"You're always so confident! You debate, you answer questions, you volunteer and—"
"That's different."
"How?!"
Nathaniel opened his mouth to answer but Professor Haywood's voice cut him off, announcing the start of the presentations.
We moved to our seats silently, flash cards trembling in my hands as I glanced toward the projector which listed the order we would present in. Nathaniel and I were the sixth.
My legs bounced up and down as the first pair made their way on stage. They introduced their topic—the psychological manipulation of serial killers—and proceeded to summarise the main points of their essay. I could barely concentrate, my stomach cramping to the point I feared I would bring up last night's dinner.
Nathaniel's hand rested on my thigh, momentarily distracting me from the anxious beast coursing through my veins. My knees ceased bouncing. Heart rate slowed. Heat crawled up my neck, ears no doubt reddening.
“You were right,” he confessed in a whisper, “everyone chose criminals.”
The second and third pair, like the first, focused on the psychological manipulation of criminals whilst the fourth pair focused on psychological manipulation in relationships. As our turn neared, Nathaniel began picking at his bottom lip, his grip on my thigh tightening. Wanting to ease his nerves as he had eased mine, I placed my hand on top of his, interlocking our fingers without uttering a word. The art of comfort was a stranger to me, but I remembered the way Auden had squeezed my hand at the bus stop—the way it chased away some of myfear. I hoped it would do the same for Nathaniel. But I didn't dare look at him, even as I felt his piercing gaze.
The fifth pair explored the psychological manipulation employed by detectives to catch criminals, a unique approach that Nathaniel insisted Dr. Haywood would reward with a high mark. Envy crawled beneath my skin, burying itself amongst all my anxiety and self-doubt. What if they outranked us? What if we hadn't done enough to secure a High Distinction?
It will be your fault. This topic wasyouridea.
Nathaniel will hate you. He'll never talk to you again.
You won't get a scholarship. You'll be in debt for years.
You'll ruin everything. Just like you always do.
You're a failure. You're a monster. You're—
"We're up," Nathaniel whispered, snatching me from my spiralling thoughts.
I followed him toward the stage, head down and eyes glued to the flashcards clenched tight in my hands. I inhaled sharply. The world tilted. Stomach cramps threatened to send me to my knees. I swayed involuntarily, the nausea overwhelming.
Once Nathaniel plugged in his laptop, and our PowerPoint slides lit the screen, I cleared my throat and recited the words I'd been practicing all morning. I want to tell you it all went smoothly, but my voice cracked. Trembled. Words poured from my mouth in a stutter. Swallowing hard, my eyes briefly flickered toward our classmates only for my gaze to lock with the Devil's, his smile revealing sharp fangs glinting in the dimming light. He didn't need a mirror to find me here.
Professor Haywood vanished. My classmates too. It was just me and the Devil, alone in a room cloaked in shadow.
I opened my mouth to speak, to question his presence, but something crawled up my oesophagus—a sharp, insectile movement tickling my throat, choking me. I coughed violently, folding in on myself.
On the topic of cults,the Devil said, leaning forward in his seat,I think this is the perfect opportunity to remind you what happened the last time you were subjected to the God's Soldiers Church.
Smoke thickened the air. Flames devoured every exit. I dropped to my hands and knees, body convulsing in a desperate attempt to expel the foreign object trapping my airways. Tears blurred my vision. Blood filled my mouth. A sharp edge tore through my throat, a silver crucifix landing on the stage coated in blood and saliva.
Don't go looking for them, little monster. You won't like what you find.
“Augustus?”
Nathaniel’s voice banished the Devil, students returning to their seats. They exchanged glances with one another, an uncomfortable silence filling the room.
I straightened up, massaged my throat, and resumed the presentation as though nothing had happened. There was no Devil. No smoke. No blood-slicked crucifix on the stage. None of it was real.
The atmosphere shifted when it was Nathaniel's turn to speak. His voice was calm, confident. No one would have guessed how nervous he'd been by the way he moved across the stage with ease, cracking unscripted jokes in between significant talking points. He had the entire hall in a trance. A captivating, commanding presence. Even I struggled to look away.
"Therefore," he finished, pausing in place to address the crowd of students leaning forward in their seats, "it is evidently clear that cults employ various manipulation techniques, such as isolation, fear and guilt, trauma bonding and information control to facilitate psychosis, often religious in nature."
A round of applause announced the end of our presentation and the nausea that had twisted my insides vanished, replacedwith an adrenaline rush that had me ready to take on the world. It was only relief, I knew, but it was a feeling I would chase forever.
Nathaniel received several claps on the back as we returned to our seats, smiling from ear-to-ear as he tossed his flashcards into his satchel without reverence. He leaned back, shoulders slumped, clearly as relieved as I was that it was all over.
