Please be advised that a trigger warning is in effect for descriptions of sexual assault in Chanel's first POV from "It's such a throwaway comment..." until "And to think...", and mentions of sexual assault in Brandon's POV from "But Chanel and I..." until "Her glare tightens".

The friends I've had to bury, they keep me up at night.

CHAPTER 24.
BREAK.

Chanel Agresti.
Scarsdale, New York.

Other than the tentative lilt of my body, lifting and sinking just an inch with every stifled breath, I don't dare move.

Trying to pull a gun on Brandon, at this point, is at best a fifty-fifty. I can't be sure I'd beat him to the chase, and then there's the tiny detail that I've only used a gun once, on Alaina, and that was at point-blank range. Realistically, there's no confidence to be had in my aim. But on the other hand, I'm not sure that I want to wait for him to make the first move, either.

It really is just us. I'm captivated by the sudden sense of being wholly alone for the first time since Seraphina died, but this is worse. So much worse. Chills course across my body below the fibers of my sweatshirts, like energy through a live wire, at the realization that Brandon could kill me at any minute, just catch me in a mental lapse and render everything I've survived through, for the past five days—and hell, even before that- entirely obsolete.

I hardly trust myself to open my mouth for fear of being sick from nerves, but like I have no control, the words come out anyways. "Are you surprised? That it's us, I mean?"

Brandon takes a moment to consider, still eying me, deservedly not trusting my behavior. In turn, I keep an eye on his hands, on any sudden movements, but he doesn't make to shoot. "Not entirely," he admits. "When it was us together yesterday, I figured at that point, it'd probably be us at the end."

"Unless…"

He frowns. "Unless, nothing. At that point, Blake was already dead. Unless something crazy happened to one of us, all signs pointed towards the two of us. I guess… I guess I should be glad it's not Blake." Pain flickers into his eyes before he blinks it away. "Makes it easier, now."

"Flattered I mean that much to you," I say dryly, although I don't feel much different. What if it had been me and Seraphina or Eimer? Or, hell, someone like Gianna? The thought is so impossible to conceptualize I throw it away the second it occurs to me. And, anyways, after earlier, I can't say there isn't a divide between us. Maybe it does make this easier.

Brandon sighs heavily. My stomach lurches, but he's just rolling his shoulders back. "If it helps," he says, eyes back on mine, "I'm not really in a huge hurry to get this over with. I mean, we've got two days, don't we? Not like I've got any big plans. You got anywhere to be?"

"Afraid I'm fully booked. Was planning on getting out of here, taking a three-day nap, then going straight to therapy."

"So responsible," he says. I'm not really sure why I'm indulging him, but hell, it's not like I'm in a huge hurry to fight him, either. Compared to Alaina, Gabrielle, and Madison, Brandon's probably going to make things real messy. And that's best-case scenario. I'm painfully aware that all it takes is one quick shot on his part and I'm dead before I can even say "Jeffrey Epstein didn't kill himself." "A shame, though. I was thinking we might take a break, go grab some brunch, and maybe discuss things over eggs benny and a blueberry blintz. Come to a decision diplomatically, you know?"

"You know what?" I say. "I'm sure I can find some time for that. Given that that's a guaranteed win for me and all."

Brandon just laughs. "Right. What were our criteria again? Killing someone who didn't even try to fight back?"

"God, you just can't get over that, can you? At least I drew blood," I say. "Considering you just sat there bitching about it. By the way, I'm not the one who got stabbed twice, either."

"Because you're just perfectly healthy too, aren't you?" Suddenly he kicks out at me; caught off guard, expecting to react to his hands, not his legs, I'm knocked off-balance. His foot comes down on my bad knee and I dig my fingers into the handles of my weapons just to keep from screaming. "Guess not."

I force myself to keep my eyes on him, even when every instinct wants me to squeeze them shut against the instantaneous pain. But he's not ready to really fight, though, just eyes me with an air of disdain while I catch my breath, trying to keep my expression steady. "Low blow… motherfucker."

"Oh, come on, now," he says. "Alaina's not that much of an old hag, is she?"

It's such a throwaway comment that I almost write it off as another one of Brandon's unsavory remarks, one I'd normally call out if we weren't in such a life-or-death situation where his language doesn't really matter, compared to what's actually at stake. Except, it does. Because in seconds that afternoon comes roaring back like a tidal wave, slow-building at first before it shatters against the coast. I'd been so focused on myself, our last day at camp, snapping at Trina for no real reason other than—what? To get needlessly involved? To invite myself into someone else's fight, for no other reason than to be seen? Regardless, it was a wholly selfish decision. And selfishly, until now, I haven't given much mind to the layers of what really happened.

My mouth suddenly dry, I force out, "I can't believe you did that to her."

"Nah, Eimer's a big girl. She can handle it."

"Not Eimer. Of course you wouldn't—oh, my God." My stomach plummets so sharply that my shoulders slump, my throat tightening against the reality to which I've been so disgustingly blind. No, no, no. "Alaina. You literally—you made her fuck you to get back at Eimer and so you wouldn't spill whatever stupid secrets you somehow knew about."

Brandon just stares at me, perplexed. "Wait, are you kidding? Alaina wanted it."

"No, she had a boyfriend, you idiot—"

"And she was fucking her roommate at the same time. So that tells you how much she cared about him."

"I—" I'm nearly blinded. Because now Wes is so vividly back in my mind, his nails digging into my arms, his obtrusive odor clinging to my skin. Fingers wrapped in my hair, tugging at my throat, covetous, domineering, insatiable for what he deemed his for the taking. "No, no, you coerced her, she said it—she said it wasn't her choice—"

He shakes his head. "And that was a lie."

"Shut up!" Tears, pathetic, messy tears, are swelling in my eyes. As it is, I'm barely holding onto my emotions. "It wasn't. I know it wasn't. She's not going to lie about something like that. She gains nothing. I swear to God. It's the same fucking thing with—with—"

With Wes. I would know. Because I didn't say anything. I didn't know how. For months instead of pushing back I turned against myself instead until Gianna, of all people, saw the cuts and flipped. It's her who demanded I cut Wes off, forcing me to rediscover myself, find my worth outside of my body and my social position, and stop settling for shitheads just to raise my reputation.

I don't realize how hard I'm crying until the tears drip into my voice. "You want to know, Brandon?" I snarl. "You want to know why I don't fuck with Wes anymore? Why I'm glad he died?" Salt converts to acid in my throat, singeing every word. "Because he's a fucking rapist, Brandon. He took advantage of me and it nearly fucking killed me, you dick. And here you are, just as bad, making girls sleep with you for your silence. News flash, motherfucker: that's rape, too."

Rage and humiliation duel behind my eyes, fogging the edges of Brandon's form, as memories surge back into focus even as I try to bury them: Wes, shoving himself into me on top of my dorm bed, my former safe place, my only home at an academy hundreds of miles from my closest family. Scratches and bruises tattooed into my throat, earning me vile judgments and cocked eyebrows that I had to either ignore or go along with, because what else do you do? How do you tell anyone that their golden boy, douchey as he is, has made you weak? How do you look at yourself in the mirror and tell yourself that, when all you've ever pretended to be was strong?

You don't. You swallow your shame and attempt to disregard it. You try talking to someone who you pay to solve your problems for you but all she does is jot it all down and tell you it's okay not to be okay, except it isn't really, because not being okay falsely justifies how you don't stay up and study anymore but instead spend your evenings and nights sleeping to hide your misery, or trying to, lying rigid in bed, panic seizing your body as you fear the day to come. It means you're failing all but one of your classes even though you don't really go out anymore, just stare at your books with a glazed-over gaze and ask yourself when you stopped being someone who cared where she was going. It means you don't question the contempt you feel for the way your body's shaped in all the wrong ways, even when it's beneficial when you're in shorts and court shoes because the snide comments you get aren't worth it, when they're calling you dyke in the same breath they use to call you a slut, as if that makes sense when they know who's fucking you. And they know. He makes it oh so clear, even if he weren't marking you as his.

And to think I didn't kill him when I essentially had the green light to do so. But I remember exactly who did: Juliet. And then Monica killed her. And then Monica died, the chain ending with her, which means my only link to him now is through Brandon, who's always called him a friend. Who, more likely than not, will still side with him over me, because to him Wes is just one of his boys. Because it's not like I up and begged Brandon to ditch Wes, but in his eyes I probably seemed like a crazy ex, whereas Wes enabled Brandon's comments, his behavior, and for that reason, he continued to gravitate towards him.

I force myself to meet Brandon's eyes—to hold him accountable, somewhat, for what he did to Alaina and Eimer. What, by association, he did to me, and may have even condoned. Because I know what they said to each other when I was around; that likely doesn't even scratch the surface of the slimy, snaky shit they hissed about in private.

"So," I snarl. "There's your fucking answer. You happy?"

My chest still heaves with sobs I force down; I've got to get myself under control. I'm emotional, far too emotional, crying like a pussy when he could slaughter me at any time. The tears remain though, not quite clouding his stony expression. And I find myself, inanely, entirely jealous.

He was broken by Blake. He's been hurt far more immediately, and yet he still can harden himself.

How much better would I be if I could just feel nothing?

Brandon Prescott.
San Francisco, California.

I find myself questioning, conflicted, even as I try to subdue it.

Chanel's hurt is real. That much is evident. I told myself I wouldn't do what she's doing, let my emotions overwhelm me, not even for Blake, because it makes her vulnerable. I could kill her, right now, and it'd be over in an instant.

But I'm torn. Because I've been friends with Chanel, and I've been friends with Wes, too. Where Chanel and I were never the type to really hold any serious conversation, Wes found me to be a confidant. He spoke to me more about himself and about Chanel than probably anyone, about things I could never, ever breathe to her. Especially now.

But Chanel and I were close, too. And yet I can't afford to acknowledge that, can't afford to empathize. And where there's care for her, even more immediately, there's confusion and hurt on my end. Frankly, I'm caught off guard by her accusations. Because I'm a player, but I'm not a rapist. I've used girls. I've coerced them. But does that make me an abuser? Does that make me criminal?

"That's a big accusation," I say. "Like, I'm so sorry about Wes—I don't know if that was a miscommunication—but, to say that about Alaina and me? First of all, you weren't involved—"

"I was right there after it happened—"

"After!" I cut her off. "After it happened! You don't know what happened before or during and honestly, it doesn't even have to do with you, so why is it your business?"

Chanel cackles, her voice coming out in a strangled attempt at astonishment. "Oh, because now you suddenly care about what's your business? Right, you fucking hypocrite, riddle me this: why do you get to care about what happened with me and Wes and then turn right around and attack me for wanting to know the same about you and Alaina? Especially where I have a legitimate reason to be worried for her."

Fury flares hot into my cheeks. "It's entirely different, and you know it. You're attacking me, saying there's something wrong with me. And yeah. I pushed you to say that, but it's not like you gave any inclination that it was going to be like that—"

"That's not my responsibility to do, though!"

"Then it's not fair to blame me for making you say it!"

I regret knowing. I regret asking, but now that I know, I can't get it off my mind. To an extent, I can understand her fear—in her position, she has a right to be worried. But she's wrong. Wrong about me. Because I'm not bad. I'm not a bad person.

Everything I've ever done has just been for fun. It's not that serious. For her to make that accusation, so blindly, so brashly—it taints how I've always seen her.

"How could you accuse me of that?" I ask her. "You know me. You know I'm better than that. Hell, you know I don't need to do something like that, anyways. I would never do that—how dare you?"

Her glare tightens. "And now it's about you again. When did you start taking everything so fucking personally?"

That sense of rage that's been building up inside me since Madison—probably since Blake, or even before, if I'm being honest, but how could I tell?— is brimming, overflowing. "You're fucking crazy," I say, guilt gnawing at me even as the release in my chest far overpowers it. "Fucking crazy. Wes was right. Now you're trying to say shit to guilt me into, what, letting you win this? That's not going to happen."

"Alright, bastard." Chanel's skin flushes, her face curling into a mask of decided hatred. "We are not going to talk crazy again because you're the one who sat on Madison for two whole minutes whining about how much you wished Blakey was here. And hey, you caught me. Made all that shit up just because I didn't think I could beat you unless you let me. Except—I do. I'll fucking kill you right now and I bet I'll enjoy it."

That's not what I said. The fact she's misconstruing it to fuel her own agenda is boiling my fucking blood. "Do it, then."

I know she won't. Because it's just like Gabrielle said—she's all bark, no bite. Talks a big game but can't back it up. But I'm not afraid to take my shot or hurt her. Not anymore.

As expected, Chanel just narrows her eyes. "You really don't think you did anything wrong, do you?"

That's not even worth a response. Her condescension is so nauseating because it reeks of hypocrisy—like she's never done a thing wrong in her life, either. I shouldn't have dragged this out. I should have gotten a bullet or three in her before she started acting all high and self-important. I flex my fingers, just slightly, to regrip my gun, to rectify the slipperiness of my palms.

Chanel notices. "Oh, that's not fair. Thought you were past sneaking up on people. Can't we do this out in the open, or are we too cowardly for that?"

"Fine," I say, my lip curling. "We've both got weapons. Let's make this even. Stand up, and we'll do this nice and formal. Go ahead."

I step back a few yards. Chanel pauses—I can read the uncertainty in her lips—before she slowly pushes herself up to her feet. She holds her position, but I derive a certain bit of pleasure from the way she winces. "Okay. This is it, then."

"This is it," I nod.

"On three," she says, and inhales deeply. "One—"

I raise and fire. She's shifted, anticipating my movement, but she's not quick enough. The bullet sinks into her right side and she wavers, her aim off. Her shot merely grazes my shoulder.

Heart bursting in my ears, I shoot again. Same spot, right into her ribs.

Chanel sways and falls.

I stride towards her and pull the gun from her fingers, tossing it aside. I push her onto her back and draw my knife.

But not to deliver a killing blow. Not yet.

Because as I pin her down, feeling her struggle underneath me, I feast on the feeling of finality. Days of strife, of loss, have culminated in this very moment. It's nothing to be proud of, but it's something to be appreciated. This is where this hell ends.

Chanel grits her teeth, but my body's pressed on hers, one hand holding her neck into the ground, slowing her breathing. "Can't do anything fair, can you?" she says, strained. "Griffin, then me. Imagine—" She jerks her head out from underneath me. "Imagine having any sense of respect for anyone else but yourself. No, I want you to imagine it."

It'd be so easy to drag the knife along her throat, just the way Gabrielle did to Blake, the way Chanel did to Gabrielle. I could bring things full circle in an instant, avenge Blake, and end this. But not yet. Not yet.

Why not?

"Feel free to drag this out," she says. "I'll even stop struggling if that makes you spare me a little longer. Or is there a proper way I should be getting killed?"

I see red and drive the knife down through her skin. Not through her throat, but her abdomen, dragging the blade aside like she's a cut of meat. And I feel her scream before I hear it, roaring through her torso: guttural, brutal, animalistic, like she's being slaughtered.

Which she is. Because I don't know how else to cope with her accusations, which are so brazen and so bold and so wrong. Because I could never be that person. She knows that, she has to. And if she doesn't… that's even worse, that she thinks so little of me. And I don't know how to manage my pain without causing even more.

Blood soaks through her top in seconds, draining from her ribs and lower stomach. I wrench the blade out and she screams again, this one raw and throaty with tears that swell into her eyes. Somehow my own eyes are burning but I have no time for empathy.

If she would just look away, I could finish this.

But she won't take her eyes off of me.

Chanel Agresti.
Scarsdale, New York.

I refuse to close my eyes.

If I close my eyes, the shock will kick in. And then it will overcome me. And then I will die.

But if I look down and see what he's done to me, I know I'll lose what fragile hold on reality I've hardly been sustaining.

My only option is to look at him and watch him murder me. And that option's just as bad.

Brandon regrips the knife, his hands slick with blood. Stomach coiling, I twist under him, but it's like my body has shut down. It knows it's useless to fight. It knows because it's been here before.

"You about done?" he says.

"You want me to make this easy on you?" I say, even though it's all I can do to keep my eyes focused on him as another wave of agony rolls through my stomach, let alone try to fight him off me from his position. "Not happening."

Without warning Brandon drives the knife towards my throat, wildly slashing at me. I just barely move my head out of the way, curling to try to get him off-balance in the same movement, because he's got one hand propped on my chest while the other grips his weapon. Gritting my teeth I kick with everything I have left. Pain surges through my ribs and my knee but he loses his grip on my front. We roll sideways, me trying to gain control, him trying not to lose it.

I keep a stiff, desperate hold on my knife. It's the only thing grounding me, like when Seraphina and I were blasted from the earth and I had only her watch to hold onto while everything around us shattered. There's a quick slash on my arm as Brandon and I grapple and, in a panic, I send my knife out, slicing into his forehead. Blood streams down his face and his eyes widen before he throws his fist at me. I don't turn in time to avoid getting hit in the jaw.

The blow jars me and he slices at my wrist. Reflexively I lose my grip, my knife dropping as pain surges through my left hand. I risk one glance at my wrist to see blood and tendons, split and oozing.

Instantaneously, panic and adrenaline electrify my body. Because I can't lose, I can't. He can't win. Brandon can't beat me. If there is any goodness or fairness left in this broken, wretched world, he can't win.

Fear and fury fuel my every motion now. My wrist screams but I strike with both hands at his neck, his chest, trying to split skin, break bone. If anything's held me back in my skirmishes before, rules or expectations or residual fears of image, it's far gone, now. My nails claw at his bandages, strike where he has two stab wounds, tear the gauze from his chest. Brandon tugs away reflexively but, emboldened, I sink my fingers into the open wounds, clawing at their ragged edges.

Brandon holds in his screams but thrashes to get away. His lack of control allows me to press him down and push on top of him. But I don't have time to grab for his knife before he gets out, "Oh, you want to do all the work? Should have said so before I got on top."

I'd spit in his stupid, horrible face if he wouldn't make something hideous out of that, too. I just catch the beginnings of a smirk before he's thrown me off him again, too easily. And I'm reminded I'm running out of time. Because for every second I spend fighting him, trying to find my opportunity to take control, I'm losing more blood. If we keep struggling, he'll outlast me based on biology alone.

He's favoring his knife. I don't know if he has anything left in his gun, but I'd rather not risk it being empty. Then there's my knife, lost somewhere in the dust. I can't locate it in the darkness, even if I could control where our bodies go.

I can't kill with my hands alone. Can't strangle him, not when he can easily push me off. Can't rely on digging my fingers into his wounds when he could easily incapacitate me with the same maneuver.

Fuck!

I end up with my back on the earth, Brandon swinging blindly with his knife, and I know there's only one way he'll stop: if he meets skin.

My limbs go limp and I twist just enough for his blade to enter under my collarbone.

It's the panic that strikes first, instantaneous and overwhelming, panic that I've just halved my odds of living. But I've predicted right, too. Brandon hesitates briefly, surprised at the sensation as much as he is at my sudden surrender. I grasp up with my right hand for his grip, clawing for control over the blade.

Then the pressure. A second later and the shock of the wound is drowned out by a sense of heaviness. Desperation strikes and I tear at his fingers, digging my nails into his knuckles.

Fire in my chest. My breath, ragged and strangled. Brandon tears the blade out and there's warmth coursing down my chest, but I don't let go of his fingers. And when the pain comes, it's sharp and piercing and instant. And when it hits, I scream.

My voice shatters the night, a war cry, grating and splintering as all of my pain explodes out of me, of five days, of two years, of deaths and losses and hurt that can't have been for nothing, it can't have been. I scream into his face and he's stunned, his resolve cracking at my torment.

I knew. I knew he still fucking cared, even if he'd claim he didn't, that my hurt was mine and mine alone. But we were friends, once.

And I can use that, too.

I drive my left elbow into his ribs and his grip relents just enough for me to force the blade into my fist. As he grasps for my hand, I plunge the knife deep into the side of his neck and wrench it out before he can pull away.

Brandon lets go of me, his hands coming up to grasp at his neck. Blood spurts from between his fingers and he chokes, panic lighting his eyes.

He reaches weakly for the knife but I hold it to my chest, pressing my hands into my collarbone to try to staunch the blood flow. I kick at him and even as he struggles to keep me down, I push myself out from under him, holding my arms close to me, trying to seal my wounds, but there are too many—my stomach, my chest, my ribs, my wrist…

Needles prick at my lungs, my legs, as I try to suck in air. But each breath is shallower and more strained than the last.

Brandon's worse, though. He has to be. I just have to hold on longer.

Or maybe I can't. Maybe I wasn't fast enough.

Even in the rising dawn, my sight's dimming. The night should be getting clearer. Instead, the foliage blurs, a faded kaleidoscope of greens and greys above. I fight to fixate on a break in the leaves, where the green yields to deep indigo, but my vision fogs and bends.

Maybe we'll both die here. At this point, I doubt they even care if there's a winner. If they hated us enough to force us to kill until one is left, what's stopping them from letting that last one just bleed out like the rest? They wanted us to suffer. They wanted us to pay for whatever heinous crimes we committed to deserve this, and we've given them that much and more. So what's left to give?

It's then I realize Brandon's silent. There's been no announcement, but even with my stunted senses, my hearing blurred, I've heard nothing. As much as I dare against the pressing pain along every inch of my body, I lift my head, craning my neck to look for him.

His body is still and drenched in his blood. His eyes are waxy, glassed over. He's dead.

He's dead.

And just as quickly as all sensations paused as if with bated breath, all my pain comes roaring back. I lose my breath as my body falls limp against the earth. I'm too tired to move, to even try to fight against the dizziness that surges through my skull or the tears that ignite at the edges of my eyes, too sudden to smother. And without me even thinking, entirely physiologically, it seems, my chest bursts open with sobs, asphyxiating, overpowering me. With each wracking wave comes a new surge of pain, but I can't contain it. I'm at the complete mercy of my emotions.

Because Brandon's dead. Brandon and Madison, just feet from us, and everyone else who I can't even conceptualize right now. Brandon's dead. Everyone's dead. Everyone's dead but me and if the loneliness was suffocating when it was just us two, it's crushing me now.

In the silence between waves of sobs where my breath has just faded, I see my watch blink alive on my right wrist, which still grips the knife. I try to wipe my blood from the screen but even shifting is agonizing, so I only hear Baptiste, speaking from above a vast, deep ocean.

"Don't move, Chanel. They're almost there."

I choke out another sob. I'm dying, I'm dying, too. They won't get to me in time.

But where my resolve wavers, his order is clear. "Hold on, girl. Hold on."

And I fight to keep my eyes open.

ilomilo by Billie Eilish.

2nd: Brandon Prescott. Killed by Chanel Agresti.
Victor: Chanel Agresti.

Huge shocker there. Congrats to Chanel, and shoutout to her creator for such an outstanding, well-rounded character!

In all seriousness, this chapter was definitely very emotional to write and engross myself in, not only due to its sensitive nature but because at this point it's very real that I've only got one chapter left after this one. Four years of writing, five overall of working and drafting and learning from mistakes, and here we are with a victor. Thanks again very much to the lovely optimisms for looking this over and advising me on some of the technical descriptions and ideas here.

There's a much more sappy and extensive AN to come next chapter- I'm purposely cutting this one short so I don't go overboard before I officially finish this- but for now, to all my friends and readers, thank you for being a part of this, no matter what form that has taken. It's been a hell of a ride.