I took a step forward, my fists clenching.
"Let her go," I said, but my voice came out as more of a growl.
The guy didn't even glance my way, just tightened his grip on Monica, his fingers into her bare arm like she was something he owned.
I moved faster this time, shoving him hard in the chest. He stumbled back, eyes narrowing, and before he could say anything, my fist connected with his jaw. Pain shot through my knuckles, but the sound of the crack was worth it.
He swung back. I ducked the first punch but caught the second in the side of my face, my vision bursting with stars. I staggered, but the thought of Monica, her head lolling, her lips parted like she could barely breathe, sent a surge of rage through me. I lunged again, jabbing at his ribs, clawing at his arm, anything to make him let her go.
But he was bigger. Stronger.
With one shove, I was flat on my back, the cold, gritty concrete biting into my skin. He spat on the ground, grabbed Monica's limp form, and started toward the idling bike at the alley's mouth.
Something inside me snapped.
My fingers closed around a jagged rock lying near the trash bins. I was on my feet before I could think, rushing him from behind.
"Get away from my friend!" I screamed, bringing the stone down on his head.
Once.
Twice.
Over and over, until his knees buckled and his grip on Monica broke.
Blood sprayed, warm and metallic, dotting my dress, my arms, my face. I didn't care. The only thing that mattered was that Monica was free.
She slumped against me, unconscious but breathing. My hands shook as I half-carried, half-dragged her to the curb. A taxi's headlights cut through the dark, and I waved frantically until it screeched to a stop.
The driver's eyes went wide at the sight of us, but I didn't explain. "Crawford Estate," I panted, sliding into the backseat with Monica cradled against me.
The ride was silent except for my heartbeat, pounding like war drums in my ears. I kept checking her pulse, her breathing, ignoring the sticky blood drying on my skin.
When the gates finally came into view, I paid the driver and helped Monica out. We made it halfway up the long driveway before I froze.
Jamal stood at the top of the steps.
A leather jacket hugged his broad frame, the dim lights catching on the silver zipper. Dark jeans. Black boots.
But those storm-gray eyes were locked on me.
I swallowed hard, shifting Monica's weight on my shoulder before lifting my free hand to sign: *Jamal.*
He didn't answer. He just kept looking at us, the faintest flicker of something, recognition? Concern?, passing over his face.
The stairwell swayed under my feet. It wasn't moving, I was. But it felt as if every step pulled me into a tilt, the world slipping out from beneath me. My fingers clung to the banister, but it wasn't wood anymore. It was warm. Wet. Sticky.
I jerked my hand back, chest tight, breath catching in my throat. The echo of that sound followed me, bone, over and over, splitting beneath my grip. A crack. A thud. A crack.
Jamal was now waiting at the bottom of the stairs. His eyes flicked to me, sharp but unreadable. His hands moved, quick, deliberate. *What are you two doing up this late?* His voice didn't fill the air because he didn't use it. Just his hands. Smooth gestures, precise shapes, the language of him.
*There's a curfew,* he signed, brows furrowing. You should be in bed, not walking around.
I scoffed, or tried to. It came out thin. "The same thing applies to you. What are you doing up this late?" My voice cracked, traitorous.
His fingers cut the air again. *I asked first.*
"It doesn't matter," I snapped before I could think. But then his hands stilled, and the pause was heavier than anything he could have signed.
*Why are you covered in blood?*
My throat closed. I swallowed. "I… knocked somebody over. They wanted to - " My eyes slid to Monica. Her face was pale even in the dim light. "Take her. She's fine now." Lies stacked like cards. Too fragile.
Jamal's jaw tightened. He didn't argue. He bent, sliding his arms beneath Monica and lifting her easily, bride-style, as if she were nothing more than air. Her head lolled against his chest, her breathing slow.
He carried her down the hall to her room without another word. He didn't need to speak; his silence was louder than anything.
When I finally stepped inside, Jamal turned toward me, his hands shaping one last instruction. *Change.*
I obeyed. Mechanically. My clothes clung to me like another skin, heavy with the smell, copper, iron, salt. The room spun as I stripped them off, pulled on clean ones. The blood was gone, but it wasn't. It was still there, under my nails, in the ridges of my skin.
When I stepped into Monica's room again, she was asleep. Jamal was gone. It was just me and her soft, even breathing. I knelt, unbuttoned her blouse, and peeled away the stained fabric. My hands trembled as I pulled the clean pajama top over her arms. She didn't stir.
But I did.
Every movement screamed at me. The creak of the floorboards, thud. The brush of fabric against skin, crack. The glint of moonlight on the window, flash. Over and over and over.
I could feel his skull against my palms. The way it was given, almost soft at first. Then harder. Then wet. I could hear the ringing in my ears, high and sharp, until it drowned everything else. My breath came shallow, and my vision tunneled until Monica's face blurred into his.
I stepped back too quickly, bumping into the wall. My legs didn't want to hold me. The floor seemed too far away and too close all at once.
I shouldn't have hit him that many times. Once, twice, maybe, to stop him. But I didn't stop. I couldn't. My arms had moved on their own, faster and faster, until I wasn't hitting him anymore, I was hitting something else. Everything else. Every hand that had ever grabbed me. Every voice that had ever told me to be quiet.
And now I couldn't wash it off. Couldn't scrape it out of my head.
The ringing wouldn't stop.
The ringing wouldn't stop.
The ringing -
I don't know what started it.
Maybe it was the way the shadows clung to the corners of the room.
I barely heard the hum of the refrigerator anymore. All I could think about was the knock that would come, heavy, sharp, final. The police. The headlines. Promising skater arrested. My career, my life… gone. Just like that.
I dragged my feet toward the kitchen, but passing the hallway mirror stopped me cold.
She stared back at me, the girl everyone thought they knew. Half Black, half Japanese. Blue eyes that never looked like they belonged in this face. Dark brown skin that my coaches always said made me "stand out on the ice." Dreadlocks falling messily over my shoulders. My lips, the top curved in a sharp, M-shaped bow, the bottom softer, fuller. Brownish-pink, the color my mother always swore was natural lipstick.
But my reflection flickered.
Suddenly, the same face was smeared in red, my eyes wild, hands trembling. My dreadlocks clung to my cheeks, wet with someone else's blood. My lips, that strange shade of pink and brown, were parted, gasping. And on my hands…
I jerked away from the mirror, breath ragged. My palms tingled like the blood was still there.
I'm a murderer.
The words claw their way out of me before I even realize I'm whispering them. They taste like rust and bile on my tongue, like something rotting inside my chest that's finally writhing free.
I killed him.
I can see his face in the dark of my mind, his smirk curling like smoke, the way his eyes glinted when he thought he had me cornered. But now, in this dim kitchen, he's not just in my head. He's here.
A flicker. The air warps, just for a second, and his shadow blooms in the corner of my vision. I jerk my head, breath snapping in my throat, nothing. But when I turn back, he's closer. That same smile. His lips move, but no sound comes.
Oh my God.
My heart is pounding so loud it's deafening, my hands trembling so violently that the tips of my fingers feel numb. I clutch my shirt, my nails digging into my own skin just to prove I'm still here. But the air feels wrong, charged, suffocating, as if every molecule has been rewired to watch me.
"They're going to come after me," I whisper. "They know. They know."
And I can't stop shaking. I can't breathe. My knees almost buckle as the image of him, bloody, broken, flashes behind my eyes, followed by another, sharper thought: I should have made sure.
What if he's not dead?
A chill burns down my spine. My pulse stutters. I glance at the window, black glass, but I swear something just shifted on the other side. My hands twitch toward the curtains, but I can't pull them back. If I look and he's there, if I see him watching me -
Oh God, I can't.
I press my palms to my temples, trying to shut him out, but it's like pressing on a bruise, it only makes it throb harder. The silence is unbearable. It's too heavy. Too listening.
I can almost hear his voice now, low and ragged, curling around my ear. Arabella.
My breath comes in shallow gasps. My vision blurs. My whole body is trembling so hard that I barely feel the cool linoleum beneath my bare feet. My thoughts spin, police, revenge, prison, blood, until they're just a smear of noise in my head.
I can't stay here.
But I can't move.
Maybe it was the silence, thick, suffocating, as if the air itself was holding its breath.
My chest tightened without warning, each breath catching like it didn't want to go in all the way. The world tilted slightly; my pulse was a drumbeat against my eardrums, so loud I could barely hear the faint hum of the refrigerator. My fingers tingled. My legs felt too light, too unstable, as if they might give way any second.
I just needed water.
If I could drink something cold, maybe I could trick my body into believing it was safe.
I forced myself toward the kitchen, trying to breathe slowly, evenly, but every step felt heavier than the last. The fluorescent light above flickered once, sharp, quick, like an eyelid twitching, and I flinched as though it had shouted at me.
The jug of water was in the fridge. My hand trembled as I reached for it. Cold glass pressed against my palm, but my skin was already clammy.
Then -
A whisper of movement.
Not sound, not sight, just… a shift.
The kind of sensation you feel when someone stands too close behind you, breathing the same air.
The back of my neck prickled. My shoulders locked. My mind screamed, No, no, no, it's happening again, someone's here,
The jug slid from my grip before I even realized I'd let it go.
It hit the floor.
The crash was sharp and final, glass splintering in every direction, water flooding over my bare feet like icy hands gripping my ankles.
I gasped, loud, violent, like the air had just been stolen from me and thrown back in my lungs.
.