I think I'd rather die alone.
It's a cleaner thought than most. No witnesses. No hands grabbing when the dark finally closes. Just me, the end, and the mercy of silence. People like to pretend dying is worse when you're alone, but I've always suspected the opposite—that it's the living who make it unbearable. The living who watch too closely. Who smile too easily. Who stand too near, as if proximity alone grants them ownership of your last breath.
The world agrees with them, of course. It insists on crowds and kitchens and the low, buzzing intimacy of fluorescent lights. It demands the "normal"-mornings that smell of burnt coffee and regret, chipped mugs with dad jokes, and linoleum floors that peel like old scabs. The quiet places grew teeth long ago, but no one talks about that. They just sweep, wipe, and pretend the bite marks are part of the pattern.
The monsters like it this way.
They wear thrift-store respectability like a borrowed coat-serviceable, a little too tight in the shoulders. Every so often the fabric twitches, a nervous tell, as if something underneath is stretching, testing seams. They laugh at the right moments. They complain about the weather. They hold doors open. And when they greet you, their smiles crack the morning just enough to let the old darkness peer through, curious and patient.
Their eyes are the worst part. Not because they're red or empty or wrong-no, that would be merciful. Their eyes look like yours. Like mine. Warm, attentive, already counting. Not how much you weigh, but how much you'll lose before you notice. What can be taken in pieces. What can be pocketed. What you'll blame on yourself when you feel lighter and can't explain why.
When I was little, my mother tried to prepare me.
She told me the gentle monster stories-the polite ones. Creatures who bowed before entering rooms. Who tapped on windows like shy suitors, waiting to be invited in. Beasts who understood that midnight mattered, that timing was a kind of respect. In her stories, even nightmares had manners. Fear knocked. Shadows asked permission before stealing your breath.
I believed her. Of course I did.
Children believe what keeps them safe, and etiquette feels like safety when you're small. Rules mean control. If monsters followed them, then all you had to do was listen for the knock. All you had to do was say no.
It was an adorable, catastrophic lie.
Because the real monsters don't wait for midnight. They don't wait for doors or invitations or fear to ripen into something respectable. They don't announce themselves with claws or horns or snarls. They show up early. They blend in. They learn your name. They stand in your kitchen and ask how you take your coffee.
And they scream when you don't come when called.
The sound tore across the morning-
"SERAPHINE!"
Crap.
"Get your worthless carcass out of bed now, or I swear to every god I've ever cursed, you'll spend the day locked in that closet, and you won't be stepping foot in that school today!"
My foster mom didn't need to try hard to sound menacing. It was her natural frequency.
I blinked up at the cracked ceiling, the paint peeling away in uneven patches. A heavy, musty air lingers in the room, clinging to me as though I were trapped in it. I didn't move, not until the door rattled violently on its hinges.
"Get down here now!"Glenda snapped, her voice closer now"Did you hear me?"
"Yeah, I heard you," I croaked under my breath.
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, the floorboards screaming beneath my feet. The cracked mirror on my dresser caught my reflection-a girl with skin the color of parched bone and haunted, glacial blue eyes. My black hair was slashed with shocks of white, like ghostly scars.
The "freak" label had followed me through three schools in two years. I was the girl death had kissed and forgotten to take home. Strange. Unstable. A threat. They saw the way I looked at them-how my anger felt like a living thing, a shadow too large for its vessel. They remembered the "accidents." How the lights flickered when my pulse spiked. How a boy once shoved me, only to collapse as his nose became a red faucet he couldn't turn off. They didn't need proof to be afraid; they had instinct.
By the time I yanked on my uniform-a stiff white shirt and black pants that felt like a straitjacket, her voice bellowed again. "Seraphine! I said now!"
I shoved the door open, the hinges wailing in protest, and stepped into the kitchen. My stepbrothers David and Trevor screamed, sticky-fingered monsters weaving wildly through the cluttered room.
Breakfast was the same: toast that tasted like cardboard, lukewarm eggs, and an overwhelming sense of resentment.
"Eat something," she barked. She doesn't even glance up from her phone, the screen smeared with the greasy streaks of fingers long accustomed to scrolling for drama and doom.Her nails-painted a garish, toxic pink-tapped a frantic rhythm against the plastic. She takes a long drag from the cigarette smoldering between her fingers, the ash threatening to tumble onto the carpet.
I grabbed a soda from the fridge instead, ignoring the plate on the table.
Her head jerked up, rollers bobbing in her brittle blonde hair. "You'll rot your teeth," she snarled, her teal eyes spitting spite.
"Good," I muttered, the tab popping with a sharp hiss.
Before I could drink, David slammed into me. The soda erupted, soaking my shirt in a cold, syrupy flood.
"Oops!" he said, grin far too sharp to be innocent.
My fingernails bit into my palms, the air in the kitchen suddenly thickening with a heavy, metallic static that made the hair on my arms stand up. The shadows in the corner of the ceiling began to stretch, bleeding toward the lightbulbs—
"That is enough!"
The floorboards groaned under the weight of Clinton's entrance. My foster father stood in the hallway, his massive frame nearly blocking out the light from the kitchen window. He didn't look at David. He looked at me, his gaze lingering on the wet, dark stain on my chest with a weary, flickering sort of disappointment.
"Seraphine. Clean yourself up," he boomed. He didn't wait for a response, his jaw setting into a hard, granite line. "I'm in the truck in thirty seconds. If you aren't in that seat, you can walk through the ash. Move."
The ride to school was as bleak as the town itself. Clinton was silent, his grip on the steering wheel firm, his jaw clenched as if the simple act of driving me was a monumental task. The car rattled over cracked roads, each bump jolting me in my seat. The faint smell of gasoline mingled with the lingering scent of stale cigarettes and a worn-out air freshener shaped like a pine tree.
The radio played softly in the background, the announcer's voice monotone but tinged with unease.
"...and in local news, pollution in Ravensworth continues to spiral out of control. Residents are reporting alarming environmental changes, including toxic runoff contaminating the Raven River. Yesterday, dozens of dead fish were found washed ashore, and eyewitnesses claimed to see birds falling from the sky mid-flight. Environmental experts are calling this an ecological disaster, urging the town to take immediate action."
I glanced out the window as the voice droned on, watching the factories in the distance belch thick columns of smoke into the air. Their silhouettes were like dark smudges against the gray sky, a stark reminder of the town's decay.
The announcer continued, his tone growing darker. "Local wildlife isn't the only casualty. Residents are reporting respiratory issues and strange rashes, particularly in children. City officials have yet to comment on the situation, but public outrage is growing."
Clinton reached over and twisted the knob, cutting off the broadcast mid-sentence. "Same crap every day," he muttered under his breath.
He wasn't wrong. Ravensworth felt like a dying animal, and no one seemed to care.
We stopped at a red light, and I noticed a stray dog rummaging through a pile of garbage on the sidewalk. Its ribs pressed against its skin like brittle twigs, its movements sluggish. I wondered if it drank the same poisoned water they'd just mentioned. The dog stopped and looked up, its eyes hollow, before turning and disappearing into an alley.
The car jerked forward as the light turned green. Neither of us spoke the rest of the way.
When we finally pulled up to the gates of Raven Oak Academy, Clinton gave me his usual parting shot.
"Don't mess this one up, Seraphine."
His voice was gruff, but there was something underneath it-weariness, maybe, or faint hope that I couldn't share.
I didn't answer.
I climbed out of the car, my boots hitting the pavement with a dull thud. The gates loomed before me, black iron twisted into ornate shapes that looked out of place in a town like this. Above them, a rusted sign barely clung to the arch, the letters spelling out Raven Oak Academy in flaking white paint.
The school itself was no better-an imposing gray structure that looked more like a fortress than a place of learning. The walls were streaked with grime, and the windows were dark, reflecting the overcast sky like soulless eyes.
Clinton's car rumbled away, leaving me standing there, feeling smaller than I liked to admit. Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I trudged toward the entrance. The moment I stepped inside, the whispers started.
"Is that the new girl?"
"Did she just crawl out of a haunting or something?"
"Looks like Cruella de Vil's wig went rogue and found its retirement home-right on her head. Guess it enjoys the scenic view."
Laughter erupted.
I kept my head down, ignoring them. Let them talk. They always did. It didn't matter what town or school I landed in-the routine was the same. I was strange, I didn't belong, and people made sure I knew it.
As I navigated the labyrinth of hallways, trying to find the principal's office, I heard it: a sound echoing from the end of a side corridor.
A sob.
It was raw, choked, and full of pain.
I followed it, turning down a side corridor.
The scene stopped me cold.
A girl with tangled curls and shattered glasses knelt on the floor, her art supplies scattered around her. Her glasses lay broken at her side. Three figures towered over her : a red-haired girl in a white crop top and plaid mini skirt, her green eyes alight with cruelty, and two lackeys, one boy, one girl, both smirking.
"Look at this mess," the redhead sneered, venomously. "Didn't anyone teach you not to crawl around like a rat?"
"Blind whore," she spat, scribbling the words across the crying girl's forehead with a marker.
The boy crouched down, holding up his phone. "Say cheese, princess."
Bullies.
I loathed them.
A fiery anger surged through me. There was no hesitation, no second thought. I was already moving.
The words came out low and cold, sharper than I intended.
"Leave her alone."
The redhead straightened, turning to face me. She was shorter than me, yet, the cocky glint in her green eyes matched the smirk playing on her lips.
"Well, well, who do we have here? Haven't seen you around before." She looked me up and down, her gaze lingering on my height. "You're tall. Pretty, too. Let's be friends"
She extended a perfectly manicured hand toward me.
I didn't shake it.
I spat on it.
The scream that tore out of her was raw with pure, unfiltered horror. "Eww! You fucking psycho!" She shook her hand violently as if I'd doused her in acid. Her lackey's stepped forward to calm her.
"You'll regret that," she hissed, her face contorting into something truly monstrous before she stormed off with her pack.
I turned to the girl on the floor, her face streaked with tears. She clutched her chest, trying to cover herself, her body trembling in only a bra. I knelt down, gathering her scattered drawings and handing them to her.
"Are you okay?" I lowered my voice as I asked.
She sniffled, wiping her tears. "I... I think so. Thank you."
"What's your name?"
Her eyes flicked up, wide and wary, their rich brown depths shadowed with fear. "Kira," she whispered, the word trembling on her lips.
"Seraphine," I said, helping her to her feet.
Her hand was ice-cold, trembling in mine.
"Let's get you cleaned up, okay"