Dale’s lips curl into something between a smirk and a secret. She leans in, lowering her voice as if sharing a confession. "Ford and I were close, Dex as well," she murmurs, punctuating it with a slow, knowing wink.
The air in my lungs turns sharp.
Ford. Dex.
The names alone crack something deep inside me, sending me spiraling before I can stop it. Images flash through my mind, too quick, too raw; Dex’s laughter, the way he ruffled my hair like I was still a kid, the weight of his absence so crushing I can barely breathe. The grief is instant when I think of Ford, unbearable, clawing at my throat like a scream I refuse to let out. I blink rapidly, swallowing hard, willing myself not to break down in front of her. Not here. Not now.
Dale watches me, but she doesn’t press. Maybe she sees it, the way I’m fraying at the edges, the way the mention of him is enough to unravel me. Perhaps she knows that some wounds aren’t meant to be reopened.
I force out a breath, gripping the edge of the table to steady myself. "Right," I murmur, my voice barely holding, "that makes sense."
But it doesn’t. None of this does.
Before I’m able to pry for more, she’s packing her cigarettes into her purse and standing to leave. Looks like my third degree is up.
I ask her to borrow a pen and some paper, and then we exchange a quick cheek kiss and go our separate ways to class. Dale is a senior like Hayden. Or Hayden was. I know the Bonesmen don’t really have to attend class. Binding themself to that mausoleum cleared them for life.
The day passes in a haze. I go through the motions, taking notes, answering questions when necessary, nodding along to conversations I barely hear. But it’s all background noise, muffled beneath the weight pressing on my chest.
I slide into my seat in Literature & Philosophy, arms crossed, as the professor launches into a discussion on Joseph Conrad’sHeart of Darkness.
He discusses power and corruption, noting that fate isn’t just something that happens to Conrad’s characters; it’s something they walk toward, step by step, without even realizing it. How they think they have control, but really, they’re being swallowed whole by forces bigger than themselves.
Usually, I’d be engaged. I’d have something to say. But my mind is somewhere else.
I stare at the board, pretending to listen, but the words don’t stick. I’m finally back at Eulogia, but I can’t seem to enjoy my classes. My body pressed down by the weight of what happened to my brothers, my connection to Archie, and the constant obsession I’ve developed with Hayden.
The professor pivots to Nietzsche, tying his ideas into the discussion. “Amor fati,” he says, underlining the phrase on the whiteboard. “The love of one’s fate. Nietzsche believed that rather than resisting what we can’t control, we should embrace it. Own them. Accept that everything, even suffering, is necessary.”
My chest tightens.
Own it? Accept my suffering?
Classmates start debating the idea, with some agreeing and others arguing that resisting fate is what makes us human. Normally, I’d be in the middle of it, picking apart every angle, but I just sit there, my fingers tapping absently against my arm.
Because what if fate isn’t something to embrace?
What if it’s something to run from?
Loss looms at the edges of my mind, a constant, unwanted reminder. Everywhere I turn, I see pieces of them, my brothers. The path we used to walk to class together. The library where we studied late into the night. The coffee shop where Dexter always ordered something ridiculous just to annoy Fordham. It’s unbearable, the way the campus still breathes with their presence while they are gone.
And I’m still here.
I stop in the middle of the hallway, my breath hitching in my throat. My vision blurs as I press my back against the cool wall, trying to ground myself. The grief doesn’t come in waves anymore; it crashes all at once, sudden and suffocating.
I hate this. I hate that they’re gone. I hate that I’m still here, still functioning, still moving forward while they are not.
I’m trying, failing, to shove these feelings back down, behind the wall that’s protected me ever since I witnessed their death. I want them sealed away again, locked tight in the impenetrable box I forced them into the moment it happened.
But they’re spilling out, ugly, loud, and alive. My eyes burn. My throat closes. I gag.
The blood’s still there in my mind, bright and thick.
And the lilies, God, the smell of them. So sweet and suffocating, like death dressed up for a funeral.
A hand touches my arm gently, breaking through my spiral. “Martine?”
I blink rapidly, turning toward the voice. It’s some guy, I vaguely recognize him, a classmate of Ford and Dex’s, a fellow Bonesman. He looks hesitant, uncertain. Dashell Cure, I think.
