My phone pings again and this time I can’t help but smile slightly at Ramsey’s reply. He really is a terrible texter.
Ramsey Mondragon
it’s a shifter thing
After a few more minutes soaking up the rays of morning light, I stand and begin an easy pace back to the main campus. The Great Hall is still setting up for breakfast when I arrive, sneaking in to fill a to-go container when the staff leave to bring more food from the kitchens before anyone can catch me. That’s how I’ve had to get all my meals since Cynthia and Lyra pulled their little stunt last week: sneak in like a fucking thief or something just as they’re opening or right before they close down and getting the last scraps.
Just as I return to my dorm room after a quick shower, ready to devour my breakfast bounty, sounds of students waking up for the day filter through my locked door.
I’ll have to face them eventually, but not yet. For right now, I get a few more moments of peace, texting my newest maybe-friend.
Ramsey Mondragon
what are you up to
Nyx Byrke
just eating breakfast, you?
Ramsey Mondragon
about to eat too
My stomach clenches, remembering the way he looked at me in the library. I couldn’t tell if he wanted to eat me, oreatme.
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
Even now, my skin prickles as the memory washes over me, like a whisper in the dark.
There’s something fucking wrong with me, because the taunting threat in his voice shouldn’t have made my heart stutter with electrifying pulse of danger. But it did. And I kind of want to hear it again.
It’s the one positive I cling to as the week gets progressively more shitty, especially now that even the professors have begun harassing me at the behest of the Legacies.
Professor McCall summons me to the front of the classroom on Monday to read through the errors in my latest History homework, despite having referenced the textbook verbatim, so other students could “learn from my mistakes”. Taunting whispers and sinister murmurs echo from the benches that surround the professor’s lectern. I fix my gaze on some point in the distance, determined to maintain my composure despite my pounding heartbeat. When she dismisses me without a second glance after thoroughly eviscerating my work, I make the walk of shame to my seat at the back of the classroom. I don’t bother seething, despite the urge. Instead, I begin redoing my assignment to herexactingstandards.
After enduring that public humiliation, I’d hoped Professor Allard would ignore me like he’s done for the past few weeks.
He does.
In fact, he ignores me so well that when he hands out our assignment for the day, there aren’t enough copies so I’m left to beg the people around me to share as the entire class watches, waiting to see who will give in first. Rather than give me another copy, he crooks an expectant eyebrow as I’m rebuffed again and again, until he asks me to leave since I “refuse to follow his instructions”.
I nearly reach my breaking point in Remedial Wielding that afternoon. The professor—a hard-faced man with balding gray hair and milky eyes—puts his feet up on the desk and cracks open a book. Behind him, the chalkboard says “self-guided study”. Which really means everyone just fucks around and I get to spend an hour and a half avoiding thinly veiled attempts to trip, hit, elbow, and otherwise dodge magic being flung my way. The crowning moment comes when someone pretends to slip and proceeds to dump their entire water bottle on me.
And my white shirt.
That I now know is see-through when wet.
The other students openly jeer at me, and it’s only then that the professor bothers to look up from his book.
“You are in violation of campus dress code, Ms. Byrke. Word of advice: indecent attire will not endear you to anyone, despite your best efforts. Go clean yourself. You’re dismissed.” It takes visible effort to stop myself from saying what I want to say as I slowly gather up my things under his lecherous sneer. Laughter follows me when I exit the classroom to find the nearest bathroom, where I try to salvage the last of my dignity.
The urge to breakdown, to scream in impotent rage threatens to overwhelm the festering pit of shame and embarrassment that’s grows perilously close to spilling over. For the first time since I was forced to leave everything behind and attend this fucking school, burning tears spill down my cheeks in scorching rivulets as I struggle to dry the drenched fabric of my shirt.
I wipe my eyes, willing the writhing shame and embarrassment, humiliation and dejection to harden into anger. Not the wild rage that makes you lose control, intent on unmitigated destruction. Instead, the burning fury solidifies into cold, unfeeling steel that wraps around my spine. They’re not worthy of my tears.
My anger, though?
They can fuckingdrownin it.
