Page 48 of Alamort

“I can’t live without my wife,” she whispers guiltily, peeking at the picture of the two of them on her desk with their GoldenRetriever. I agree with her putting on a sympathetic face. I don’t know, not truly. I know what I would do to protect my brothers. She takes a step back, searching for the truth in my face. I’m not sure what she sees, but she agrees reluctantly.

“If I do this, she’ll have a place in the trial?”

My eyes lock on hers as I utter, “You have my word.” A deal with the devil is a dangerous game to play. It’s not like she has much of a choice. I don’t want Mrs. Warren to be a casualty in this war, so I gave her the illusion of a choice. Something that would benefit her, the one thing she holds dear in her life.

She sniffs and her deep brown eyes gloss over. She’s seemed to age at least 6 years since we’ve started talking. Her wrinkles are more prominent than they were before, even through the Botox. Her bun isn’t as meticulous as usual. The lines of worry etched on her face and her cautious movements betray her frazzled and wary state.

Personally, I’ve never witnessed someone battling through cancer. Most people glimpse its impact on someone’s appearance or even in a brief encounter. Still, few people have the chance to see firsthand the day-to-day effects on their loved ones and themselves. I’m not sure what’s worse, watching a loved one wither away and die or a sudden passing with no goodbye.

Getting up from the comfortable chair, it groans in protest. I take a moment to straighten my freshly dry-cleaned school uniform. “I’d like results today, if possible.”

She’s quiet until I reach the door. “What is your issue with Miss Carter?”

She wants to justify her choice in picking her wife over a student. Not bothering to turn around to show the resentment I drag around with the mere mention of her name.

“Worry about Lauren, Mrs. Warren. Priya is not a concern of yours.” She’s mine. In every sense of the word and meaning.

There’s nothing worse than waking up and immediately feeling like the world is going to end. There’s a sense of urgency coursing through my veins, leaving me restless. I tried to tame my hair, but it seemed to have a mind of its own. It’s a wild, frizzy mess. My heart was racing as soon as I woke up in a place I was unfamiliar with. I convinced myself that I’d overslept and dashed around like a chicken with its head cut off. Unable to finish one task before starting a new one.

Then River makes her morning appearance, popping her half done face of makeup from the bathroom, questioning why I’m up so early. Apparently, waking up more than an hour earlier than usual. Our routine is a comfort that’s become more important to me than I initially expected. A sharp pain interrupts my thoughts.

The Demons’ are putting the ‘fast’ in breakfast. Since the incident of my public humiliation, they have yet to let up on my eating restrictions. The hunger pains that usually bring me comfort are growling at the aroma of food in the morning and at dinner.

Normally, I manage to steer clear of food during the times my mother puts me on a fasting regimen. It seems damn nearimpossible here. How long can I survive off of fruit and a piece of lettuce? I’ve stooped so low that I devour the meager piece of iceberg lettuce I’m given each morning. Disturbing.

River and I go our separate ways after she walks me to my psychology class. The flustered feeling I had this morning is still hovering over me. The door snicks shut behind me, along with the faint whispers of a couple of students who have arrived early for class.

I reach the seat that was assigned to me on my first day here. The moment I sit, the desk objects with a loud creak, making me wince. Since I’ve left home, I have no way of knowing whether I’ve gained or lost weight without a scale. The compulsion of wanting to check is worse than wanting to eat.

Today, Mrs. Warren wears a beige skirt suit. When she clears her throat, the rustling of notebooks and shuffling of chairs subsides, signaling the beginning of class. On time, thedongof the bell on the highest tower drones out my wandering thoughts. Right before the door shuts on the last student walking in, Crew Demonio dramatically enters the room, commanding everyones attention. The idle chat of students decreases and eventually ceases as Mrs. Warren begins today’s lesson.

“As you all are aware, the class was assigned group projects for the end of the semester. Some of you turned it in early and others will wait until the last possible second. I’ve been grading those who have turned it in. The grade you receive will be the grade you get. No ‘do-overs’ or extra chances. Everyone has had ample time to prepare.”

Good, one thing to check off my list. I’ve dedicated countless hours working on my paper about Dissociative Identity Disorder. A rare disorder that affects less than 2% of the population. I find it unhealthily fascinating how a human mind can split. It’s not easy finding information on it. And no thanks to my lazy partner who refuses to do any of the work.

Unable to control my emotions, an overwhelming sense of loathing settles over me. I chance stealing a glance at my tormentor. The collar is a tangible symbol of the suffering he’s caused me, always present and impossible to ignore. Everyone saw it and no one did anything to help. Me and River had spent our free time trying to get it off. She even watched a video on how to pick a lock, which proved to be unsuccessful.

Crew sits in his desk chair, leaning back with a relaxed posture, completely unfazed. Why should he be? It’s not like he was going to help do the project. The blatant ignoring me was a dead giveaway. My nose wrinkles. He’s giving… entitled brat. It’s an ick. All because his daddy owns the school, he and his adopted brothers believe they have the authority to mistreat anyone they please.

My fingers skim along the diamond collar he placed around my neck. Every day, it feels like it gets tighter, until one day it’ll constrict around my throat until I suffocate. Whenever I think about the spectacle they created, anger looms threateningly, ready to cloud my vision. It’s better to sweep it under the rug. Screw Crew and the other Demons.

Opening the school laptop, I pull up my grades and anxiously scan through the numbers. So far, so good. Scrolling through the first five classes, all scored in the high 90 percent range. The lowest grade is a 95. That is until I get to my psychology grade. In an instant, my heart plummets and the sound of rushing blood fills my ears. I worked my butt off for this project, losing sleep and sanity to make it perfect. Earning the grade I deserve. It’s one percent from failing, a 60. I’m so confused. Did I turn in the wrong assignment?

Clicking through each graded paper until I come across my failing assignment. I was so confident in my research paper that I turned it in early. Mrs. Warren’s voice drones on in thebackground, but I’m hyper focused on what the hell is going on with my grade.

I click open the assignment with the rubric pulled up on a separate tab. Checking and rechecking. The paper that is turned in is mine. I matched the grading rubric to a T.

“What’s wrong, pet?” Crew’s warm breath feathers across my cheek, bringing me back to my senses. Irritation heats my body at his gloating voice. Glaring from under my lashes, choosing to ignore the taunt. Mrs. Warren climbs the stairs with purpose, her footsteps growing louder as she approaches our section of desks.

“Is something the matter, Priya?”

“Yeah, actually, I was wondering about my grade for the term project.”

Her eyes quickly flick to Crew, then back to me.

“Yes, I was going to speak to you after class about that.” Her voice is more tense than usual.

“What about it?” I question.

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