Page 57 of Fated for Flames

She was a witch.

Yet there she was, in the middle of our bonfire party, dancing like no one was watching.

And there I was, unable to look away.

36

Evelyn

Afew days after Halloween, I stepped toward my dorm room, yearning for the solace of a hot shower and my warm bed. The sight that met me, however, was a jarring redXpainted across my bedroom door.

As I pushed open the door to my room, what I saw inside stole my breath. My room was bathed in red. It was as if a can of paint had exploded, coating all in its path with a deep crimson layer.

A strangled gasp escaped my lips as I entered and slammed the door shut. The red paint covered the floor, the ceiling, the walls—like a gruesome parody of a crime scene.

My eyes immediately darted to my desk. The red had not spared anything. My parents’ picture frame, my mom’s favorite book—every little keepsake I held dear was covered in red paint.

I muffled a cry of despair and alarm as I dropped my schoolbag and sank to my knees beside the desk. Each stainedmemento felt like a personal violation, irreplaceable fragments of my past drowned in cruel red paint.

I reached out with trembling hands to pick up the picture of my parents now marred by an angry layer of red. As if in slow motion, I felt my magic stir within me. Ignoring the prickling sensation that signaled the drain on my life force, I willed my magic to carefully strip away the paint from the photograph.

My tears fell freely as I began to work my magic on each item. It was painstakingly slow, but I couldn’t afford to be reckless. One by one, I pulled away the paint from each keepsake—from the picture frame that held their smiling faces, from the teddy bear that still smelled faintly of home.

I didn’t care about the consequences of using magic.

This was about preserving what little I had left of my parents.

After what felt like an eternity, the items were all paint-free. With a sigh of relief and exhaustion, I collapsed on the floor, surrounded by the remnants of my past.

I turned my attention to the surveillance app. Accessing the images, I quickly identified the culprits: three witches from a year below me.

Opening the window to let out the harsh fumes, I stripped my bed and tossed the crimson-splattered sheets into a pile. At least my closet door was closed, and my clothes had been spared. A bitter laugh escaped me as I surveyed the mess. It seemed fitting that red should be the color to paint my room. It was an apt reflection of my current state—angered and enraged.

The silver lining? At least now my room matched my mood.

Then I saw the spelled words sprawled across the wall above my bed:Traitor Among Us!

A bitter laugh bubbled up from my throat, echoing eerily in the stillness of my ruined room. The irony was almost too much to bear.

They had branded me a traitor. But the real traitors were out there, cloaked in innocence and false friendship, hiding behind their fake smiles.

I was not one of them.

My hands curled into fists at my sides, nails biting into the flesh of my palms. I felt the magic surge within me, eager to erase the words from existence. But I stopped myself.

The words would stay. Besides I was exhausted and weak from using all that magic.

Every morning when I woke up, they would be there. Every night when I lay down to sleep, they would be there above me.

Reminding me that they would never break me and that the real traitors needed to pay.

I turned away from the wall then, exhaustion settling heavy in my limbs. It had been a long day, and now I needed rest.

After pulling a clean set from my closet, I made up my bed as best as I could with shaky hands.

Finally collapsing onto the freshly made bed, I was too exhausted to even consider a shower. I stared up at the accusing words, my resolve hardening.

Those witches needed to be reminded of the true significance of my golden eyes.

---