Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 137326 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137326 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
Dad’s car.
My ears buzz when the video quickly rewinds, and I watch as a truck comes from the opposite direction, the bright headlights and the loud horn nearly splitting my skull open. Our car swerves and I drop to my knees on the cold, hard ground, slamming both palms to my ears to keep from hearing the crash.
But the sound penetrates my hands and explodes in my ears so loudly, I scream.
In a fraction of a second, I’m transported to fifteen years ago.
“Daddy, look, I made my doll a dress,” I gloat, bouncing up and down in the back seat. “Hey, look, look…”
“Your daddy is driving, Dahl.” Mom looks back and strokes my hair. “Don’t distract him, okay?”
“But I wanna show my doll.” I pout, then shove my doll against the back of his seat. “Daddy, look.”
“Stop it, Dahl,” Mom scolds harshly.
My lips tremble and I start to cry, hugging my doll tightly to my chest.
“Don’t cry, baby.” Dad glances at me. “Your doll looks beautiful.”
“Really?” I sniffle between tears.
“Yes, but not more beautiful than you—”
“John!!!” Mom screams as blinding white light flashes through the car and a loud crash echoes in the air.
The last thing I see is a red mist and vacant, lifeless eyes.
I’m hugging myself on the damp ground, my sweaty fingers shaking, my face full of tears as I watch the video on the screen on a loop.
“Why did you kill us, Dahlia?” Mom’s sad voice asks. “Why?”
“I didn’t mean to… I…I… Mom…I didn’t know.”
“You disappointed me, Dahl,” Dad’s voice speaks so close to my ear, I shiver all over.
“Dad…” I whisper and turn around, but there’s no one there.
All of my surroundings are filled with projection over projection of the accident. In front of me, behind me, on the walls, on the floor.
My nightmare is repeated in grotesque, vivid detail. Every time the crash echoes in the air, I scream. Every time, I smell the burning rubber on the road and taste the tangy, metallic blood of my parents.
My doll is bent, stained with my own blood. The beautiful tulle dress I made is torn and smudged with red.
I hug my knees to my chest, hide my face in them, and slam my eyes shut to ward off the gruesome images.
But I still can’t block out the haunting sounds from my darkest nightmare.
The crash. The screams. The sirens.
The distorted medics’ voices.
Make it stop.
Someone make it stop!
Please.
No one does.
My whole life, I’ve learned that if I want something done, I have to do it myself.
Knights in shining armor don’t exist outside of fiction.
Luck has never been on my side and never will be.
The psychological torture repeats in a cycle of despair that erodes my sanity. I stop feeling my limbs as the shadows of the past stretch and contort, turning into new cruel whispers each time the scene replays.
You killed your parents. Why are you alive?
You should’ve died, not them.
If you weren’t a spoiled brat, none of this would’ve happened.
You’re the reason they’re gone. Why do you feel sorry for yourself? You’re not the victim here. Stop the main character energy.
Murderer…
Murderer.
Murderer!
“No!” I scream, jumping up into a standing position, wiping at the snot and tears covering my face. Adrenaline burns in my veins as I stare at the scene, unblinking, my hands fisted, my legs shoulder width apart. It hurts, but I don’t look away. It hurts, but I watch it again from start to finish.
My parents are gone, but Violet isn’t—at least, not completely.
Violet needs me.
And if I have to go through this torture for her, so be it.
When the video comes to an end, I ready myself for another round, another visual and auditory assault, but the projections disappear completely.
A small flickering wall lamp switches on.
I’m indeed in a tunnel. Through my teary vision, I make out a blinking camera light in the ceiling and stare at whoever is watching as I wipe my eyes with the backs of my hands.
You won’t break me.
No one will.
“Congratulations, Dahlia,” a man says, his suave voice filling the tunnel. “You’ve passed the mental test, but there’s still the physical test left. Correction. It’s both mental and physical. Since this is a trial, if you say the safe word you agreed to with the Senior member who invited you, everything stops. You’ll be escorted out and banished from campus and town. As long as you stay quiet after that, you get to keep your life. If you don’t… I’ll leave that to your imagination.”
I gulp, searching my surroundings. I already told Kane I wouldn’t say the word, and that won’t change now.
Nothing is worse than reliving my worst nightmare.
A door opens somewhere to the right, and I squint, but I can’t see its exact location in the shadows.
A tall silhouette walks toward me—a man, judging by his build and height. He’s dressed in a black T-shirt, jeans, and army boots. His hands are covered with black leather gloves and his face is hidden by a black mask that resembles a plague doctor. However, this one has sharp, unsettling serpentine and talon details swirling in the contours like a curse.