Page 2 of Black Castle

Vivienne

The water is everywhere.

It floods Vivienne’s lungs, throat, ears, and mouth. It drags her down into the abyss, as if the pool itself has declared war on her.

Hands hold her shoulders—from firm enough to crush bones to a ghostly brush of fingers—refusing to let go. Despite the muffled sounds beneath the water, she can still distinguish each of their voices. Why won’t she? They live in a small town where everyone knows everyone, and your desk mate has a ninety-nine percent chance of being your neighbor.

“Fucking die, you freak!” The distorted threat reaches her through the ripples of raging water.

“No devil’s spawn must live amongst us!”

Even though their weight presses down on her, Vivienne keeps fighting back with kicks and claws. Despite this, water saturates her completely, a heavy, stifling presence. Her chest burns, her limbs growing weaker.

Gasping desperately for air, she fears she may never have another opportunity to breathe. The kids are unwavering in their resolve. They will never let her breathe again.

They will not let her go.

Not until she is still.

Not until she is dead.

But, right as her vision darkens, the last bubble of air escaping her lips, she wakes up.

A sharp inhale rips through her, her eyes wide with horror, face flushed. With a heaving chest, her fingers curl into the soft sheet as she looks around, barely registering anything. She can swear she is still seeing the blue of the swimming pool at Paul Sabatier Elementary, the distorted form of her schoolmates over the water’s surface.

They are laughing at her.

They are cheering for her death.

Her body trembles, slick with sweat, head fuzzy, but she can feel it now—something about the air is wrong. The unfamiliar ambiance feels too sterile, the silence too thick.

She blinks, once, twice, and her surroundings finally come into focus.

A hospital?

Her pulse thrums against her ribs. What is she doing here? How did she get here?

She shifts on the bed. And that’s when she feels it—a dull sting along her wrist.

Her gaze drops to her hand, and ice splinters through her veins.

There is an IV strapped to her arm. And just below it is a bandage wrapped tightly around her wrist.

Her throat locks up.

No!

She knows this feeling too well. The slow, numbing ache beneath the gauze, the tightness of freshly closed skin.

What happened?

Blood. White tiles. A blade.

The images slam into her like a freight train. But the moment she tries to grasp them, they scatter like smoke.

Think, think, think.

She told Kenji Sato—her best friend—that she was done. She promised him. And indeed, a year has passed; no relapses, no fresh wounds—at least, none inflicted by her own hands. But now, with a new one blooming like an accusation against her skin, what good was all that dedication?

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