Page 44 of Black Castle

Every few days. Then every few hours. Until it became every few minutes and seconds.

“You’re just like him!”

“You think I don’t see it?”

“Don’t even think about it, Vivienne. I swear, I’ll kill you first!”

And then one day, Isadora took it a step further.

She brought in exorcists—or whatever the hell they were. They were all men, stark white robes, their faces shadowed by candlelight. Their hands clutching whips like some holy relics.

They bundled Vivienne and tossed her into the basement.

For three days, maybe more. Time blurred between the flickering flames and the suffocating dark. She remembers the cold bite of the concrete floor, the dampness seeping into her skin, the sickly sweet smell of melted wax thick in the air.

She remembers the candles, ten of them, one for each finger. Their flames wavered, casting twisted shadows on the walls, on their faces—faces that called her tainted, cursed, unclean. She remembers trying to hold the candles still, trying to be good, but the wax kept dripping, sizzling against her flesh, burning deeper, deeper. And when her hands shook, when the burn became too much, she let the candles drop.

Bad idea—because the whips came as a wage.

The first lash stole her breath, the second forced a scream from her throat. The third, fourth, fifth—she lost count. Pain blurred into agony, and agony into something she can’t quite explain even till today.

“Let the demon reveal itself!”

“Confess your sins!”

“Do you hear that? She’s laughing. The devil inside her is laughing.”

Except that Vivienne wasn’t laughing. She was choking on sobs, biting her lips until they began to bleed as her body curled in on itself.

She begged. No, not for mercy—there were none of those—but for them to stop seeing something that wasn’t there.

But they didn’t want to stop. Because they needed her to be a monster. Because if she wasn’t a monster, then what had they come to do?

“Vee!” A strong hand shakes her, snapping her from the cave of torture she has foolishly wandered into. She always keeps that memory, amongst other ones, locked. How reckless that she opened the door again.

“Are you okay?” Kenji’s worried gaze comes to view, his warm hand touching her face gently.

“I’m fine.” She forces out a smile, her voice trembling a little. The excruciating pain is back, a deep, bloody wound that took almost an entire school year to heal. The scars that forced her to wear a sweater even if it was so hot, it felt like the sun had come a mile too close to the earth.

“Vee, you are sweating and you look pale—”

The classroom door bursting open interrupts Kenji. Glancing at her again, Kenji then sits down. But Vivienne can still feel his worried gaze burning into her face.

Vivienne’s eye settles on the intruder. And she can’t help but find his attire—green pants and a gray shirt with an ill-matching tie—quite unsettling.

There’s a black laptop pouch strapped to his shoulder. Compared to the perpetually smiling Mr. Walsh, Vivienne finds this man’s face rather severe.

“This loser can’t possibly be the new teacher.” The comment is short, insulting, and unsurprising for Vivienne given its source. Mia Cox, the cheerleading captain whose wealthy father has a significant stake in the school, acts entitled as if the school is her birthright.

“Good morning, class.” His voice is annoying. That’s another thing Vivienne notices. In short, everything about him, his weird gaze, his square face, basically everything, makes her uncomfortable. But she doesn’t know why.

“I’m James. James Fadden. And uh, I’ll be your substitute teacher in the meantime.” His announcement throws the class into a cocktail of arguments and protests.

“Nope, I don’t like him,” Kenji concludes, slouching into his chair.

“I think many share your sentiment, though,” Vivienne chuckles softly. “I might not really like him too. But let’s not be quick to judge.”

Kenji scoffs. “Whatever.”

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