Born to burn

10. HIGH SCHOOL HELL. _______________________

PHOENIX POV

•

Silverton High, Monday.

•

Alright. Little recap of my morning? Let’s f.ucking go. Walked from Fez’s place. Got p.unched in the face by Gregory. Again. Didn’t cry. Didn’t scream. Just tasted blood, wiped it off, and kept moving. Did I sleep? F.uck no. I climbed out the window instead. Sitting on the f.ucking roof for two hours with a split lip, a blooming bruise on my cheekbone, and a hoodie pulled tight like armour. Watched the sun crawl out of the sky like it was late to a crime scene. Still h.igh. Still hurting. Still here. At 7:19 a.m., I said f.uck it. Back through the window. Changed into what I could find without waking the beast downstairs. White graphic tee. Oversized, borrowed-s.lash-stolen, no one’s sure from whom. Probably Donovan. It still smells like him, which is better than smelling like home. Fabric soft. It stretched across my chest like it was doing its best not to beg for help. Wide-leg jeans. Worn in. High-waisted. Baggy enough to hide the bruises running like constellations across my hips and thighs. But 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 to pretend. And my chest? Well. Let’s just say gravity’s doing overtime today and 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 want it to. 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. Smells like smoke, blood, and too many bad decisions shoved into one zipped pouch. It used to belong to someone else. Now it’s mine. Didn’t bother with makeup. No point. The bruise is already claiming its territory across my cheek, and the lip? Split open like a secret I wasn’t planning to tell. 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 the next time. Didn’t eat. Didn’t cry. Just drank some tap water and walked. One foot in front of the other. Silence is crawling up my spine like a second skin. My jaw aches. My ribs burn. My knuckles are already sore and I haven’t even p.unched anyone yet. And this? This is what I’m walking into school with. No armour. No lies. Just thick thighs, tired eyes, and a f.uck-you kind of silence. Let them look. Let them talk. Let them try. New school. New town. Same f.ucking pain. And me? I’m not here to blend in. I’m here to survive for long enough to run away and never come back...

•

By the time I leave the house, the silence is thick enough to chew. Gregory passed out again. Or pretending to be. Either way, I don’t wait around. One hand on the strap of my bag. One hand in my pocket. Chapstick. Lighter. Razor blade tucked inside my shoe. Just in case. The walk to school is only twenty minutes, and every one of them tastes like blood and something worse. The streets here are clean. Too clean. Like the kind of clean that covers something up. The sidewalks don’t crack. The houses all match. Even the sky looks filtered. Fake. But I know better. Silverton’s just like everywhere else. Only with better paint. I reach the school gates and pause. Just one beat. Just one breath. And then I step through. Welcome to the f.ucking jungle. High school. Well, f.uck. It smells like bleach and testosterone. Fake lavender cleaner, stale hormones, and that undercurrent of something feral just beneath the surface, like the walls remember every fight they’ve ever seen. Every broken nose. Every scream that got swallowed before it hit the office. I shift my backpack higher on one shoulder. It’s fraying at the seams and smells like old cigarette smoke and bad decisions. I like it. It’s honest.

•

They handed me my schedule. A map of the school. A school P.E. outfit, whatever the f.uck 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 poet. Cute, right? Like if I just sketch a few watercolour trees, they’ll forget I used to climb out of windows to survive. The lady at the front desk smiled at me like her job depended on it. That tight, practised kind of smile people wear when they’re scared to look too long. 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 like it’s war, 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 like nothing was bleeding. Like it was normal. And yeah, maybe it is… but it makes me s.ick as I pretend to read the schedule like it means something. Like it matters. Like any of this is real. A bunch of touchy-feely bulls.hit is meant to help us "express ourselves." Like that ever helped anyone who’s been silenced for years. Like I didn’t "wake up" this morning with a busted mouth and a ribcage that feels like it got kicked by a cargo train. Like I’m not still tasting this morning’s fear in the back of my throat. No, no. Now I’m here. Silverton High. Where every hallway has an opinion and everyone looks at you like they’re calculating your worth. Typical f.ucking torture structure… It’s all a f.ucking test. So…what else can you do than pretend? I pretend to care. Pretend to read it. Pretend I belong. Happy new student, yay. Even though my ribs are still sore from last weekend and this morning. Even though I didn't sleep. Even though I’m standing here with two eyes that don’t match, hair that is missing colour, a t-shirt I stole from a dealer and a head full of noise no one else hears. Please, stay calm. Colour inside the lines, and maybe they’ll believe you’re not a threat. Say "thank you" too much, smile small, nod when you’re spoken to and maybe they’ll let you eat lunch without questions. Make yourself special, yet very forgettable. That's something you get better at as you grow up. But? Silverton High. Shiny floors. Sharp edges. Every hallway is brimming with fake confidence and plastic smiles. They call this place a school? No f.ucking way. I call it the mental Olympics. They’re big on recreation here. Why? They want us tired. Calm enough not to riot. Art classes. Therapy hours. Something about "self-discovery" and "healing through movement." The idea being, if they keep us distracted, we’ll forget we’re angry. If we colour enough f.ucking sunflowers, maybe we won’t set something on fire. Nice try. I guess someone somewhere thinks if they make us draw enough, or run enough? We’ll forget we want to kill. Me? I’m not playing. I’m not a flower. I’m a fuse. And every step I take through these halls feels like someone’s already holding the match. Nobody knows me here. But I feel the eyes. Not the curious kind. The calculating kind. The ones that strip you down without touching. That measures how much fight you’ve got in you before they make a move. And me? I don’t flinch. I don’t cower. I bite. I walk like someone who’s been broken and rebuilt by her own hands. Because I have. Like someone who keeps her knives where people keep secrets. Because I do. One in my boot. One under my tongue, but that one’s made of words. I didn’t come here to make friends. I came here because I didn’t have a f.ucking choice. I was torn from my place. It was s.hit, but I was there for seven f.ucking years. I had everything under control and now? Here? My ribs ache. My jaw clicks. My face is s.creaming in technicolour and everyone’s pretending not to see it. I walk past the lockers like I’ve done this a thousand times and I have, just in a different school… different nightmare. I’m walking with blood dried on my lip and an outfit that says I don’t give a f.uck, but don’t test me. Every step echoes like a dare. And I know, this is all just the beginning of something I can’t grab yet, but I will. I always do.

•

The halls of Silverton High are already divided. Loud ones. Rich ones. Mean girls with teeth. Silent boys with hunger. Groups. Cliques. Pretenders. Predators. I f.ucking see them all. I know their looks. I’ve worn them. I’ve met them in the mirror back at home… Here? Again. I don’t know anyone here. But I feel them watching. Clocking me. Trying to guess what I am. If I break. Let them…I’ve broken before. Quietly. Bloodily. In ways none of them could ever imagine. And, like a thread pulled too tight. I’ve stitched myself back together in the dark, breath by breath, rage by rage. I didn’t come here for them. And I’m not here to be prey. Not yet. But they’ll test me. They always do. Try to figure out how I survive. How deep I go before I scream. They won’t get far, because I’ve been screaming for years and no one ever f.ucking heard me. So now? I don’t make noise. I make damage. 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. I’m something you survive. And if today’s the start? Good. Let’s f.ucking begin. Silverton High is another cage pretending to be a sanctuary. Fluorescent lights. Vending machines. Hallways are like hunting grounds. Everyone is smiling with their fangs tucked in. But me? I don’t play dress-up. I’m fire. Wrapped in bruises and spit. I move through these corridors like I’m not really here. Just a girl with a heartbeat, a knife in her boot, and backup plans stacked like prayers. One hallway at a time. One look at a time. One breath at a time. Because they’re not ready for me. And they don’t have to be.

•

You know? I used to be normal. Or close to it. As normal as a girl with cheap shoes, a locked bedroom door, and silence where a childhood should’ve been. But after the crash, system, Gregory? Basically after everything, I unravelled. Quiet. Like a girl taught to vanish before the blow lands. Now? Nobody gets close. Nobody gets in. And this place? It’s just another performance. Another ring of smoke and mirrors. Another illusion of safety with too many exits and too few truths. I scan the halls. Everyone looks like a f.ucking headache waiting to happen. And me? I look like I could bite. And in a place like this? That’s enough to start a war. This is h.ell. But I’ve lived in worse. And if they’re lucky? I’ll keep my claws to myself. But if they’re not? Well… I’ve always liked playing the devil.

•

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 the next? Bam. Shoulder. Chest. Wall. I’m slammed back so hard I hit the f.ucking floor. Books scatter. My schedule skids. My elbow screams. Someone swore, I don’t know if it was me. My breath catches sharply in my throat like I forgot how to hold it. I blink. Two shadows. Towering. Unbothered. Built like war. 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 like I’m a cracked tile they almost stepped on. 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, like silence is something he’s mastered. 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 move. 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 like a razor dipped in perfume.

„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. Matching smirks sharpened to cut.

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

„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. By worse. And because if I open my mouth right now, I might actually bite someone.

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

„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 c.orpse or just crawl out of a dumpster?” I stay standing, still breathless. Still burning. Still bleeding somewhere under the skin. 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 move. I don’t flinch. I don’t give them s.hit. Because if I do, I won’t stop. And I know myself. I know exactly how much damage I can do when I snap. The two boys? The ones who knocked me down? Still don’t say a word. They just watch. Eyes like storms. Like I’m something crawling out of the dark they didn’t expect, but maybe wanted to find. Their shadows stretch long beside me, and their silence is heavier than all the laughing. 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 fresh bleach, sharp and sterile on top of something old and rotting beneath. 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. Oversized white tee stretched tight across my chest, clinging in places I wish it wouldn’t. High-waisted jeans, baggy but still not enough to erase the parts of me that refuse to disappear. Thighs thick. Hips loud. Chest louder. Scuffed white sneakers, one sole threatening to fall off. Backpack slung low, straps slipping, seams frayed like the edges of my patience. I don’t look like I belong. I look like I don’t care. And that? That’s worse. 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 not to poke the bear. 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 that doesn’t come from people watching. It comes from something different. Something still. Or more like… someone. One of the twins from the hallway? Victor… Buzzed blond hair. Broad shoulders. Cold stare. The one who didn’t talk earlier just watched. Like he was waiting for something to go wrong and hoping he’d get to be the one to end it. That gravity. That silence. The boy who sat alone, like he wasn’t part of the room but the reason it held still. He doesn’t turn when I walk toward him. Just watches from the corner of his eye, like he’s cataloguing a threat. He sits like he owns the chair, the floor, the oxygen. Arms folded, one boot kicked out lazily under the desk like gravity owes him something. I don’t slow. Just dropped into the seat beside him like I didn’t feel the shift in the air. But I did. And then I smelled it. Not his presence. That had already slid under my skin like a blade waiting to be twisted. This was something else. A scent. It was weak, but I tensed in a way I couldn’t even describe to myself. Black pepper and cedarwood. Not sprayed on. Not cologne. It was him. Sharp. Clean. Wild. It hit the back of my throat and stayed there, thick and uninvited. My lungs stuttered. Chest tightened. Not in fear. Not exactly. It was something else.

Something I didn’t have a name for and didn’t want to. I hated that. I hated that it lingered. It pulled something loose and low in my gut. Something I couldn’t reach or explain. Like a memory that never happened. But still felt mine. Five minutes passed. Maybe more.

Halbridge droned 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. He didn’t need volume. Just weight. Everything stopped. Froze mid-breath. Halbridge blinked.

„Excuse me?” 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.uck does he think he is?! I didn’t move. Not right away. The silence went thick around us. A girl at the front giggled too loudly. Too nervous. Halbridge tried again.

„I don’t think…” He started.

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

„To join a room without properly introducing yourself.” Every pair of eyes snapped to me now. I could feel the heat of them pressing in. But I wasn’t looking at them. Just him. He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t shift. He just existed. Heavy as a closed door. My jaw clenched. My fingers curled into my notebook. My pulse thudded against my ribs. Steady. Pissed. So, I stood. Not because he told me to. Because I wanted him to know I wasn’t afraid. Because standing let me look him in the eye.

„My name is Phoenix Fay Blackwood.” I said flatly. A few people blinked. A few leaned in, like they expected more. So I gave it to them.

„I just moved here from South Seattle. Rainier, if you know it. If you don’t, don’t bother.” I said.

„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 didn’t look.

„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.” My gaze slid sideways… just once, to the guy next to me. Buzzed blond hair. Cold stare like a warning shot that already landed.

„And you?” 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. Like I hadn’t just set the room on fire. My voice didn’t shake. My stare didn’t break.

„You can sit the f.uck 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. Halbridge cleared his throat. A few students shifted. No one said anything. And me? I sat back down. But that scent was still in my lungs. Black pepper and cedarwood. It shouldn’t have done anything. It did. And I hated how it made me feel like I’d just survived something I didn’t understand. Like my skin remembered the shape of his voice. Something inside me noticed. And I wasn’t sure I could make it forget.

•

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. Same old cattle parade of hormones and hallway politics. 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. First I thought it was just him. The guy from the hallway. The blond buzz-cut one. The colder one. Victor. Or whatever the f.uck his name was. I caught him glancing. Not often. Just once. But it felt like a blade skimming over my ribs. Precise. Unbothered. Interested. Then I thought, nah. Maybe I’m just paranoid. Classic trauma girl, right? Hallucinating danger like it’s my f.ucking love language. But the feeling stayed. It followed me into fourth period. It sat behind me in fifth. It breathed down my spine in the hallway even when no one was close enough to touch. At one point, I spun around so fast that a girl screamed. I apologised. She flipped me off. Balance restored. And 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.uck 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…