the urge to smirk. The other one’s aura is darker. Meaner in the way he holds still, it's quite intimidating. Platinum buzz hair. Blank stare. Black t-shirt. Arms inked and crossed, like I’m not even worth a blink. Their faces are the same, their eyes too and yet different…f.ucking twins? Evil and hot ones at that…I scramble up, jaw clenched, ignoring the sting in my spine.

„Excuse you.” I snap, brushing my jeans off with a hand that won’t stop shaking. My voice doesn’t crack. That’s a win. They don’t say a word. And just when I’m about to lose my f.ucking mind?

„Oops.” A sugary voice slices the air behind them.

„Did we get a new stray or something?” I turn. Two girls strut up behind the twins like they own the f.ucking school. Long legs, fake lashes, too much gloss.

„I haven’t seen her before…” One of them hums, eyes dragging over me.

„Is she… lost?”

„Gods, look at her face.” The other croons, eyes gleaming with fake pity.

„Is that makeup or just bruises and poverty?” They giggle, wide-eyed and cruel. Just outstanding…

„And those eyes? Is that, like, a disease or just… unfortunate genetics?” The other one mocks me.

„I mean, those shoes? That shirt? What is she, Goodwill chic?” They're taking turns with the insults. They both laugh. High. Loud. Performed. Theatrical cruelty at its finest.

„And those eyes? Seriously, is that, like, a condition?” The first one snickers, tilting her head.

„Or just her way of begging for attention?” My jaw locks. I don’t answer. Because I’ve been called worse.

„And what's with the hair? Did you run out of colour or something?” A high-pitched voice cuts through the hallway.

„Oh my gods, did someone order a charity case?” One girl laughs, the kind of laugh meant to be heard.

„She looks like she got dressed in a gas station parking lot.” Another one joins in, flicking her shiny hair over one shoulder like it’s a weapon.

„No, seriously. What even is that shirt? Did she steal it off a corpse or crawl out of a dumpster?” I stay standing, still breathless and they circle like it’s funny.

„I mean… is that supposed to be quirky or just sad?” The second girl snorts.

„Pick one colour, babe.” They laugh again. Plastic. Loud. For attention. Like they need to be seen being cruel so no one ever tries it on them. Classic. I don’t give them s.hit. Because if I do, I won’t stop. I know exactly how much damage I can do when I snap and that's really not the way I want to start my first day in this s.hit hole… The two boys? The ones who knocked me down? They watch. Staring at me like I’m something crawling out of the dark they didn’t expect. They look at me like I’m a question they didn’t mean to ask. Like something about me doesn’t add up, and they don’t know if it’s bothering them or not, but it is. And then, just like that, they turn and walk away. No apology. No smirk. No hand out f.ucking anything… just gone. The girls follow a second later, still tossing insults over their shoulders, still proud of themselves. And me? I just sit there for another breath. Swallowing it all down. Like always. Like f.ucking always.

•

Third Period. Advanced English Literature.

•

The classroom smells like old books and sweat on top of something old and rotting. Fitting. Every desk is full except one, and I can feel the eyes crawling over me before I even cross the threshold. I don’t flinch. Don’t slow. The teacher? Mr Halbridge, already halfway through some dry monologue about Milton and the fall of Lucifer, pauses mid-sentence.

„Oh… uh. New student. Welcome. You must be…” He says with a half-choked voice.

„Phoenix Blackwood.” I don’t give him more. No smile. No nod. No softness. He blinks, probably deciding whether it’s worth it to ask questions or not. Then he clears his throat and smiles. Smart.

„Right. Seat in the back. Next to… Victor.” I haven’t even seen him yet, but I feel it. That weight in the room. It's one of the twins from the hallway. Victor… Buzzed blond hair. Broad shoulders. Cold stare. The boy who sat alone, like he wasn’t part of the room. He doesn’t turn when I walk toward him. Just watches from the corner of his eye. Arms folded, one boot kicked out lazily under the desk. What a d.ick… I think to myself as I drop into the seat beside him like I didn’t feel the shift in the air. Then, I smelled it. It was weak, but I tensed in a way I couldn’t even describe to myself. Weird… Black pepper and cedarwood. Not cologne. It was him.

Sharp. Clean. Wild. It hit the back of my throat and stayed there, thick and uninvited. My chest tightened. Not in fear. Not exactly. It was something else… what the f***k is wrong with me? Or with this place…

•

Five minutes passed. Maybe more. Mr Halbridge blabbed on. Books rustled. Pens scratched paper. And I was feeling more and more uneasy with each minute. Palms sweaty. Thighs trembling. Then…

„Stand up.” He barked, and yet his voice wasn’t loud. Everything stopped. Froze mid-breath. Mr

„Excuse me?” Halbridge blinked. He didn’t look at him. He looked at me. But I was calmly looking forward.

„I said stand up.” He repeated, flat and final. Who the f***k does he think he is?! I didn’t move. Not right away. The silence went thick around us.

„I don’t think…” Mr Halbridge tried again.

„It’s rude.” He said, eyes still locked on me.

„To join a room without properly introducing yourself.” Every pair of eyes snapped to me now. I stared straight, but my jaw clenched, fingers curled into my notebook and my pulse thudded against my ribs. Steady. Pissed. So, still not looking at him, I stood. Not because he told me to, but cause I wanted him to know I wasn’t afraid. As I stood, I finally turned to him.

„My name is Phoenix Fay Blackwood.” I said flatly staring him right in the eye.

„I just moved here from South Seattle. Rainier, if you know it. If you don’t, don’t bother.” I said with a grin and didn't even blink as his black eyes drank my soul. Or at least that's how it felt.

„Just imagine another s.hithole with more liquor stores than libraries, more cops than kindness, and a whole lot of people pretending to be asleep while everything burns.” I didn’t pause.

„I don’t like talking. I don’t like people. I’m only here because court-mandated education is apparently still a thing and truancy officers start twitching when you disappear for more than a week.” Someone near the window shifted.

„I don’t do group work. I don’t do small talk. I don’t do spirit week or morning announcements. And if someone hands me a flyer for a club, I will eat it in front of them just to prove a point.” Another chair squeaked. Another breath held.

„I’m not here to make friends. I’m not here to be fixed. I’m not here to be your charity case or your next gossip headline. So do yourself a favour, keep your curiosity to yourself.” Finally, I blinked, but just to steady myself even more.

„And you, ghost boy?” I added, just loud enough.

„Next time you want to hear me speak, try asking instead of barking.” I let it hang. Then I sat.

„You can sit the f***k down now, thank you… Phoenix.” I mockingly added. His lips twitched. Almost a smile. Almost. But not quite. Then he leaned back, slowly, chair creaking under his weight, and looked away like I wasn’t worth holding onto. Like I’d passed a test and still somehow failed. Mr Halbridge cleared his throat. A few students shifted. No one said anything.

•

After that? Normal f.ucking day at school. You know. Notes. Side-eyes. Passive-aggressive whispering. Everyone is pretending not to look while absolutely looking. Except… there was something else too. Something I couldn’t shake. Like heat on the back of my neck when no one was there. Like my skin tightening for no f.ucking reason. Like being watched. Not just looked at, but f.ucking studied. Weird, I know. You know that feeling you get when someone’s standing behind you but they’re not breathing? Yeah. That. Maybe I’m just paranoid. Classic trauma girl, right? Hallucinating danger. Yeah, maybe I’m spiralling. Maybe I’m finally losing it. One step closer to the padded room. Honestly? Not even mad about it. Nice people. Five meals a day. Clean white beds. Prescription drugs without the guilt. No Gregory. No school. No mirrors. Just sign me the f***k in, please. I’ll take the straitjacket in black. Match it to my soul. They’ll say I’m unstable. They’ll say I’m seeing things. Feeling things that aren’t real. But something is real. I know it. I f.ucking know it. Something’s watching me. And whatever it is? It doesn’t blink. It f.ucking waits for me to crack…