“What’s that for?” I nod to the projector some guys are setting up.
“They always do like a slideshow of photos of people and videos people submit. AV club likes to put shit on.” Dakota shrugs
“What an interesting thing to do at a party.” I crinkle my brows.
“Dakota!” Brynn calls, waiving frantically.
“Are you going to be okay?” Dakota squeezes my hand.
“Yeah, I’ll be fine. Go.” I give her what I hope is a reassuring smile.
Dakota goes to Brynn, who pulls her into the throng of people dancing. I turn and watch as the projector clicks on, and pictures of different parties are shown. Some people laugh at the various poses and pranks that have been done so far this year.
My eyes sweep across the party. Red cups tilted, secrets spilled, and everyone looks so at ease.
This is their world, and I’m just discovering it. I catch flashes of familiar faces in the crowd—Dakota, Brynn, Evie, Callie, and farther off, the boys. The bonfire creates dancing shadows, laughter buzzing like static all around me.
The music slices off mid-beat, leaving behind a jagged silence that makes the crowd falter. A sharp screech of feedback crackles through the speakers—shrill and sudden, like the scream of metal on metal.
Heads turn toward the DJ, whose hands are up in confusion. Conversations die mid-laugh. Even the firelight feels colder, like the forest itself is stumped.
A low hum starts from the speakers.
“No—please don’t?—”
My heart stops. I slowly turn toward the screen.
The video is grainy but unmistakable. My dorm room. My bed. The nightlight in the corner. The shadows warping the space.
And me. Curling in the sheets, breath ragged. Thrashing.
“Stop—please—Daniel, stop?—”
The crowd falls silent. My stomach plummets as if I’ve stepped off the edge of a cliff.
I know this nightmare. I know it like I know the shape of my scars, the hollow of my chest where trust used to live. I lived this night a hundred times before—but never like this. Never with the world watching.
“I won’t tell—I promise?—”
There is something so obscene about hearing the words with my voice cracking in terror, echoing across the clearing.
A few people laugh—uneasy, confused.
Someone mutters, “Is this… is this real?”
I can’t move. I can’t breathe. Then the laughter grows. Bolder now. Cruel.
“Holy shit, what’s wrong with her?”
“Is this a movie? Did she record herself having a mental breakdown?”
“This girl’s psycho.”
I’m still watching, frozen, as my own body screams on-screen. I whimper, gasp, and claw at the sheets like they are ropes that could keep me from being dragged under.
I can feel every eye. Every whisper.
They took this from me. The safety of my room, where I fall apart. They dug it out and fed it to the sheep.
