The Shadows Behind Her Eyes
1161 Words
He looks at me with a huge smile, his gaze locking with mine like we’ve always known each other.
“I want to walk with you, if I may?”
My lips part, but words fail me. There's a quiet certainty in him that knocks the breath out of my chest. Without waiting for an answer, he takes my hand—warm, strong, certain—and holds it like it's something precious. My fingers curl instinctively into his.
We walk toward the cafeteria together, his presence a strange comfort and contrast to the storm I know is coming.
I scan the room quickly, searching for KitKat, my best friend. She’s not where she usually sits. A cold prickle of unease crawls up my spine. Then I see her—tucked between Jessi and her plastic army of mean girls, her body tight, smile forced, eyes begging for help.
My heart drops. KitKat hates confrontation. Jessi terrifies her. I feel the familiar fire ignite in my chest, scorching every bit of fear left in me. No. Not this time.
I march across the cafeteria with Alex still holding my hand, clearly confused but following without hesitation. The closer I get to their table, the more I can feel their laughter, smug and venomous, curling around KitKat like a noose.
I stop right in front of Jessi, locking eyes with her like I’m daring her to blink.
“What the hell do you think you're doing?” My voice slices through the air like a whip.
Jessi tilts her head, smirking like the devil herself. “Oh my! Who’s this fine piece you’ve got with you?” she purrs, eyes devouring Alex with mock innocence.
Before I can respond, Alex steps closer, his arm sliding around my waist like it belongs there. The possessiveness in his touch is protective, electric. His voice drops low and dangerous.
“She’s my girlfriend.” He stares Jessi down, the weight of his threat hanging thick in the air. “You have five seconds to give back whatever you took from Rose, or I’ll make sure you have something else to worry about.”
Jessi blinks. Her expression twists—shocked, then angry, then rattled. Her friends shrink back, suddenly less bold.
I don’t even try to hide the small laugh that escapes me. It’s dark, but it feels good. Empowering. KitKat bolts from the table, tears brimming in her eyes as she rushes into my arms, clutching me like I’ve just pulled her out of drowning waters.
“Thank you,” she breathes, trembling. Her cheeks are red with humiliation, but she’s safe now. That’s what matters.
Jessi sneers, mask cracking. “This isn’t over, you slut!” she screeches before storming off, her minions scrambling behind her like angry shadows.
I guide KitKat to the food line, still gripping her hand tightly. We load our trays with hot dogs and fries—comfort food, messy, imperfect, but exactly what we need right now.
We sit together, Alex flanking my other side, his watchful eyes scanning the room like he’s ready for anything.
KitKat’s voice quivers. “They said if I didn’t sit with them… they’d send the football guys after me. I didn’t know what to do…”
Her voice breaks, and I feel my throat tighten. “KitKat, listen to me. It’s okay. They’re bullies. They need people afraid of them. But I’m not afraid anymore. And you don’t have to be either. I’ve got you.”
Alex brushes his thumb across my wrist where his hand still rests. “What the hell is going on with those girls?” he asks, voice low but steady.
“They’re rich. Their parents run this town. They think that gives them the right to treat everyone else like dirt,” I mutter, trying not to let my anger spike again.
“Well, at least I’m here now,” he says with a cocky grin. “Let them try something.”
We eat quickly, the tension slowly unraveling as the cafeteria noise returns to normal. When the bell rings, we rush to class. Mythology. My favorite. I need something normal—something safe.
But the moment I step inside, I feel it.
Wrong.
The sun filters in through the window, casting golden light across the polished floor and walls lined with mythic names and gods. And yet… it feels like standing in a graveyard.
My eyes flick to the window. Beyond the tree line, something—no, someone—stands still, cloaked in black. I can’t see a face, only a silhouette.
Then, like a whisper through my bones:
“I’m coming for you, my love.”
My breath catches. I stumble to my feet, my chair crashing backward. The class goes silent.
Then everything tilts.
My legs collapse beneath me. The world spins, colors bleeding together. The last thing I hear is my name—someone calling it—but it’s distant, fading.
Then… darkness.
Warmth.
I wake beneath heavy blankets in my own bed, but the comfort is short-lived. The room is too quiet. I blink slowly—and then I see them.
My parents.
Their faces are thunderclouds. Fury drips from every line.
“You humiliated us!” my mother shrieks, her voice sharp enough to pierce bone.
I shrink back, curling into myself. “I didn’t mean to… I just—”
But my father steps forward, eyes colder than winter steel. He grabs a handful of my hair and yanks.
Pain explodes in my scalp.
“Dad—please!” I sob. “I didn’t mean to! I swear!”
He doesn’t speak. He drags me out of the room, down the stairs. My knees hit each step, hard and jarring, bruises blooming like ink under my skin.
“You’ll learn,” he growls, yanking open the basement door. “You’ll break, you little bitch.”
The air down here is damp and metallic. Shadows cling to the walls, and I know what’s coming.
“No,” I whisper. “Please.”
He shoves me to the floor. My cheek slams into concrete. Cold. Rough.
Behind me, I hear him move to the workbench. The sound of steel against wood. Tools. Blades. Organized cruelty.
He grabs one.
I don’t see it—I don’t need to. I feel it.
The cold kiss of metal against my skin. Then the sting. A line of fire blooms across my cheek, and blood drips down my neck.
I scream, but it barely echoes before the second cut slices into my shin, then a third—deeper—into my thigh.
My body convulses.
He’s still talking, I think. Something about shame. Embarrassment. Regret.
But I can’t hear him anymore. I can’t feel anything except the blood and the heat and the spiraling dark.
Am I dying?
No pain now. Just silence.
And somewhere in that silence, a part of me is waiting.
Waiting to rise.
- Writer
