You're afraid the mistakes that you made dug your grave but baby, that's the price you pay.

Trina Kellington.
Barnard, Vermont.

I'm expecting to be screamed at a healthy amount, or lectured at the very least, by the counselors who march us into one of their cabins. Instead, Giles, Gabrielle, Quincy, Chanel, Wes, Brandon, and I are treated to bandaging and disinfectant for our various wounds.

It's the nicest thing they've done for me since I arrived. Now if only they had some type of medicine to make me less pissed off, I'd be golden.

Giles sits on the edge of a bed, clutching an ice pack to his nose. Shane has one- for his eye, I assume- that he mindlessly kneads between his hands, as if he's confused what to do with it.

I sit still and let Anabel bandage my hands and dab blood from underneath my eye with a soft square of gauze. With her hair pulled back in a smooth blonde ponytail and t-shirt tight against her chest, she's got the slutty nurse look down to a T. She gives me a slim smile and tosses the gauze, then presses an instant cold pack into my palms. "There. All better. Now, you'll stay away from fighting anyone again, won't you?"

I just scoff. "Only if people stop giving me reasons to hate them." I'm not tired in the slightest- in fact, I'm on fire. I'm itching to do more. I'm itching for revenge.

Curiously, her smile freezes on her face. "Stay back and wait for everyone else to be done. I need to talk to you."

I have a feeling I know what it's about. Sure enough, after everyone else has been sent to dinner, Anabel takes me outside.

She tries to look casual, leaning against the doorframe and running an Eos chapstick over her lips, but up close, I can sense the tension in her shoulders. "You remember our agreement, don't you?"

Of course, I remember. It kept me up late last night, making me worry and wonder why she of all people would make such an odd and, dare I say it, cruel request. But as I thought about it, I realized that perhaps she's a little like me. Outwardly, she presents a facade- in her case, a cheery one- to hide the troubled young woman underneath.

"Of course. But..." I struggle to decide how to phrase my next words. I'm no coward, and I've never shied away from hitting someone where it hurts, but it almost seems wrong to target someone who's never been a threat to me. Especially not when there are so many more meaningful targets, those who've truly wronged me. They're all clearly marked with gauze and inky bruises. "Why am I targeting... him?"

Her expression is unreadable. "I can't give you all the details quite yet. But believe me, it's in your best interest to instill fear towards him… and distract people from yourself."

"Myself?"

"Let me put this another way," she says, capping her lip balm and sliding it into her pocket. "If your classmates had to choose between you and… let's say... Jeremiah, to keep around, who do you think they'd pick?"

I glare at her. "Probably him…"

"What about Gerard?"

"Him," I say, annoyed. "But that's only because he's so damn nice all the time-"

"Quincy?"

I pause, considering. I'm no idiot. Both of us are clearly disliked, but if it came down to the two of us, who's more bearable? "Me, probably," I finally decide. Glad to know I have some ounce of self-esteem left.

"I agree," she says. I allow a smirk to creep onto my lips. "And here's why. Both of you are… well… bullies. Despised. But people aren't afraid of you the way they are of him."

I nod slowly. It's no compliment, but I'm beyond caring at this point.

"The point is," she says, "you may think you've hurt people, and you may even think Quincy has hurt people. But believe me. Not the way he has. And if you can show people why they should fear him, you'll look far better in comparison."

She's right. I've seen the papers. If I had known how ugly of a past he'd had before, I would have made his life hell. I almost regret not finding out about it sooner.

Almost. But now, I have the chance to humiliate him on a grander stage, in front of half his class.

It's the sort of thing that's right up my alley.

"So when are we doing this?" I pose the question casually, as if my insides aren't all buzzing with nerves and excitement and- maybe a sliver of guilt, but when have I ever done the right thing in my life? Why should today be any different?

Besides, she said she'd reward me… whatever that means.

"Not we. You." She points a rose-manicured finger at me. "I was never a part of this. If anyone asks, Simone told you." I don't even realize how serious she's being until her face visibly relaxes back into a calm smile. "We'll call you up after dinner, alright? Until then... try to relax. Eat what you can. And don't breathe a word of this to anyone."

I smile. It is so nice to feel like I'm in on the world's most important secret. "I wouldn't dare."

Back in the cafeteria, dinner is essentially silent. Seeing as more than half our table was involved somehow in the fight, there's not much to say that isn't some sort of insult, and I'm really trying to save some of my energy for later. Alaina keeps her eyes down, not taking her eyes away from her greasy pizza slice, though she's not eating any of it. Neither am I; mine is still frozen in the center, and has the flavor of the cardboard it no doubt came in.

One person's absence only makes everything weirder: Eimer has relocated to Jeremiah's and Freya's table. I catch her glancing awkwardly at us, and she just frowns and turns away.

It feels like ages later when Rosalie finally stands on one of the tables and taps a glass. The room falls quiet. For a second, her eyes pass over us. And maybe I'm imagining it, but it seems like they freeze on me, twinkling momentarily with excitement.

"As soon as you're finished eating, please bus your trays and find your leaders outside."

She seems to revel in the power she has, even for such a simple statement. I'm breathless, waiting for what she's about to announce.

But it's just as ambiguous as Anabel's explanation.

"We have a special surprise for you tonight."

Harper Robbins.
London, England.

We're back at the lodge in minutes.

Rosalie knocks at the wooden doors. A long moment passes before they finally creak open, and one of the counselors whose name I neither know nor care to know looks out, bluish eyes wide under a mess of blonde hair. "You're early," she says.

"We sent them to dinner early," she says brusquely. "There were some... complications this afternoon. Clarence should have let you know."

"He did," she says. "Well, luckily for you, we're ready early, anyways. We run a tight ship around here."

"Don't I know it," Rosalie chuckles, but I don't get the humor in it.

The woman- she doesn't look much older than me, really- steps aside to let us inside. As I pass by her, I catch a whiff of liquor on her breath.

I nearly stop in my tracks, caught off guard. Maybe I could understand if someone like Milo or Zara were drinking on the job- I mean, look at what they've had to put up with- but I've seen this girl maybe once over the last three days, have no idea what role she has out here. Maybe she's one of the nameless cooks. It would explain the dwindling quality of the food, anyways.

A folded paper with a messily sharpied number six sits on a table at the very front of the shadowed room. On the stage in front of it are two podiums, one on either side. And on them, a single lamp and a stack of papers.

I take my seat, feeling slightly uneasy.

Rosalie steps up to one of the podiums. Even without a microphone, her voice carries throughout the room. "I want you all to take a moment to think about the people in your life that are closest to you. It could be your family. It could be some of the people in this room. But for a moment, I just want you to think of them, and the things you'd say to them if you could only see them one last time."

It's kind of a weird request, but it's a no-brainer to do, because there's nothing to say. There's no one here who I'd genuinely be sad to leave, who I actually like. As for my family, that's just as much of a joke. Maybe my mother is nice, but I wouldn't know. She's uninteresting. My father has always been overbearing, so if she vanished, I'm not sure I'd ever notice.

After a few minutes, Rosalie's voice again pulls a knife through the silence. "You may be feeling trapped in the wilderness here. Isolated. We understand that it's been a rough few days, and several of you may have lashed out at each other because you're unhappy." That's one way of putting it. Although it's not as if they didn't think all the fighting was amusing. "But we want to remind you that there's a world out there full of people who are thinking of you. Even when you've felt alone, someone has had you on their mind. So I'd like to ask for two volunteers."

Several hands go up, none as eagerly as Trina's. She's selected almost instantly. Then Nico follows her up to the front, leaving our table with three members.

As they head to the the front, the last of the overhead lights click off, plunging the room into shadow.

There's squeaky footsteps as Trina's and Nico's silhouettes cross the stage. There's a breath of silence. And then, a sharp click.

One of the lamps hums to life.

Another click. Both lamps are on.

Trina steps forward, allowing her features to be illuminated by the glow of the golden lamp. Her eyes drop to the pages in front of her. "Our dearest Freya," she begins.

Griffin and Brandon jerk their heads up. What?

"We have always loved everything about you. Never angry, always caring, you have never had anything in your heart but absolute kindness. We are so fortunate to have such a ray of light in our lives, for when you arrived in the world eighteen years ago, you truly showed us what love looked like."

Who wrote this? Trina sure didn't. I know from going to school with her for years, as well as rooming with her the last two nights, that she's a certifiable nightmare without a trace of kindness in her body.

"It absolutely killed both of us to send you away to school so far from home, but as we've said before, we did it because we knew it was best for you. Now, we wish we could have kept you closer. I'm sorry for nagging you so much about all the time you spent doing your hair in the mirror, because I didn't feel it was as important as the heart you had inside you. I now know that if it was important to you, it ought to have been equally as important to us."

Freya giggles a little at the beauty comment, but from what little of her face I can make out, she still seems confused. Only when Trina finishes the rest of the letter, ending with "Love always, Mom and Dad," does she understand. These words are not from Trina, but from Freya's parents.

Nico goes right into Gerard's letter a second after Freya's ends.

"When you were born, I wasn't sure how I would be able to raise a baby boy all on my own, especially in the wake of your father walking out on us. But I quickly found that you were all I needed. From a young age you proved to be a curious, loving boy, always respectful and always so kind, with nearly as many friends as books in your library. I have always been proud to be your mother. I always will be."

As Trina and Nico read, the letters begin to blend together in my mind. Some brief, and some much longer, many hint at regret or heartache, parents or guardians confessing hidden secrets they never got to express, mostly among those adults who never paid much attention to their kids. Jeremiah's parents note that they wish they would have seen him more when he was home for summer, but they couldn't blame him for spending most of his time out with friends, since they never made time for him. Alaina's mother writes that although it may have seemed as if she and Alaina's father only paid attention to her brother, they were always proud of Alaina too, especially for her diverse accomplishments in school and the manner in which she held herself.

Simone's letter, though, is the most interesting of the bunch.

"We should have fit more time for you and each other into our hectic schedules, but we always thought there would be a better time. Even when you broke into that car or were caught after burning down Emerson's bakery-" here, Trina coughs to try to cover up her laughter- "we were too self-centered to realize that you just wanted some of our attention. Sending you to school so far from home felt like the best option to straighten you out, but in retrospect, we should never have let you out of our sight."

There are a few other giggles at the bakery news, but they're quickly smothered. Every response seems restrained. Trina's voice cracking as she reads her own letter. Brandon tensing as he hears from his parents. Because something still feels odd about this setup. I realize what it is when it's my own name that's called.

"Harper."

Here we go, I groan inwardly.

"We may have constantly butted heads throughout your childhood. I tried to teach you respect, I tried to teach you submission, but you were far more stubborn than I hoped you'd be. Still, your mother says you have a free spirit that she's always admired, and I suppose there are other charming aspects of you that I was never able to see. It's not my fault that you were never interested in being the daughter I always thought you could be, but I realize now that I could never change you. You had your heart set on a more active, introverted life than I saw you enjoying. Perhaps I always misunderstood you."

He doesn't end with an I love you, but it's still the most affection my father's ever given me. As brief as it is, it's... touching, for a change.

I can barely listen to the next few letters because my head is swirling.

My father has never been good at expressing emotions or even understanding them. I don't think I ever saw much out of him besides anger and disappointment. He could never accept my inconsideration of fitting in or my passion for outdoor sports. He expected me to be like my mother- delicate and beautiful, though with any hope more outgoing. He got none of the three. I've never been one to conform to others' standards. Not at school, and not with my father.

The thought of him accepting me warms me briefly, until I realize: There is no way in hell he would ever say this to my face.

That's one trait I inherited from my father- I'm stubborn as all get out. In his case, he never admits defeat, even when he's wrong.

He must not have known I would be hearing this. He's far too proud for that.

Which begs the question- what did the school have to do to make him say these things?

Griffin Ellings.
Macatawa, Michigan.

My letter hasn't been read yet, and it's killing me.

Dread and terror have all but taken me over, making my stomach twist and writhe. I don't know who would write me a letter. And I'm afraid of what it would say.

"Madison," Nico reads, as I turn my attention once more to the face at the front of the room.

The petite girl shrinks in her seat.

"Your mother and I don't disagree on much. But our biggest, and longest-running disagreement always had to do with you and the future you were hurtling towards. Your mother made it very clear that she supported you in your dream of becoming an Olympian, but I worry that I may have given you the wrong idea by pushing you to quit."

Olympian? That turns some heads. But Madison only slides deeper in her chair.

"I could always see that gymnastics gave you a fire that nothing else did. We were always so amazed at your dedication in the gym, at your work ethic and never-say-die attitude that allowed you to become one of the top gymnasts not just in your age group, but in the country. When you were hurt and your dream was stolen away from you, a part of me hurt too. I never wanted you to be unhappy, though I fear it may have seemed that way."

I watch Madison, so clearly uncomfortable with the attention. Why would she not be proud of herself for that?

Maybe some people just don't like their past to be known, a voice mocks me. My blood chills.

"Your mother always made a point to tell you that you never needed to earn our approval, because we always loved you regardless of what you achieved. And sometimes, that love overpowers everything. Maybe if I tried harder, I could have seen gymnastics the way you saw it, but I loved you too much. I could never stand letting you risk being hurt. And now... if I could do it all again... I'd have let you do it. You deserved to be happy. I'm sorry I couldn't always see that."

My heart swells, a childish part of me aching for the sort of support Madison's father wishes he could have given her. At least her mother could believe in her dream. Because I've never had something as true as that.

Maybe that's not entirely true. Camilla drove me around the country all summer and winter break last year to audition at all my dream universities. She's been to every show the last two years. But she and Max haven't been around my whole life.

I've had more caregivers in my life than most of my friends have had iPhones. Unlike those phones, my first few sets of parents came programmed with flaws. My father never had the sense to come around after he left my mother, only a teenager, pregnant in a juvenile detention hall. The Gundersons treated me like an animal, keeping me essentially locked in the basement for my first few years as a foster child. And Dexter… Dexter was violent, to say the very least.

All of those families were broken from the beginning.

But maybe Camilla would write me something. Or Max. He's stern and serious, but he only wants me to behave. I don't think he holds any feelings of animosity towards me. I just don't know if we're yet close enough for any real sign of affection.

As Yuto's letter draws to a close, I wait for the next letter to be read.

It never comes.

The silence stretches. Nico puts down his final paper, then isn't really sure what to do. Trina, however, remains poised. She straightens her shoulders and flips her page. "That makes all the letters for tonight."

So no one wrote me anything. I'm equally embarrassed, hurt, and confused, even though I shouldn't have expected anything. Just my stupid optimism getting the best of me.

But I thought my parents would do something for me. They must love me a little. I mean, they didn't have to adopt me. They could have swept me along like the others, keeping me on an aimless path through life. Doesn't that mean anything?

"But we do have one last message in honor of the one boy whose letter was not read," she continues.

I look up. Around me, students are glancing around, trying to remember whose hasn't been read yet. Only those at my table immediately know it was me. Harper stares at me, but when I catch her, she quickly morphs her curious look into something more neutral. I'm sure her expression reflects my own confusion.

Trina clears her throat and reads from her script. "While Griffin Ellings did have something written from his adopted father, some new information arose surrounding his upbringing. And despite some of the good qualities that this Max attempted to relate, there were disparities in the overall story. And so we reached out to those closest to him and discovered the truth."

My stomach drops into my feet. No… no!

She clears her throat and reads the words of someone I prayed I'd never hear from again. "Griffin has not had an easy childhood. But we took a chance on the kid who was born in a prison to a teen stuck on heroin, the kid who was kept in a basement for the better part of five years in his first home and beaten like a dog in his second. He came to us at fourteen, strangely chipper and optimistic for a kid who, on paper, sounded like he'd been through absolute hell. We ought to have known it was only a matter of time before his true colors were revealed."

"This isn't true!" I finally am able to shout. "That's not me. Where's my letter, Trina?"

I push out of my chair, body quivering with fear and hatred and absolute terror at the thought of what she could reveal. But it seems like she's prepared for me. Dark, muscled arms wrap around me in an instant, filling in those familiar places where I used to feel rough hands choking and scratching me, and I lash out habitually. Quincy's larger and stronger than me. Just like Dexter was. I shudder reflexively. This all feels too real.

"Stop it," I growl. "Don't say anything else-"

Quincy punches a hand in front of my mouth. As much as I thrash, I can't break free. Can't speak. Can't stop anything that's happening to me.

Why is nobody helping me? Are they all too cowardly to stand up to the two biggest bullies in the school? Or are they blinded by their curiosity, tempted to find out exactly what it is that can make the drama kid really freak out?

I thought I left that past behind. But instead, I'm a little kid again, and I'm powerless. Utterly powerless to the words and actions of my abusers. And unassisted by those who stand idly by.

"Griffin Ellings proved to be a monster," she continues, echoing the words of my third foster father, the last one before Max. The first one who was ever really good to me. "We gave him everything he could ever wish for. We bought him nice things and tried to raise him like our own child. We sent him to private school. We trusted him with Elena, our daughter, who began to see him as a friend. And we never, ever tried to hurt him. Yet somehow that wasn't good enough for him."

I try to scream, but Quincy just stuffs his hand further in my mouth and jabs at my windpipe with an elbow. Soundless tears stream from my eyes as I thrash in his grip. How does she have this? Why is she doing this to me?

"It started with little arguments. He took offense to some of the comments I made. Then the arguments turned physical. Even as an adolescent he was tall and large, too big for me to fend off. He attacked me one night after we had a fight over his grades. The next time, he pulled one of the kitchen knives on me. I should have kicked him out then and there, but I was blind to how cruel and violent he was. I truly believed I could turn him around."

I squeeze my eyes shut. This isn't happening. If I can't see it, it isn't happening.

"Then he turned on Elena. My baby was just ten years old, skinny as a rail, so fragile and trusting. He could have killed her. Damn near broke her neck when he shoved her down the stairs."

It was an accident! I try to scream. No sound comes out.

"He changed our family in the worst way. Elena has never been the same. And so I hate to say it, but he deserves all the pain in the world that's coming to him, for all the pain he caused me and my entire family."

It takes several seconds for me to realize Trina's done speaking. Even then, my ears won't stop ringing.

There's a common fear a lot of people have about standing in front of people. Most people are uncomfortable being so vulnerable. They say they want nothing more than to sink into the floor and vanish when they have to give a speech, or read a passage from a book, or present a project in front of the class.

But that kind of anxiety is nothing. Because stuttering in front of people doesn't really make you feel like you're drowning. Mispronouncing a single word won't make you so sick and dizzy you feel like you're four hours into a battle with the flu. And a little bit of stage fright isn't the same as absolutely, unquestionably, wishing you were dead.

I keep my eyes shut, refusing to look at the faces around me. Because I know what I'll see. Disgust. Hatred. Pity. Or, the worst: fear. I've never been intimidating before. I'm just that loud, obnoxious kid who acts a few years too young and probably bothers some people, but can't really be taken seriously.

I'm still that kid. Somewhere. I have to be!

But on the outside, I'm someone new to the twenty-nine other people who thought they knew me.

I'm a monster.

Juliet Maudsley.
Peoria, Illinois.

This silence is tense and deafening.

I can't peel my eyes away from Griffin and the anguished look on his face. That's the expression of someone who's truly hurting. He's been betrayed in the worst way.

We all have our secrets, but they're private for a reason. Ours and only ours to give away. For Trina to share the darkest parts of Griffin's life to all of us, with him powerless to stop her, is one of the worst things she's ever done.

Besides, this can't be true. Can it?

Griffin is melting down. His body shudders with sobs, and when Quincy finally lets him go- seeing no reason to continue strangling him- he bolts for the exit. Two counselors, those assholes, move to block the door. But even when he's not in a mood, he's six foot and strong. They seem to think better of trying to stop him, and step aside to let him out to who knows where.

Monica frowns at me, looking like she wants to say something, but nobody knows how to break the silence.

What? I mouth to her.

Is that true? she mouths back.

I don't want to believe it, especially for someone like him. From what I've seen Griffin's always been so well-mannered and more or less obedient, not to mention goofy and pretty playful for someone who's accused of not only being abused, but attacking his foster parents. I can only shrug.

Shane catches my eye, and points a thumb towards the door. Outside. Talk.

I shake my head. This is not the time.

Later, he mouths.

Rosalie and Baptiste get to their feet- lazily, leisurely. Their pace is frustrating to me. Why aren't you mad? Why are you allowing this? They unceremoniously replace Trina at the front, letting her glide towards the back.

Weightless. Like she's on a high. But the only way she raised her pedestal was by pushing Griffin's down.

It's so unfair. He never deserved it. And something about the way the counselors hardly seem to react- no, there's Sawyer, shooting Trina a bitchy smirk- the way they seem almost proud of her, makes me wonder if they had anything to do with it.

No, no. That's crazy talk. Why would they even care what we do or say to each other? And it's no challenge to believe that Trina would pull this kind of crap simply for her own amusement.

I try to take a deep breath, but spikes line my lungs, making every breath feel ragged. I know exactly why I'm so upset.

Because I fear that I could easily be next.

Sawyer surveys the room, taking in our range of expressions. Someone bolder than myself might speak out. I don't. I don't want the spotlight on myself any more than Griffin did.

"Reflect on those tonight while you get ready for bed," he drawls. "You're free to go."

Our table shakily gets to our feet as the overhead lights flicker back on into a pale beige glow. "And try to get as much sleep as you can tonight, yeah? No doubt you're going to need it," he continues.

Slowly turning to leave, I barely catch Rosalie slapping Sawyer's wrist, giving him a stern glance. Wonder what that's about…

As we filter out of the hall, like sand slipping through the mouth of an hourglass, a sinking disappointment sets into my bones. At myself. At everyone else for refusing to stand up for him. Does anyone else even care?

Suddenly Shane pulls me aside and around the side of the lodge. I don't even wait to let him speak. "Why is nobody else outraged?" I ask him. "Griffin was just completely betrayed- Trina made up all those terrible things-"

"Shh. Juliet." Shane's voice is inexplicably calm, though his eyes register a flash of panic. "Listen to me."

"Sorry," I apologize.

"I don't think Trina was lying."

I can only stare at him, fixating on the yellowing tone around his eyes. "What? But-"

"I've roomed with Griffin the last two nights. Night one, I couldn't sleep. It was maybe three in the morning. Quincy was out cold. And Griffin was talking in his sleep, having some kind of nightmare. There was no way I couldn't not hear it. He was begging, kind of whimpering, I didn't know what about. But when I was up the next morning, early, I saw his face as I left. Even asleep, his eyes were still swollen with tears."

I squeeze my eyes shut, wincing. "He never acted like anything was wrong…" I say quietly.

"Why would he?" he scoffs. "You know what he's like. So loud, damn near obnoxious half the time, but we let him do his thing because he's funny. What do you want him to do? Be a sniveling little crybaby all the time? Curl up in a ball when someone points a sharpened pencil at him? No."

"But this wouldn't have happened this way if he'd just told somebody. We could have learned to… to accept him…"

I trail off, knowing I'm spewing the most hypocritical lie of my life. Haven't I always hidden my real self away to protect myself from criticism? I've never let anyone at school know about my secret obsession with online games like Ragnarok Online. No doubt I'd be treated like some sort of geek or weirdo. So I always played late at night, long after my roommate fell asleep. Some afternoons, I'd lock the door and pretend not to hear her knocking, lie to her later that I'd been napping, when really I was spending hours clearing my quest log or chatting with players on the other side of the globe. As far as anyone knew or knows, I'm entirely normal. Just your average Starbucks-obsessed, Foodstagram-running, selfie-snapping girl.

In my view, it's far better to be a stereotype than an outcast.

Maybe I've been paranoid, but I never wanted to risk being outed for my weird hobbies. Because I know the way the world works, probably better than most. It's harsh. Kids are cruel and they don't like those of us who don't conform. And at a school like Haversmith, where it's every person for themselves, neither Griffin nor I would have stood a chance.

"Forget it," I say. These are dangerous thoughts. Now is no time to let my guard down.

Shane blows a breath out into the heavy night air. "You're dropping this?"

"It's late, Shane," I sigh. My eyes drift heavenward to the ivory sliver of moon above. "I need to let it go if I want to get any rest."

"Just remember-" he starts, then stops himself.

"What?"

He shakes his head. "It's nothing. Just... this doesn't make him any different, right? We're all hiding something. It's not fair to let a secret change your opinion of someone, especially tonight."

I only nod. I don't want to think about this anymore; I just want to put the night behind me.

But as I start toward my room, bidding Shane goodnight, his words stay with me. We're all hiding something.

I've lied my whole life. When will it finally catch up with me?

Exactly how large of a hole have I dug for myself?

Jackson Stroud.
Sands Point, New York.

"Would you move your feet for me, Alex?"

Sprawled out across my bunk- my bunk- because he's too drained to climb into his own, Alex grunts. "Tell me why I should."

"Because you're blocking my toiletry bag."

"You'll survive one night without brushing your teeth," he says, voice muffled by his pillow.

I've barely survived three without my White Strips. Although, somehow I don't think that sentiment will help the matter much.

"Please, Alex."

"You want your toothpaste, make me move."

"Make you move? I'd watch your words, Grim, unless you want him snapping your neck like Griffin did," Giles chimes in.

We both freeze. Giles flashes us an odd grin from his bunk as he puffs his pillow.

"Not cool," I say.

"Oh, come on. He had it coming. I mean, kid tries to kill someone, of course he deserves some hell, right?"

"No one said he tried to kill someone..." Alex mutters.

"He pulled a knife. He pushed a girl-"

While arguing is definitely my strong subject- in fact, I love a good debate more than almost anything- I can't get into this when there's something so paramount weighing on my mind. "This isn't the point," I say, keeping my tone calm and even, although my heartbeat shudders in my chest. "Aren't you guys a little freaked out about the letters? Not just Griffin's. Don't you remember any of the others? They all sounded so... final. Simone's letter. Listen to how it ended. 'In retrospect, we never should have let you out of our sight.'"

"Probably because she's a fucked-up attention whore who nobody likes," Giles says.

"I think it's more serious than that," I say, pacing the room. My bare toes clutch the threads of our raggedy carpet, and I find myself wishing desperately to be home, for the first time in a long time. But why does home feel so far away? So distant, so unreachable... I'll be back in a few days. Won't I? "Harper's letter. Her... dad, I'll assume, told her that he 'realizes now that he never could have changed her.' Why now? What makes now any different than yesterday? Or a week ago?"

"You're overthinking this," Alex says. But some shadow has fallen over his face as I've made my points. This doesn't sit right with him either.

"And you want to talk about Griffin, Giles? His is the strangest of the bunch." I clench my fingers into fists, trying to hold onto my senses. Every breath feels more shallow than the last, but I refuse to get flustered, even as sweaty and stuffy as the room feels. You're fine. Everyone's fine.

But I don't truly believe that, do I?

"Why would anyone want to reach out to a family who despises him right before graduation?" I continue, knowing there's no sensible answer. "Just to taunt him or torment him? Say what you will about Haversmith, but no one with any authority is cruel enough to do that. Especially not when everyone else is hearing probably the nicest things they've ever been told by their previously uninvolved parents." Myself included. "And why would they even have anything to say to him after what he allegedly did?"

"Hold that thought," Alex says, finally getting to his feet. I almost dive for my bag, but luckily remain poised enough to pluck it up with some sort of dignity. "I've got to open a window or something. I feel like I'm being smoked out."

He rattles the door handle, but the thing won't budge. Locked. Why are they always trying to lock us in?

Frustrated, Alex climbs on the front edge of my bed, rips the curtains aside, and strains himself to pull the window up. But it's practically frozen in place.

I can feel sweat breaking out across my forehead. "Let me," I try to say confidently, knowing I'm certainly stronger. I have to maintain a good physique to look this good all the time. And I hate to say it, but Alex just seems frail. "Let me," I repeat, but it comes out raspy, my throat inexplicably dry. What I'd do for a warm cup of herbal tea...

I pull against the window with all my strength, but it feels like it's cemented down.

"I can't..." I finally say, turning around. I feel useless, suddenly fatigued.

"Why is it so fucking... hot..." Giles groans, rubbing his eyes.

Alex just sits against the side of my bed, defeated. Motionless.

"Alex, get up," I have to say, stifling a yawn. I really am exhausted...

"I... I can't. I'm so..."

That's when he goes limp, sliding to the floor.

"Alex?" I whisper, my voice incapable of riding above a croak. My pulse pounds in my veins. Something's up. Something's happening. I knew I was right, but I didn't really want to be!

I struggle to my feet, my body inexplicably heavy. With the last of my strength, I reach for the door. But my palms, slick with perspiration, slide from the handle.

I crumple on the floor. Powerless. Useless. Unable to process anything but the swirling image of my room around me, and my overwhelming terror for the unknown.

As my vision drains to black, I see one last thing.

The door opening, just a crack. And the tip of a pointed heel as a woman enters the room.

Set You Free by 3OH!3.

And with this chapter, the first half of TMDHTM comes to a close. Finally, we're getting to the bulk of the story.

Next chapter- the official/unofficial bloodbath- will be organized a little... differently. All you need to know is, kids are actually going to be dying now. Like, for real. Get ready, because it's definitely not going to be pretty. ('It' refers both to the actual killing, and the writing that will be attempting to describe it. Proceed with caution.)

Oh, and Benefactors are gonna be revealed. Just as soon as I can figure out who goes with who. Damn the half of all submitters who wanted Baptiste for making this way more complicated than it should be.

One more thing- if you drowned in this flood of backstories (sorry) and are confused/pissed off/idfk, I can always clarify through PM. I'm sure there's something in there that's at least a little unclear.