The Murdered Do Haunt Their Murderers

by sock-feet-and-stirring-sand

"If you truly believed that you'd be enjoying your last days of school out in the mountains, playing games with your classmates... you were sadly mistaken. This is no game." AU-SYOT set in 2014, adapted from JabberjayHeart's Darkest Desires.

25. Darkest

Don't think your money's gonna buy my time
Well, who the hell wants to live a lie?

---

CHAPTER 25.
DARKEST.

---

Chanel Agresti.
Scarsdale, New York.

---

The limousine quakes beneath my body, tires rocking along the pavement, road roaring under the rubber. That vibration alone makes me queasy, the sway not so much therapeutic as jarring. Every time I try to doze, I wake up again in a half-panic, my stomach lurching.

I don't want to be in this vehicle. I don't want to be here, and not simply because I'd rather be home, or somewhere fucking familiar. Even though it's been almost three weeks, part of my mind has me convinced I'm back on that bus, heading up and into the mountains to repeat this whole nightmare over again.

I keep checking the windows for any inclination that we're headed elsewhere, but they're blacked out, either to dissuade curious gazes or to keep me quite literally in the dark about where, precisely, we're heading. All I have to ground me is the angle of our tread and some lingering sense of rationality that says it's over, I'm not going back.

Maybe if I could watch the road my stomach wouldn't be in such tight knots, although it probably doesn't help that I'm on a shit ton of painkillers, either. In the days post-surgery, I could press a button, call a nurse in, and he'd administrate more oxycodone through my IV. That immediate relief, like every limb was heavy, made for instant, blissful sleep. It was also the only way to cope with the soreness that spreads through my whole body, even now, exacerbated by the sudden bumps and lurches of the vehicle, setting my heart skipping. I took a dose before we got in here, expecting it to knock me out, but two hours later, I'm conscious and I have no idea how far we are.

I'd ask the driver first if I didn't hate her so much, whoever she is, some nameless bitch who was hired and probably doesn't deserve my wrath, except someone's got to get it and it's not going to be me. And I don't really want to ask Baptiste, don't want to depend on him for anything, even though it's harder than ever to manage myself on my own. Instead, my fingers twitch and pinch at the splint on my left wrist, tugging at a loose, cottony thread until it splits.

"Don't," Baptiste says, eying me from over his phone.

I smirk, taking pleasure in pissing him off. "Fine. We about there?"

"Twenty minutes," he says simply, shifting the slightest amount in his seat. Everything from the way he crosses his legs to the way he leans, unbothered, against the seat back suggests he's far more comfortable than I am, and rightfully so. He hasn't had four surgeries in as many days, has no reason to fear the unknown as I do. "How are you feeling?"

"Tired. Sore. Ready to nap again."

"You just woke up."

"And what about it?" Part of it's boredom, the fact I can't even look out the windows to distract myself, and part of it really is exhaustion. Coming back from being half-dead will do that to you, I suppose. "I've been through hell, you know."

"Keep milking it," he says, and I make a face. "Kidding. Sort of. You'll be able to rest when we get there."

Mostly satisfied, I lean back, breathing gently through my nose. It's less painful now, though still laborious in the sense that there's still an unshakeable pressure above my lungs. If I don't think too much about it, it's easy enough to get used to.

Twenty minutes stretches on as I try to doze but find myself glancing back at Baptiste every few minutes, still immersed in whoever he's messaging or whatever he's reading. There's little I wouldn't give just to have my phone back into my hands, both for the normalcy and to talk to someone, anyone, besides Baptiste or another doctor. But a small screen coupled with my motion sickness and my general medication-induced nausea would probably spell disaster anyways. So I keep my eyes closed until, finally, the limo slides to a stop.

I shift in my seat, stretching my good leg as best I can, shaking the stiffness from my shoulders. Baptiste waits for the door to open for him before he steps out into the parking garage, cleanly and well-practiced. He offers his hand to me and I debate before remembering I physically can't get out on my own. I grip his hand and he lifts me out, though I make sure to quickly release him as soon as I'm sturdy on my own two feet.

The driver pulls my crutches out, next. A wheelchair was easier, especially where the crutch exacerbates the swollenness around my left shoulder and collar, right near that healing stab wound, especially where any sort of strain is painful and draining on my whole body, injured or not. But when given the choice, I bit my tongue on my complaints. I don't need to be seen being wheeled through a corridor like some sort of charity case. And the last person I need to be doing that is one of the bastards that got me into this mess.

Baptiste is silent, stepping carefully beside me as the limo pulls away and fades around the corner. Under the artificial glow of the yellowed overheads, his features are shaded as he glances to either side, but the underground is empty as designed.

He taps at the top button as I take in the relative vastness of the parking garage. Compared to my week and a half between sterile hallways and a variety of narrow, suffocating rooms, the expanse is disorienting, its damp, oily odor so unlike the clinical reek of my hospital scrubs, of pine or sweat or smoke. I freeze, unshakably captivated, until the blinking tone of the elevator's arrival grounds me.

Baptiste takes us a floor from the very top. The ascent of the elevator is smooth but suffocating. As much as I abhor Baptiste for his relation to what I've been through, I'm begrudgingly grateful for his presence, ensuring I stay upright as the elevator jerks to a stop, my head ringing with the motion.

"This way," he says, as the doors slide open with a chime.

I follow him down the carpeted corridor, the only sound the creaking of my crutches and the howling of a distant, heavy breeze. There's a window at the far end of the hall, but from my vantage point I can't see much beyond a blur of building tops among a cornflower backdrop. He pauses at an iron-footed door, sliding a slim keycard into a near-invisible slot. The door releases with a click.

A spacious suite awaits us, wide windows taking up the corner of the far wall to display the sprawling city below, buildings pressed together around a wide, bridged river. Sleek leather couches allow the flatscreen a wide berth aside a gleaming kitchen area, its counters and cabinets sharp and defined. An open doorway on the room's right side previews a bright, expansive bedroom. Luxurious. I've had worse.

Baptiste leans against the doorway as I go in, carrying an air of relaxation, boredom even, though he's positioned intentionally to prevent me from leaving. He toys with the card, pinching it between his middle and pointer finger. "I'll check in again in a few hours. Till then—rest up, wash up, whatever you feel like. Oh, and—" He tosses a baggy with two white tablets onto the counter and checks his watch. "Your next dose. Take these in an hour. Sound good?"

I roll my eyes, inching back into the open space behind me. "Whatever. Thanks."

He steps back, the door latching shut between us; locked from the outside, evidently. Finally, blissfully alone, I swing myself into the bedroom, finally dropping my crutches, my armpits raw with the effort. But I try to cover myself as I strip out of my shorts and t-shirt and into one of the robes displayed in the walk-in, painfully aware there are any number of hidden cameras in here to keep tabs on my behavior, ensure I'm not, I don't know, trying to kill myself or something. Still, it's the first real sense of quiet I've had in a good while. While my days in hospital beds began to blur together, I can rest more comfortably knowing no one's going to wake me to stick a needle in the crook of my arm or check my blood pressure for the fourth time in ten hours.

As I curl down to tug the covers over me, though, my fingers begin to stiffen, chills crawling along the back of my neck, even though the sun's shining through the glass onto my bedspread, even though I'm safe and secure in my room. The beginnings of panic tickle at the back of my skull and I sit up quickly—too quickly, my tender abdomen reminds me. I fit my crutches back into the raw indentations above my ribs and take my pills in the bathroom, washing them down with a splash of water from the tap.

It only takes a minute for the heaviness to set back in, the relief warm and widespread. The soreness dissipates from my knee and stomach, and I settle back against my pillows, my eyes shutting without a thought.

---

A distant rapping on the door coaxes me from my sleep.

Pastel hues of orange and rose illuminate the faded bedroom, for an instant unfamiliar until I regain my bearings. A clattering of dishes precedes a lighter tapping before Baptiste lets himself in, a meager tray of supper in hand. "Thought you'd be hungry," he says.

"Thanks," I say groggily, and slowly sit up. "Ugh. Ow."

"You know, if you complain every time you move, you're gonna bust a rib."

"Already did," I grumble, but reach for the tray with my right hand. He props it on the bed, and I take in a small assortment of mixed fruit, beef stew, bread rolls, and a water bottle. A plastic fork and spoon prop two more white pills in place. "This it?"

"Thank you, Baptiste," he mocks.

"Not thanking you for doing the bare minimum after starving me for a week."

His jaw clenches for an instant before it's gone, his mouth twisting into a wry smile. "Next time I'll be sure to send someone else. Just figured you'd rather see me than Anabel."

I throw up a little in my mouth. I still can't get over her betrayal, although it's not the sort of thing you'd ever expect from someone so… perky, I guess, is the nice way to put it. We're both lucky she's been distant since I was extracted from the mountain, because as soon as I see her again, it's hands on sight. "I'd prefer neither, actually. Which I think I've made clear."

The first time I saw Baptiste in the hospital, I think maybe the first twenty words out of my mouth were choice curse words, followed by some sort of plea to see my family, which I've done maybe never in my life. I can't say I have the best relationship with either of my parents—Dad's the workaholic type, busy making other faces pretty and boobs perky, and Mom pretty much dug her grave with me the second she enrolled me at Haversmith without ever asking me if I'd rather stay in New York. I'd like to think she's kicking herself now, although in her defense how the fuck do you predict something like this? But still, either of them are loads better than anyone I've seen since being trucked out of the woods. I think I made that somewhat clear when I snapped at him and said, let me see, "I want to see my fucking family. I'd rather see both my stupid fucking parents than your stupid toad face."

"Crystal," he says. "Ironically, I was actually going to suggest I stick around with you for a bit, keep you some company if you want. Might not be the most terrible thing in the world."

The thing that's really disgusting is that, as much as I despise him, some simple company actually isn't the worst idea I've ever heard. But I shake my head. "I've spent enough time with people fussing around me. I want some space." Then I pause. "Feel free to be offended."

"I'm not, unfortunately," he says, stepping away. "I'll see you in the morning, then. Anything else you need?"

He almost sounds genuine, which is irritating until I remind myself he doesn't actually give a fuck. He just likes me because I made him money by fucking killing people. "Nah. Go ahead and go back to your penthouse. Wouldn't want to keep you from your gaggle of girlfriends too long or they might start getting feral."

Baptiste just smirks, unfazed. "Thanks for your concern, but I keep them well-fed. You need anything, though, just ring me." He motions to a small screen on my bedside table, which I recognize with a jolt as being identical to the ones I became so familiar with wearing on my wrist in the woods. "Wouldn't want to deny my Victor any of her spoils." He turns before he can catch my disgusted sneer.

When he's finally gone and the suite is quiet again, I start tentatively on my meal, tearing bits of bread off and dipping them in my stew. I can see the city in all its glory from here, watch as the sun falls shyly over the Charles river, narrow vessels gliding along the surface. Windows glisten tangerine and gold from skyscrapers and complexes just like this one, stretching into the sky. And below, if I squint hard enough, are tiny, dynamic blurs, cars and bikes and people moving about their lives, impervious to the prisoner above them.

I pick at my nails, staving off that impending anxiety. I'm trapped here, clearly, but there's no reason to feel claustrophobic when I've got so much room to myself. Nor am I entirely isolated; Baptiste has made clear he'll come and go as he pleases, and I hear others on the floor above me from time to time. Not that I'd even know where to go if I could, but the simple fact I'm locked in is enough to make my shoulders seize, even as I try to roll them back and relax against my pillows.

I'll see them tomorrow, I tell myself. Just focus on tomorrow.

I don't know what I'm supposed to say, though. They think I'm dead. And then what do I say about what I've been through? How do I say it? Will I even be allowed to speak freely, or will I be monitored, punished if I expose any suspicious details? Then again, how do I not, when every single thing I've done since leaving school has been kept so tightly under wraps, restricted to those outside the organization or who actually lived it?

Regardless, all I want is to see Gianna again, to fix things from the horrible note I left them on and apologize for being so stupidly selfish. For some reason that's what I'm fixated on, beyond everything else that's happened to me in the past weeks. I'm desperate to make amends.

Nausea begins to curl into my stomach. The food's not even that rich, but compared to hospital chicken broth and Jell-O, it's a lot to manage. In the drawer next to my bed I find a remote and click through the channels, hoping I'll find something I can get lost in while my body calms down. Instead, I flip to a medical drama that looks promising until my pulse starts drumming at the images of emergency patients being rushed through the trauma floor. I try a different approach, starting in the single-digits and working my way up to see if there's anything significant. Most of the local news is irrelevant as I'm a whole state from home. But part of me is just desperate from some outside information after so many days of being kept in the dark. And, irrationally, I keep hoping for a report on what's happened to me.

I know feasibly I'd know before anyone else if anything got out, that I'd likely be relocated a second time as we played a high-stakes game of cat and mouse. That's essentially why they moved me the first time; keeping a war prisoner anonymous in a busy hospital is harder than simply shunting her into some luxury apartment complex and sneaking the key in between all your credit cards. There's medical staff around, I've been told, in case anything happens, but I won't be going back to the hospital.

Fine by me. I've had enough knives in me for a lifetime.

When it becomes evident the news is just as pretentious and irrelevant as ever, I switch over to NESN to keep an eye on the Yankees game, but unsurprisingly, my mind's elsewhere. I yearn for something more to do, for a phone in my hands, to scroll through Twitter even though that's never seemed as pointless as it does now. Frankly, I just want something to help me feel normal again. But I don't know if that's even possible. I don't know if seeing my parents or my sister is even going to make me feel better, because what if that reunion isn't so happy after all? What if they're disgusted with me, disappointed, or want nothing to do with me? My mother's drilled into me that appearances matter, that image is everything. How far does that apply?

I wonder if she'll stoop as low as to shun her own daughter.

Suddenly it's absolutely imperative that I'm asleep as quickly as possible. I leave the tray on my bed table and slosh some water around my gums, unable to be bothered to brush my teeth or wash my face. I send my pills down with a swig of water, relief spreading throughout my body, and in minutes I'm fast asleep again, my slumber heavy and, mercifully, dreamless.

---

The room is dim when I wake, deceptively quiet, its greys doing nothing to dull the nerves already clawing at my chest. I prop myself on the edge of my bed, toes tracing the delicate carpet below, and compel myself to get up, even as dread tugs at the back of my skull.

I splash warm water on my cheeks, massage soap into my skin, and wipe the oil and grime from my face. There's a small bottle of dry shampoo under the sink and I work it through my hair rather than brave the shower. Even if it weren't for all the bandages I'm frankly nervous to get wet, the last thing I need is for that bad knee to give out on the slick tile. As far as my injuries go, my ACL really wasn't a priority when I was legitimately bleeding out, or so I've heard. Another surgery's probably necessary if I want to return to full function, but at this point, I'm in no rush. Like I said: I'm sick of knives.

I emerge into the living area to find a new tray waiting on the counter for me. Breakfast is about as exciting as dinner was: more fruit, some eggs and toast, a few strips of bacon, and some sausage links. This time, I get to see Boston shake off its sleepiness, gold spreading across the city. The waters are busier this morning, racing shells sliding alongside each other in a delicate dance. I chew slowly, each bite rich yet inexplicably tasteless.

I wash my medication down with a swig of orange juice and then get to hobbling around my suite, stacking my trays, rinsing my dishes and stacking them in the sink, remaking my bed, and scrubbing my teeth until they glimmer. Even these simple tasks are taxing, more than my body's had to manage in more than a week. But working is better, far better, than waiting.

Fortunately, I don't wait long. It's around nine in the morning when there's a humming from the far door. I have half a second to compose myself before an older woman steps inside, her made-up features vaguely familiar but ultimately unplaceable. Baptiste slithers in behind her, as reptilian as ever.

"Anastasia D'Orell," the woman says by means of an introduction. Yes, I recognize her now, or at the very least, her name. I've seen enough commercials for her beauty products and spotted them on the shelves, even if I've never used them myself. "Hello, Chanel. How are you feeling?"

"Been better," I say, trying to rationalize what she's doing here. Evidently she's involved enough in this circus, too, or she wouldn't be here.

"Let's sit, shall we?"

Frowning, I pull a chair for myself. Anastasia and Baptiste settle across the table from me, the former folding her fingers together. Her nails are tapered, claw-like. "First of all, I'd like to offer you my sincerest congratulations for your hard-fought victory. I was personally very stuck by your resilience and tenacity during that final fight, and I think it was clear we were all rooting for you by the end. None more than Mr. Deniaud, of course."

I scowl before I can catch myself but manage to bite my tongue, conscious that these two have more power over me than I want to mess with right now. "Thanks," I say, between gritted teeth.

"How are you recovering? Physically, you're on your feet, which is promising."

"Yeah, I mean, half my body's stitched up and the other half is bruised. So, you know, I'm doing great."

"I know it seems grim," she says. "But I've seen kids come out far worse. Missing limbs, eyes, ears, paralyzed, even. Even if it doesn't feel like it, you're doing exceptionally well."

Sure. "If you say so."

"And mentally? How are you holding up so far?"

I pause. I'd prefer not to think about it, frankly. "Fine, I guess. I don't know."

"Good," she says, and purses her lips. Faded pink pokes out beneath her rosy lipstick. "Well, I'm just here to discuss our next steps. And, frankly, to apologize."

My heart drums in my throat, my mouth suddenly dry. I swallow thickly. "For what?"

"As you know, our organization operates under strict secrecy. The Hunting Club has survived for decades through careful precautions and cover-ups. The details aren't so important, but simply put, it's why you've never heard of us. Tens of kids vanish every year for this very purpose and we've been able to evade suspicion every single time. This works in three parts. Before our Games, of course, we ensure collection is as clean of a process as possible: runaways, kids looking for an out, or, this year, your unfortunate class. We establish a secure arena—an island, a jungle, a mountain. And then, at its completion, we ensure our victor stays quiet, doesn't compromise everything we've established."

My stomach drops. I can't speak.

"For that reason, there is no way that we, in good conscience, can allow you to return to your normal life, to see your family or anyone you know, again."

"No," I say quickly, trying to process. "No—hold on. You said—"

"I'm sorry, Chanel. I hate saying this. I really, truly do. But this is how it's been for decades. You, returning home with the knowledge of what you've done… it simply won't work."

My head feels entirely empty. I pause, my jaw open, not able to formulate a string of sentences. "No—no, you— you guys said. You said I'd go home." I look between both of them, hoping against hope that they're joking. But they give no inclination that this is anything but serious. "That's what you said. Baptiste, you said it in the hospital."

His expression is hardened like shed snakeskin. "Chanel… I merely suggested it. I never said it outright."

I struggle to backtrack, trying to remember his exact words to me. I find I can't. Yes, I was half-out of it for many of our conversations, but I know he's right, deep down. Technically, then, they never lied. It's on me for getting my hopes up.

Except, no, it's not. Scratch that. No way. They knew what I was hoping for and continued to entertain the possibility. This was no simple lie, but a carefully crafted blindside.

Fury ignites along my skin, my fingers tensing with adrenaline. But I contain myself. "So what does that mean for me, then? What happens to me?"

Anastasia won't look at me, keeping her eyes trained on her talons instead, perhaps sizing up how next to draw blood. "That's up to Baptiste. He's your Benefactor, he bet on you. So it's his call."

Something sparks behind my eyes—a flash of amber, a flare of red-hot rage. "No," I say. It's not hesitant, but firm this time. "No. I did what you asked. I killed four people in order to not only survive what you put me through, but to get back to the life I've made for myself, and you're saying that's not enough?" My fingers curl into the table, knuckles burning white. "How dare you? How dare you disrespect—" Baptiste opens his mouth, but I cut him off. "What's the point? What was the fucking point? I killed four people for nothing. I nearly died—for nothing. Twenty-nine kids are dead, you killed twenty-nine of us—"

"Chanel—"

"No!" I yell. "You don't get to do this and then pretend it didn't happen, didn't affect me, didn't ruin my fucking life—what the fuck is wrong with you? You did all of this to me. For nothing."

"It's not—"

"For nothing!" I screech. "I have a life, I have dreams. You're going to rip those away from me. You killed all my fucking friends and now I can't even see my family, the only people left who probably love me, and you're saying this motherfucker—" I throw my finger towards Baptiste. "—this motherfucker now gets to say what I can and can't do? I killed for this. Four times. I killed four fucking people—people I knew, people I trusted, who trusted me— so I could get back to my life, and you're saying I don't even get that."

Anastasia's façade is blemished by a sudden sense of softness. Her make-up's not so perfect up close, powder chunky in parts, foundation layered far too thick to obscure imperfections that peek through. "Believe me, please, when I tell you how sorry I am."

"I don't." A half-strangled cackle escapes my throat. "You're not. Because it's more important that you protect yourself and your stupid fucking murder club—" She stands, shaking her head. "No. You're not leaving. No way. Sit back down and just try to give me a fair justification for this."

Anastasia composes herself and says, "Chanel, there is none."

Expecting another argument, I'm caught off-guard by her bluntness. I gape at her before yelling at her back, "Then find one! Make one up! Change something, do something different—you can't—"

But the door shuts, leaving Baptiste and me alone at the table. I stare after her before turning on Baptiste, my whole body rigid with outrage.

Except I don't know what else to say. Wasn't it too good to be true, that I'd enjoy any semblance of normalcy after this? I distracted myself as much as I could, but deep down, that realization was always there. Or was it? Was I really so blinded by my attempts to protect myself that I couldn't see what, in hindsight, is now so embarrassingly obvious?

There's a sense of cold suddenly drenching my whole body. Dizziness prods at my brain.

"I'm sorry," Baptiste says.

"Bullshit."

"I am," he insists. "I'm sorry I misled you. But it was the only way we were going to get you here willingly."

I put my face in my hands.

"It wasn't my idea, if that means anything to you."

"It doesn't," I say, pushing the heels of my hands into my eyes. "You're a horrible person for being any part of this."

"I know."

"And the worst thing is, you don't even care." I lift my head back up, steeling my gaze on him. "You don't care if you're a shit excuse for a human being. You just want your blood money. It wasn't my idea. You're not complaisant in the slightest, you know. You may not call the shots but everything you fucking do reeks of selfishness and self-servitude. Of course I'm just a fucking body to you, too."

"Chanel," he says firmly. "There are bigger pieces than me here. You have to understand, this isn't up to me—"

"I don't believe that for a second."

"Fine," he says. "I'm not going to beg you to see that. But I'm not—" He shakes his head. "Look, I'm still looking out for you, okay?"

"Oh, yeah? You're not just going to kill me, now that I've served my sick purpose?"

"No," he says simply. "You're worth more than that."

I claw at my scalp, dragging my nails through my hair. I hate—hate— that I have to ask this. That a man no more than two years older than me gets to call the shots for me. "Then what? What are we doing with me?" He looks at me for a long moment. "Well?"

"Honestly," he says, "I'm not sure yet."

I scoff reflexively. "What do you mean, you're not sure?"

"Just that. See, right after you won, I had a very clear concept of what I wanted you to become. But that was derailed somewhat by the way we've interacted since."

"Oh, stop pussyfooting around it. Out with it. No more bullshit."

"Fine." His jaw is set, eyebrows curled upward in a display of arrogance. "Frankly, you'd fit in perfectly with my—how did you put it? Gaggle of girlfriends. You're tall, you're fit, you're attractive. You have a certain star quality to you. You'd fit perfectly into a life of luxury and fame by association… red carpet events, tabloid covers… I mean, who doesn't want that?"

"Like hell, that's happening."

"And that's exactly it. You have exactly the physical characteristics for it, except of course, you loathe the very idea. So that's why I'm not sure."

That nausea that was coiling in my stomach last night is now a full-fledged wave of corporeal sickness. "How did you ever think I was going to be okay with that?"

"I must have overestimated how cooperative you'd be."

Cooperative. I almost scoff. The idea that I would ever, willfully, allow myself to be taken over and roped into such an amoral way of existence—well, more than I already have—is staggering. For Baptiste to even entertain the notion that I'd just fit right in with his little pussy club of desperate, insecure, vacuous whores is entirely laughable. As for what that implies—

"You really thought I'd ever sleep with you," I say, amazed.

"Like you'd have a choice."

My ears ring, my vision suddenly fading. I force myself to breathe through my nose.

"Look…" Baptiste folds his hands under his chin. "Things could be a lot worse. Here, for instance, you've got your own luxury suite and stunning views of the city. Vancouver's even better. If you so choose it, the whole world's at your fingertips."

"Not the world I want," I get out.

He raises an eyebrow, seemingly confused. "For what it's worth, I'd just recommend not throwing this life away so quickly. Once you're in deep enough, it's not as ugly as it seems."

Chills trickle down my back, my breath frozen in my throat. Baptiste mistakes my silence for consideration and allows a hint of smugness to creep back into his cheeks. "Good girl. Think it over and we'll talk in a few days, alright?"

He slides his chair back far too calmly for the heaviness of what he's just said to me. As he makes to leave, my tongue trips over itself in a last, desperate attempt to rationalize. "A few—days? Wait, what am I supposed to…"

He gestures broadly to the open living space. "All of this is at your disposal. I'm sure you'll come up with something."

He's gone without another word. No goodbye, no do you need anything, which ironically, I appreciate, because it's just one less blatant lie to work through. Still, he's left me alone at the table, where I'm suddenly so aware of just how high up we are, how unsteady I am. If I don't regain control, I'll topple over the edge.

I suck air in through my teeth. I try to keep still, but my entire body is electric with stress. I tremble in my seat, unable to quell my shivering.

It's okay, I assure myself. It's okay…

There's a way out of this. There has to be. Not just this building but this entire nightmare, which I'd thought had ended but is somehow just beginning. But how?

Despondence heavies my spine and I slump over, but I'm on fire, too. Anger and injustice flare through me and my fingers clench together, my thumbs tracing the hard fabric of the splint. And again I see Brandon's knife, slicing through skin and sinew. I clench my teeth and try to keep my focus on the table, distract myself by the smoothness of the finish, captivate myself with the tiniest dewdrop of water on the table. But those efforts are only a siren, my thoughts an impending twister, too large to control, only hide from or wait out.

I get to my feet shakily as the room bows and bends. There are two throw blankets on the sofa backs and I extract them to carry them back to my room, piling them on the bed. I turn the TV on and crank the volume up until I can't even hear myself think. And then I bury myself in my cocoon of blankets, pressing my eyes shut.

But it's futile. The roaring of useless chatter from the TV doesn't drown my emotions, only snaps the gossamer thread keeping my irritability in check. I'm curled in on myself, grasping for a semblance of comfort, but there's none beyond the material touch of the fabric, and even that's fleeting. The weight and the warmth are stifling and heat flickers across my skin, the sort that pinches and prods, tracing its talons along my bare arms and leaving me slick with nervous sweat.

My breathing's shallow, quickened, as heat flushes into my face and neck. Shuddering, I push the blankets off of me to stumble towards the bathroom. Soreness prods at my knee, but it's more immediate to get to the sink, splash cold water on my face, hold my lips under the tap and gulp some to drain my dry, foul-tasting mouth.

Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, my fucking God. My fingers clench, nails digging into my palms before I curl over and dig them into my legs as I try to hold onto something, anything, even as the pain swells along my legs and burns in my tensed hands and shoulders. I've left the room dark because the lights are far too hot, and what's there to see? I don't want to look at myself, make my internal strife tangible by allowing it an image.

My vision's grainy as black prickles at the edges, but there's a glimmer on the bedside table as light peeks in from the far window. My chest hitches and I'm inexplicably drawn back towards the bed, closing my fingers around the screen and fitting it into my palm.

Seraphina. The very touch takes me back two weeks, my body twisting along the mountainside, bruising, blades of branches slicing at my skin, as the earth exploded around us. My knee flares with the memory and I drop the device. But it doesn't shatter, just settles in the carpet with a muffled beat.

They killed Seraphina. I couldn't save her. Couldn't save anyone but myself.

Did I even save myself? What life is there for me, now? Take away all my ambitions. The scholarship I worked my fucking ass off for, shattering my shame by sending pleading emails to coaches to come watch little Haversmith play and see me, me, because I'm not a legitimate athlete, not worthy of acting like one, unless I earn a scholarship. The chance to go to college and study biochemistry and play Division I fucking volleyball, the sport I love, except now, that's gone. Take away my family, Dad and Mom and Gianna. You strip that away from me, and who am I?

The room is no longer clean and minimalist but dry and barren. The river in the distance glints with a devilish glare, no longer brilliant and refreshing. The windows, too, are colorless.

I want nothing to do with the blankets I pulled in from the living room anymore. I toss them into the far corner of the room but I still can't breathe.

I open all the doors—the bedroom, the bathroom. The windows crack a few inches before a metal rod holds them in place and my chest tightens further, aching for air. Not enough air. Not enough space. Out in the living room I crack those windows as far as they'll go, too. Go to the second bedroom and bathroom, previously untouched, and open every door. But it's that front door that won't budge. And so I'll always feel stuck until that's open.

I have to get out of here. How do I get out of here? The front door is hard and unyielding and it's so frustrating I take it out on the dishware I stacked neatly in the sink in a stronger, more optimistic moment, hurling glasses and plates at the walls and floors so they'll burst instead of me. I heave a mug across the room as hard as I can and it shatters against the tall window, drawing spider-webbed cracks in the glass. Somehow more enraged now, I tear open the cupboards for more dishware to break, but they're barren. The fridge and drawers are empty, too. I turn quickly, scanning the room for anything else I can break as panic drums in my throat, and stepping quickly around bits of glass and shattered ceramic I snatch up the device next to my bed and throw that, too. It splinters against the far wall, dropping limply to the floor.

Panting, my hands shaking, I whip around in search, but there's nothing more to break. The closets hold only expensive clothing. Both bathrooms are empty but for basic toiletries, soap and toothpaste and delicate folded fabrics.

Even if there were more, would it help? Does it matter?

My frustration fizzles out as I realize there's nothing more I can do. Sweat glistening on my forehead, I rub water into my eyes to chill their burning. Then I curl up on the couch, determined to go on a hunger strike. They can't do this to me. They can't.

That hunger strike fails within the hour, though, as lunch arrives. This time, it's not Baptiste who brings it in but a young woman I've never seen before. I almost feel bad for her at her panicked expression upon seeing the state of the kitchen until I realize she's just one of Baptiste's girls. She's not worth my energy, even if I had any to give. The door closes and I'm determined to ignore the tray on the counter except that I'm just so empty. I'll take what I can for just a sense of comfort. And besides, that gnawing in my stomach doesn't sit right with me, not when I went days without a chance to rectify that.

I don't much taste my lunch, either, tearing roast beef between my teeth and swallowing some soft vegetables as I stare at the blank, dead television screen in front of me. I'm disgusted. Because everyone is dead but me and I'm making the most of it by being locked in a fancy suite, just eating and breaking shit for no real gain. But I don't know what else to do.

What choice do I have? How do I make anything of my prison sentence?

But my mind's as empty as the faded sky. I let my pills sit on my tongue, tasting the flavor of toneless emptiness, and swallow the bitter truth of my helplessness.

---

I spend the next few days in limbo, my mornings defined by cascading light in every window while I shower in the dark, keeping my gaze locked on the tile at eye level instead of scrutinizing my figure. Just lathering my body with soap, drawing my hands along my own skin, sends chills through my spine, no matter how hot I crank the water. It's a chore more than a choice to scrub shampoo through my hair, but I'm disgusting if I don't. Really, I'd like to cut it all off, or rip it off, but neither is really feasible. I just have to manage my discomfort as best I can.

There's a gradual, insidious sense of anxiety that lingers because I'm suddenly so different, so out of place; in days, so much has changed, and my mind can't keep up. I switch between rooms at random, sometimes spending an hour in the first bedroom before moving across the suite to the second one, turning on the smaller TV there and pretending I'm in an entirely new place, just because the view out the window is from a slightly different angle. Most times, though, I'm in the main open living area because the smaller rooms are too suffocating. I keep the TV on, the drapes open, the lights on, if only to keep my mind occupied by some more stimulation. Mornings and afternoons, I watch baseball or whatever other sport is on and try to convince myself I care about the outcome. Evenings, I keep the news on until it inevitably disappoints me. Then it's some sort of late-night programming in the background as I fall asleep early, nothing worth keeping me awake.

It's evening on day five when more food arrives, some bland concoction of greens, and I stand at the counter to nibble at it while I pedal my legs out, trying to loosen up some of that uncomfortable stiffness in a basic attempt at activity. I'm focused on inspecting the toppings, some chunks of blue cheese, cubed beets, bits of squash, so the anchor's voice is distant.

"Most schools have been out for weeks as summer takes the state by storm. For students at Haversmith Academy in New Hampshire, however, graduation festivities were long delayed when tragedy struck during a school trip, a bus accident leaving thirty students and five members of staff dead."

My fork clatters against my plate. I practically throw myself around the counter to grab at the remote and crank the volume up. Images of Haversmith flash onscreen as I drop onto the couch, much of the footage familiar from that very first morning in the woods when Anabel showed us the falsified media coverage of our accident.

And now they show graduation. There are eighty or so chairs onstage, but where our remaining students are slotted in the back, the first three rows are taken up by chairs empty but for senior portraits. My heart drops into my stomach and chills creep along my neck because I know exactly what I'm going to see.

My face is first on the left side, organized alphabetically so I'm sat next to Mariana. I hardly recognize either of us, our hair sleek and straightened, cheeks glowing with pride. I look myself in the eyes and will myself to know what's coming. But of course, neither of us notice. Distracted by our first two faces, I'm not quick enough to anticipate who's next and my eyes trace Wes' arrogant smile. My head swirls and I try to latch on to the next portraits, but it's Alaina and Madison, of course it is, and my breath hitches in my throat. Those two. I killed those two. I shot Alaina in the stomach and slit Madison's throat. I watched them both bleed out. And no one there even knows.

Monica's next, dead in the fire. The camera pans agonizingly along the row. Gwen Chamberlain, hair pale pink, her eyes glistening with life. Gwen, who Yuto murdered. Then Blake, cut down by Gabrielle. Simone, slaughtered before she even had the chance to fight for her life. Then Gerard. Then Seraphina. My shoulders slump, misery seeping into my posture, but I'm determined to keep watching. Shane, who sacrificed himself, but for what, at this point? If he knew his sacrifice was just going to lead to our sole survivor being locked in a room to freely torture herself, would he still have done it?

Yuto's next. I get the sense I never knew him, really, if he could kill Gwen and then himself so brazenly. There's Griffin, who suffered an end at the hands of Blake and Brandon that I know he didn't deserve. Then Alex, then Dane. Then Gabrielle. I don't think I ever hated her, not as much as I thought I did. Not enough to kill her, certainly. But I had to. Had to. At least, that's what I thought. What if I'd let up instead, let her kill me? Would she be here instead?

Giles. Doran. Trina, holding hands with Simone as her throat was ripped out. Each face lingers under the camera's gaze as a faceless news anchor lists our college choices and our numerous accomplishments: Ivies, athletic scholarships, hours upon hours of volunteer service to our community. An honorable class, he calls us, that will never get to express its potential.

Nico, now. Juliet, dimples speckling her cheeks. Eimer smiles sweetly in her portrait, innocence and genuine kindness warming her features. Then Brandon. That stupid, cocky grin. He looks so much purer than he did that last day I saw him. I try to make this memory my lasting one of him, but frankly, I can't shake my revulsion at the way he dug his knife into my intestines, the panic and pain as he grasped at his neck, blood spraying from between his fingers.

Bile hisses against the back of my throat but I swallow it down as tears burn in my eyes. I clench my fingers into my knees to keep myself grounded, except that sense of panic isn't easily held down. Onscreen, Freya smiles shyly, the black drape just a bit too big for her wiry frame. Harper's eyes are soft; it's the only time I've ever really seen her smile. Audrey, glistening hair tossed over one shoulder, is poised and made-up. Even Quincy appears docile and proper, a bow tie stiff around his neck. Jackson's hair is neatly gelled back, his face tan and clean-shaven. Last is Jeremiah, sheepish but proud, like he's almost shy to be last.

The camera pans back out, then, enough to show my old classmates onstage, people I recognize now less for who they were but who they knew: Karla, part of that group that Griffin was friends with. Aubrey, who I seldom ever saw away from Seraphina. And then, of course, Georgia. Despite what's meant to be a ceremonious occasion, tears streak down her face. And I remember that conversation we had just before I left school for the last time, and my heart flares for how unjust things have been for her, too.

All of that, and now she has to grieve for us on a day that's supposed to be a celebration for her after she worked so fucking hard just to stay in this school.

My chest is hollow, my breathing quick and brittle, and I dig my fists into the sofa cushions, choking into the empty room. There's a shot of the crowd, teachers and parents and siblings. And there, on the left side, is Gianna, clutching Elliot Harman's hand like a lifeline.

That's what breaks me. I tear at my hair, tears streaming from my eyes as I scream. In a moment of sheer insanity I lift the coffee table and heave it towards the kitchen, its glass top shattering on impact with the tile, but that's not enough, nothing is ever enough. I rip at a couch pillow and when it doesn't yield I hurt it aside and beat at the leather exterior of the couch, folded so my howling is just barely muffled by the slick fabric. Everything aches from exertion and because I need my painkillers but that's nothing compared to the way my insides are shredding, and my fingers coil into the couch as if I can tear that too, but why is leather so much stronger than me? Why can't I keep from splitting apart?

I don't hear the door unlock and open, but Baptiste is there suddenly, yelling for me to stop, but I don't. I don't think I could even if I had any reason to listen to that snaky son of a bitch try to tell me he feels sorry for me, which is already pathetic because I don't fucking take pity from anyone, but it's even cheaper coming from one of the bastards who orchestrated my madness. My screaming and sobbing drowns him out and I'm hoping he's finally fucked off for good when icy water splashes over my back. Goosebumps burst along my skin and I whirl around, but he's stepped back, anticipating my thrashing.

I don't even know what to say to him. The water's soaked down to my skin and chills overcome me as I choke and sob, throat raw and eyes squinted shut against the salt and against Baptiste, who I just want gone.

Except it's not that simple, either. Because being alone is somehow worse. And I hate him, but I need someone here so that I don't entirely unravel.

"I hate you," I breathe, my face in my fingers. "I hate all of you."

"I know."

"I hate you the most. I'd kill you if I could. But then maybe that'd be too quick for you. You deserve so much worse than what all my friends got. You deserve all their deaths, a hundred times over."

"Chanel," he warns, voice low.

"What are you gonna do? Kill me for it? See if I fucking care, Baptiste. Get rid of me and go back to your glamorous fucking life. Make it easier for both of us because I don't want shit to do with you."

"You don't want that," he says, calling my bluff. "You don't want to die. Not after you worked so hard just to avoid it."

No, I didn't want to die. I didn't want to die so much I kept fighting after Seraphina died, picked myself up enough to kill Alaina, kill Gabrielle, kill Madison, kill Brandon. I killed four people just so I could scream and cry and hate myself for it. Maybe I didn't want to die then, but he can't say shit about what I want now. And how dare he pretend like he can? "Tell me more about what I want, bitch. You don't know a thing about me."

He's just a few years older and yet we're worlds apart. And he's still so blind to the distance between us, our cultural disparity, because anyone who's part of a club that takes its entertainment in my friends killing each other—it seems cruel to call any of them enemies, at this point, because it's all of us against the world, now—is dead to me.

"I know you're out of control," he says. "I know you're lost and angry and upset—"

"How fucking observant."

"—and you're gonna say shit you don't mean just to try to get rid of me. It happens every year. And it doesn't work."

Every year. My fury at him dissipates, overcome by a sudden, overwhelming question. Because, of course, I'm not the only one this has happened to. Every year, there's been someone like me. A winner with no fanfare. A winner who really won nothing but the chance to prolong her suffering.

"What happens to the others?" I say, my voice hoarse. "Whoever won last year. Or the year before. They didn't go home, either. Where did they go?"

Baptiste is quiet, considering, for too long.

"Do you even know?" I ask, horror heavy in my throat. Because, frankly, I'm not shocked. Just scared.

"I don't know what Juan did last year, honestly. I wasn't so involved. Zara's won the year I was admitted and she's the type who keeps her cards close. So, honest answer. I don't know."

"You never know," I say, frustrated. I push myself back to a seated position, my hands sliding on the damp material below me. "Funny how no one tells me fuck-all about any of this. Least of all, you. It's my fucking blood and suffering that got us here, you winning whatever mass amount of money you won this year from betting on me, and I don't get anything for it, just trauma. That's fair."

"You get this," he says. "You get the best I can offer you. You just have to take it."

"I don't want it!"

In an instant I'm tensed again, blood boiling. I don't try to hide it, and Baptiste can tell. He stiffens, but stays standing, poised, controlled. "You're too stubborn," he says. "You don't know what's best for you. I can guarantee that what I can offer you is far better than your other alternatives."

"I don't care."

He peers at me, a slimy smirk creeping across his lips. "You really should, you know."

His tone, his energy, his behavior is so revolting and infuriating that I push myself up off the couch to meet him, look at him eye-to-eye. "I don't," I maintain. "None of the shit that slides off your tongue means a thing to me. Because you don't know me. And you act like you understand what I've had to do and what you've done to me, but you don't. Because it's all a game to you, isn't it? You don't have to deal with any of the fallout, just enjoy the view from above."

"And I do," he says. "It's not that hard, either. I appreciate you trying to convince me I should feel bad, but I don't. We clearly live differently, you and me. I just want you to see my side of it."

Differently. The fact I thought I knew what elite living was like, just because I've had money my whole life, spending Christmases in London and summers along the Amalfi coast, getting my mom's old Range Rover for my sixteenth birthday, riding horses on our property as a middle-schooler before I getting shipped away to one of the most expensive schools in the country for high school. That's nothing compared to the kind of money that'll buy your innocence, bury your sins, the way Baptiste lives. And I could never be part of that.

"I see it. You've made it painfully clear. You can't make me respect it, though. I don't want it."

He's still for a long moment. We're both sizing each other up, my arms still rigid at my sides, and I'm trying to decide if it'd be better or worse to just hurl myself at him and start strangling him—although how could it be worse, when I'm already at my lowest?—when he relaxes, suddenly. "Suit yourself," he says. "For what it's worth, though, I didn't come here to try to convince you. I came here to help you."

"Sure," I say, still not trusting him.

"Not—not by playing therapist. That much is obvious, I think." He draws a small baggie containing two more pills, these ones flat like discs, out of his pocket, and pinches the zip top between his fingers. "We can start you on a low dose, work you up higher if you feel like they're not working."

"What are those?" I ask.

"Antidepressants and anti-anxiety meds. They'll help stabilize you." I don't even have the energy to be offended by the implication I need stabilizing because… well, I do. "It's generic, low-dose. We start everyone on them and it helps, I promise."

"Yes, you and your nonexistent medical degree are entirely valid in prescribing me weird white pills."

"You appear to be forgetting the doctors we have access to." He drops it on the counter behind him. "Regardless, it's your choice if you want to take them. Might help you feel better in the meantime while we figure things out."

He's so irritatingly calm about everything. He understands just how quickly and dramatically my world has crumbled around me, it's just that he can't find it in him to care. "Figure things out," I repeat.

"Exactly."

"I'm not changing my mind." He just stares back, clearly not believing me, and I scan the distance between us, take inventory of how my body feels, because there's a very real possibility I'm about to launch myself at him. "I fucking mean it. I don't want shit to do with you. Get the fuck out of my room and don't come back until you've got a better fucking option for me. Or else, I swear to God, I'll make you pay for it."

"I don't think you're in any position to offer ultimatums."

I step towards him. Glass shards shimmer on the floor beside us, their edges long and jagged, from the fractured tabletop. Any slice along my palm would be well worth his choking and gargling as he drowned in his own blood. "Yeah? And why is that?"

He nods towards the television screen, which I'd all but lost track of. Teachers and old classmates are being interviewed, juniors and younger students who had the slimmest sense of knowing us, because everyone who knew and cared won't go anywhere near a camera in their state. "Because you're not the only one we can still hurt."

Gianna, I think instantly. They wouldn't—unless they're not even talking about her, but anyone at that school, anyone I knew or was friends with, like Georgia, but that's horrific, too. "No," I breathe.

"So pick your battles, Chanel," Baptiste says solemnly. "And either way, I wouldn't recommend attacking the one person who's trying to protect you. There's no reason you or anyone else you know should end up dead after we've worked so hard to get you here."

I'm silent, reeling. Baptiste steps back across the shattered tabletop, glass crunching under his oxfords, and lets himself out. There are figures in the hallway, likely there to act as bodyguards, to ensure his safety, which is beyond insane to me. Because he's not the one still in danger. I am.

In his absence, the television is louder, glass sharper, emptiness more suffocating.

Gianna. Or Georgia. They wouldn't. Would they? Do they still have the power to do that, now that they've taken care of the rest of us, or do they still have those connections? But I guess I shouldn't be trying to figure out how. If there's anything Baptiste has made clear, it's that they'll find a way.

I just need to make sure I don't give them any reason to retaliate.

My dinner sits on the counter, forgotten. I'm fixated on the pills now, drawn, in a way, to what seems like what might be my only out in terms of this crushing hopelessness. Funny how I'll only consider medication when it's my only option. When I went to talk to a therapist my junior year I specifically steered away from psychiatrists so that they wouldn't suggest using chemicals to fix me, but I guess now there's not really much else for me to lose. More than that, though, I'm quickly falling apart and this time, there's no sense of aspiration, any lingering hope, anyone to ensure I keep going. I don't want to know what happens if I reach that low again.

So I take them. I drop all four pills, painkillers and antidepressants, between my lips like I'm rolling a handful of casino dice, rinsing them away and into my system with a half-empty glass of water.

Exhaustion strikes, hard and heavy, just moments later. Not from the meds, but from the reality of this new sense of silence. Out the window, far below, the city glints with beaming headlights from vehicles escaping into the night and illuminated windows of those still hard at work or gathered safely at home with their loved ones. By contrast, the kitchen lights are stale and harsh, devoid of any real warmth. I pound the side of my fist against every light switch until the room is plunged into darkness.

I want nothing to do with my main bedroom so instead I collapse into the second bed. I don't pull the covers around me, don't even strip the dampened clothes from my back. I just sink into the bedspread, drained by the sense that there can be any number of faceless, nameless people in this building or in this city and I will always, forever, be alone.

---

Time doesn't heal so much as keep my distress in check.

My soreness wanes over the next week and a half, but my strength is still inhibited by an impenetrable mental block. The pills seem to work some, too, rebuilding my energy in parts, but it takes four increases in dose before my erraticism eventually calms down. That sequence of events, though, means my explosions get worse before they get better, to the point where I'm delivered only paper and plastic dishware until I've proven I won't try to shatter any more of the dishes they send to my room.

It only takes a few days for the mental dimness to settle in. Of course, it's better than the alternative, but I'm not blind to the fact that as soon as I flick the TV back on or start to remake my bed, my thoughts feel dampened and numbed. It's easier to distract myself, then. But now when a sensation triggers me, a perceived trace of pine or an unprovoked stitch in my side, it's guilt that trumps my anger, my fear, my frustration. Guilt, which is arguably worse. I feel it gnawing at me from the minute I wake up, rolling over cautiously, before letting my eyes shut again at the prospect of another lackluster day. It scratches at my insides when I strip down to shower, letting my eyes linger on the jagged edges stretching along my ribs, spanning my lower abdomen, sliced into my collarbone. And between my legs, those lines like spider's thread, sharp as the cracks I breached in the window out in the living room. It sours my mouth with every bite I taste of the meals that come to my door three times a day, my only dependable contact with anyone offscreen.

It expresses itself in my dreams, plaguing visions of Gianna, of Seraphina, of Eimer. Quincy's bow tie coils tighter and tighter around his throat, glinting like it's made of metal, until he suffocates and falls backwards into a pile of swollen corpses. Madison and Gabrielle are the faces of a two-headed monster that moves to devour me, before its neck curls back and bursts open in a spray of red. Wes taunts me from the edge of my bedroom, twisting his bloodstained claws before his fangs tear skin from my neck and lips. Alaina's stomach opens into a gaping mouth, forked tongue curling, that emits a gurgling scream before it's silenced by the burst of a pistol. Brandon binds my hands and feet and carves the skin from my bones, drawing his knife down from my thighs down towards my knees before he jerks each shin aside, ripping my legs in two at the joint. As my voice dies from screaming, I hear him crying, "Why aren't you fighting? Why aren't you trying?"

And it overwhelms me when Baptiste returns another week later to ask how I'm managing with the medication. I should be feeling better but every day I realize I'm not better, only more complacent. And so I don't have a good answer for him. I separate my lips to plead I'm fine, I'm better, except all I do is cry.

His face is hardened, unreadable. "What's going on?"

You know, I almost plead, except I can't bring any words to my lips between choking sobs. You know and I don't even hate you as much anymore as much as I need you. I need you to help me. I can't do this anymore.

"It's not working," he recognizes.

I can't dispute it, not when he's seen me at my worst, not once but twice now. I just nod, my body shuddering as I try to swallow my emotionality.

"I'll talk with your doctors. There must be something else we can try," he says, already moving ahead. "If you're up for it."

Do I really have a choice?

Then he's gone again, and my chest is colder than ever. I cling to the bowl of soup I've been given, shivering so hard the broth sloshes over the side and seeps into the pale carpet. The ceramic scalds my palms and fingertips, but that I can manage far better than the perpetual draftiness of my cell.

It's not like I'm fooling anyone. Too many times I've caught myself staring blankly, unsure of how long I've been spaced out, and the few times any doctors have come to check on me I've broken down entirely. So I don't question it the next morning when Baptiste knocks again, flanked by two of my doctors. He sets my medications on the counter, but he doesn't have any breakfast with him.

"Shall we sit?" he asks.

I stay leaned against the counter.

"Fair enough," he says, and pulls a seat for himself anyway.

The other two sit across from him, the woman turning her chair to face me. Late thirties, hair thin and tied up in a simple bun, she's the closest thing to a trusted face I've had here. Then I notice how Baptiste eyes her and my insides coil in frustration, but I don't have the fight in me to tell him off. "What we've done in the past for people in your place is a mixture of anti-depressant medication and neurological treatment in the form of electroconvulsive therapy. It's painless and tends to provide rapid relief in terms of treating severe depression. It'd involve you taking about a ten-minute drive for treatment at BMC a few times a week on top of the medications you're already taking."

"I thought I wasn't going back to the hospital," I say, refusing to look at Baptiste.

"It's far easier to do the treatment there," she continues. "It does involve general anesthesia, and for anything more than a simple procedure it makes more sense to be able to monitor you with better equipment. In any case, you do get to get out of your room a bit."

I do. My first taste of freedom. So why do I still feel so controlled? "What exactly… is going to be done to me?"

The man behind her speaks up. "Like she said, it's painless and doesn't take much time at all. Essentially, you'll have electrodes attached around your head. Once you're relaxed and under anesthesia, we'll pass a small amount of electricity through to your brain, which is going to trigger a short seizure, about a minute long. You may have some confusion after the procedure, but that should fade within a few minutes. And then, over the span of a week or two of treatments, you should see stark improvements."

"And what if I don't?" There's so much more I want to ask, like you're giving me a fucking seizure?!, but my future prognosis is more pressing.

"Then we try something else," he says. "But we're confident you'll react positively to this."

I consider, chewing on my lip. After a decent few hours of sleep, I'm more ashamed than anything of my emotional outburst last night, and it's imperative I appear at least somewhat controlled. "Alright," I decide. "Do your worst, then. When are we doing this?"

"This morning," Baptiste says. "If you feel up for it."

I don't much feel up to anything, but the enticement of finally getting out of here is more than I can resist. "Yeah, absolutely," I say.

"Excellent," Baptiste says, and the three of them rise to leave. "I'll be back within the hour. Take your meds and try not to drink anything until after the procedure, alright?"

I'm smart enough not to, but the simple act of him telling me so is enough to make me want to guzzle water from the sink just to stick it to him. It's to both of our benefits, then, that he knocks again just forty minutes later, dressed neatly, looking far older than his twenty years. I'm again shaken with disgust at how easily he's found it in himself to control me. He might have taken a chummier approach, but instead, he's driven that divide down between us. Maybe if he'd acted like a friend from the beginning, I'd make a conscious effort to try to trust him, but he lost all chance of that the instant he made clear my highest value to him was my potential to be one of his many whorish fucktoys.

It's his presence, then, that taints my appreciation of being outside my room for the first time in weeks. I'm pressed much too close to him in the elevator, too, surrounded by a swell of bodyguards, and he keeps his hand on the small of my back as we step out and into the parking garage again, this time towards an awaiting town car. I slide into the far end of the backseat; he, luckily, keeps his distance and takes the passenger seat. And then we're off again. And I can see out the windows this time, watch as we emerge into a busy Boston avenue and pull out towards the river. The day has dawned pale and cloudy, but even so, the colors seem far brighter than those in my suite. I crane my neck, trying to find my room among the array of glass-cased apartments, but then we've turned to pass along to the other side of the water. And as quickly as it budded, my excitement gives way to anxiety again, the vehicle's shuddering sending fear crawling up into my stomach and gnawing at my nerves.

Pulling into the hospital underground provides little relief. I'm let out of the car into another parking garage, this one grey and dull, its edges more hardened and clinical. We ride an elevator up into a brightly-lit hallway, where a nurse meets us right at the doors. Then I finally get to leave Baptiste behind as I'm guided into an operating room and up onto a surgical table. There's a deep pinch in my arm as an IV is inserted just below the crook of my elbow. A doctor runs through a brief reminder of the process but I've stopped really listening by the time they start stretching electrodes across my scalp, my mind cold as panic bubbles up into my chest.

And next I know, I'm drowsily drifting back into consciousness in a recovery room. A nurse monitors my pulse and I blearily try to communicate, but my lips are heavy, my words slurred. His eyes track mine. "How are you doing?"

"I… weird," I manage, the word foreign on my tongue. I try again, and my mouth shakes off its cobwebs. "Tired."

"Understandable," he says.

I frown, my eyebrows pinching. "I'm…" I try to clear my head, desperate to express my reality. "They're holding me. I'm…" My words come out like liquid and I focus harder, trying to control my tongue. "Help me," I manage. "Help me."

He reads a screen behind me. I try to crane my neck to look at him, but everything's heavy. "Help," I repeat, desperately.

"You'll be able to go as soon as the anesthesia wears off," he says.

That's not what I mean! "No, no, I'm being held here—they kidnapped me." My lips fit more cleanly around these words. "I'm Chanel Agresti. I went to Haversmith. I didn't die, they said I died, but I didn't—"

His eyes pinch, pained. "I can't help you," he says.

"Please," I beg. But he shakes his head. "Please…"

"I can't. I'm sorry." He comes around the left side of my bed with a wheelchair. "We'll get you back to the car, if you feel up to it."

He won't look at me. And where I should be furious, I just feel empty and let down.

As I'm wheeled down the hallway, my vision blurs, the edges bending. My stomach's sick with the motion, or maybe it's that I can't understand why he's not helping me. I said what's wrong. Why won't he help me?

No one crosses us on our way to the elevators. Only Baptiste waits, his suit too pressed, too clean. "How'd it go?" he asks, as he nods to the nurse and holds the handles of my chair. I want to stand, but any motion sets my legs trembling.

I don't say anything. He doesn't deserve an answer even if I had one to give, because now the events of this morning don't make any sense, and I'm struggling to wrap my mind around what I'm doing here, why I can't leave, where I am. Baptiste helps me back into the limo and I don't have the energy to fight. Not against getting in the car, not against getting back out when we're back at the complex, not against the men who flank us as I lean against Baptiste's shoulder, not on my own accord but because I'm struggling to stay upright. It's not even that the process of having an electrical current run through my brain is so exhausting on its own. But it's a sense of inevitable helplessness, too. That my dwindling sense of control over my life is falling even faster.

---

Every two days, I'm taken out of my room and driven back to the hospital. Every two days, I come home and fall asleep on top of my covers or on the couch or curl up in a cocoon by the windows. My transformation is rapid and dramatic. Every time I awaken, it takes longer and longer to place my surroundings.

One day I fully panic in the recovery room, unable to remember where I am or how I've gotten there.

Baptiste brings me meals and all I know about him is his name, but when he comes up to try to touch me I thrash and kick at him, even though I don't know why. I don't know what my pills are for but if I don't take them I begin to shake so uncontrollably I can't even stand properly in the shower. My skin is unfamiliar, scars without stories drawn along my torso. I trace the outline of the faded wound on my collarbone and feel nothing for it. And no matter where I am or what I'm doing, there's a sense of guilt that clings to me, somehow heavier without a memory to attribute it to.

---

I don't know where or who I am. The buildings below prod at my memory but don't quite crack the surface. There's a wide river below that spreads across the landscape, void of all activity. I keep the TV on just for some ambient noise, but I've long lost the need to watch news channels that don't make sense to me. A man enters every few hours to deliver my meals, his features unfamiliar. When I see my reflection in my water glass, I don't even remember my name.

---

And then one evening I snap back into focus with a young man and woman sitting across the table from me. The woman has straight blonde hair and a pale, pinched face. "Do you recognize me, sweetheart?"

I don't. I've never seen her in my life. She locks eyes with the man and he just nods.

"That's alright. I'm Anabel." She stands. "Baptiste, let's chat."

They go to the kitchen and I watch them before I'm more compelled by my hands. My left wrist is stiff, a raw scar lining the side under my thumb. I peer at it curiously, tracing my other thumb under the line before nerves prickle in my left pointer finger.

"Tomorrow, then," Anabel is saying. "They'll send a car for her in the morning, and then she's off your hands. Shame, though, she was just your type."

"Just too volatile," Baptiste says. "Not worth the effort."

"At least Detroit will bury her. I hardly recognize her now, and by the time she's mixed in with the other junkies, there's no chance anyone will know her."

I look up, then, acutely aware I'm being discussed. I meet Anabel's grey eyes and get the sense she's staring right through me. "What? Where am I going?"

They look at each other for a long moment. "Home," Anabel says, finally. "We're bringing you home."

Is Detroit home? I search back for a sense of memory, but I find I can't come up with one. "Oh," I say. "Thank you."

She smiles softly. And then they're both gone, leaving me alone to stare out at the city below, tracing the fluttering of black-feathered crows as they swoop and dive and dance in midair, so fervid, so unfettered.

In the morning fog has crept up the glass, my window view nothing more than a blank canvas. I dress carefully, lifting a light, delicate fabric over my head. There's a bit of fruit in the kitchen and I nibble at it, shivering against the chill of my room, before there's a sharp rapping at my door and it opens with a click. It's neither Baptiste nor Anabel, but a taller, broad-shouldered man I don't explicitly recognize. But I know he's here for me.

"Time to go," he says simply. "Come outside."

I rise, smoothing my skirt. There's nothing to take, no suitcase packed for me. Just me, leaving this place for the last time.

The fifty-floor descent is smooth and mellow. At the bottom we emerge into a vast parking garage, its lighting waxy, its pavement sterile, where a car awaits us, motor humming.

My escort leaves me at the door and nods to me when I'm settled in the backseat. "Baptiste said for me to tell you…" He pauses. "Good luck. Good luck out there."

"Tell him thanks," I say back.

He nods curtly before the driver closes the door between us. The car pulls backwards out of the garage. And as we rise up into the dim city morning, it's like my spirit takes a deep, restorative breath. I'm going home.

I'm free.

---

And with that, TMDHTM is officially... complete.

This is the first story I've every successful undertaken from start to finish. It's fitting that this epilogue was hard as hell to write. Not the brightest of endings, but this was never going to end happily. If it makes you feel any better, this was better than several of the alternative endings, and that's all I'll say about that. Many many thanks, once again, to optimisms for volunteering to be pre-broken by this and beta for me. Much love for you!

This project began in 2015 with JabberjayHeart's Darkest Desires, which was discontinued early on with a summarized placements list. I remember scrolling down the list, one name at a time, and coming upon the realization that Chanel was his victor. At that point, she was my first victor and I was feeling all sorts of ways about it. I sent some... chaotic... PMs to Corey asking if I could take this over (and then another one along the lines of I'm writing this goddamn it) but by that point, he was long gone.

So over the next winter and spring I reached out to all the submitters I could find and started collecting forms while trying my hand at some scattered brainstorming. Over that summer, just before my senior year of high school, things came together enough for me to finally take that leap of faith and post my first chapter. By that point, I wasn't sure what form this fic would take- I was nervous about jumping in the deep end and writing different characters, so I originally planned to keep this a Chanel-narrated story. In deciding to write all the forms I received, I definitely had my ups and downs, struggles to update, to plan, to organize something coherent, based in doubt and disorganization and inexperience. But once I found myself in deep enough, there was no turning back. And as they say... the rest is history.

It's been five years since seeing that placement list update and thinking this fic was over before it even started, but really, this was just beginning. This entire process has spanned from October 2015 till now, November 2020. Where have I gone in that time? From a junior at a small Catholic high school to a senior at a top-five public university, majoring in Psychological and Brain Sciences and earning certificates in Sports Management and Personal Training. I put my volleyball career on pause to start rowing boats in college and joined a national championship program. I lived in Scotland for nine months. I had two surgeries, I gave myself a year-long concussion, I almost transferred unis, I joined then dropped and joined another sorority because I'm a hot fucking commodity. I struggled. I grew. And I went from someone who always loved writing, who had a distinct passion for dreaming up stories and details and outlining them to death, but who had never proven she could write something to completion. There's some messiness in these early chapters, dialogue I cringe at, descriptions I'm still iffy on, and a whole lot of lessons to be learned from the fact I didn't plan ahead and then had to scramble to figure out what the fuck I'd been hinting at the previous chapter (Shane and Blake, honeys, I am so sorry). But overall, there's been an entire process I've learned from and grown from, as a writer and as a person.

Most of all, I've found a community I will always be grateful for. I would not have completed this during quarantine if it weren't for the support I found in writers and submitters, new and old. Anyone following this is likely aware I straight-up didn't update for a year in between my freshman and sophomore years of college, and part of that was a combination of mental illness and a general lack of time, but there were also so many times- hell, the better part of these five years- where I felt I wasn't really writing for anybody. And there's something to be said in writing for yourself, and of course that's the only way you'll be passionate about your work, but what has really gotten me through this last push to the end and made me enjoy the process so much more has been the people who have stuck by me to see this to completion.

There are more of you than I can name, but I'm forever thankful for you, whether we talked back in the early days of this project or grown close in the past few months. To those of you who have caught up or are still catching up, I'm flattered by your dedication, especially for those who didn't have a tribute in this story and chose to follow along anyway. You know who you are, and it means more than I can say.

That being said, there are two people who deserve special recognition:

Z, you deserve a better shoutout than I can ever try to cram into an author's note. One of the first OG submitters I ended up reaching out to, you quickly became my biggest supporter and my favorite PM to get in the middle of the school day, when FF was blocked on the school wifi so I'd have to go hide in the bathroom between classes to respond to your messages on my phone. Through my tedious, inconsistent update process, you hyped me up, encouraged me, sent me a comical number of memes and headcanons and put so much emotional stock in some of these characters that I couldn't help but fall for them, too. No matter where we've gone, from PMs to Tumblr to Skype to Instagram to Discord, and who even knows what's next, I'm so grateful to know you. This story would not have happened without you, whether you realize that or not. So, so, so much love for you. I will always, proudly, be your bitch.

And Corey. Corey, Corey, Corey. I make this joke constantly, but I really think 2015 Ali would have peed herself if she knew how close we'd get in 2020. 2015 Ali definitely cried over this story ending the first time and probably cried when you came back and then AGAIN later but it all ended up better than I could have ever imagined. I'm so thankful for your support for this project- it could have been easy for you to shoot it down or even just vaguely acknowledge it and then ignore it in a sort of deist manner, but instead you gave the go-ahead, sent forms and notes where you had them, and helped provide a necessary backbone for this story. While I've shaded the shit out of you for ditching this story, it's honestly changed my life, both in the opportunity it provided me to grow as a writer, as well as in the relationships that it has helped me to form along the way, including with you. Thank you for continually supporting me. I love you to Electrical and back.

So, what's next? Potentially another SYOT- given the many, many directions this fic might have gone had I scrapped placements from the beginning (and part of me feels like this story really "began" when I branched off and stopped forcing pieces into laces they didn't truly fit) I'm intrigued by the prospect of fully beginning one of my own. Before that, though, will be a non-SYOT, A Great Leap in the Dark, which I'll be uploading sometime in the near future. Stay tuned. Watch this space.

And speaking of placements: Alphabetta suggested I provide a side-by-side list of the original placements for this story and what I ended up doing. Those previous placements guided early plots and alliances, but eventually I felt a bit constrained and with some encouragement, decided to branch out. You'll notice they start fairly synchronous and fall off a bit around the midway point:

30th: Quincy / Shane
29th: Giles / Quincy
28th: Simone / Giles
27th: Trina / Simone
26th: Shane / Trina
25th: Nico / Nico
24th: Seraphina / Seraphina
23rd: Doran / Doran
22nd: Dane / Dane
21st: Jackson / Jackson
20th: Jasper (who even are you?) / Wesley
19th: Harper / Harper
18th: Blake / Gwen
17th: Gwen / Yuto
16th: Yuto / Juliet
15th: Juliet / Alaina
14th: Madison / Mariana
13th: Monica / Griffin
12th: Freya / Freya
11th: Jeremiah / Jeremiah
10th: Gabrielle / Monica
9th: Eimer / Gerard
8th: Gerard / Blake
7th: Alaina / Gabrielle
6th: Brandon / Eimer
5th: Mariana / Madison
4th: Audrey / Audrey
3rd: Alex / Alex
2nd: Griffin / Brandon
1st: Chanel / Chanel.

I... guess that's it. It's beyond surreal to be ending this, but I guess that's inevitable when you undertake any fixed project. All good things must come to an end, as they say, but as one story ends, another begins. I'm excited to see where I go next.

Till the next time, take care.

~Ali.