Page 9 of Black Castle

A tiny flash of disappointment almost goes unnoticed in his eyes, and he hums, studying her for a few seconds. It’s like he is searching for a crack in her armor. If so, he won’t be able to find it, though. This dance has been a part of Vivienne’s life for a considerable time.

“Well,” he exhales, leaning off the locker, running a hand through his buzz cut. “Can’t say I won’t try again, though.” Then he flashes her a charming smile and a wink.

Vivienne shakes her head, unable to fight off the small, but genuine smile creeping up her lips. She watches him stride down the hall until he disappears behind a curve.

She fixes her headphones back on—music on this time—and begins to walk to her class.

Fortunately, she’s able to avoid further encounters. The hallway is nearly deserted. But the little celebration is short-lived as the moment she reaches the entrance of math class, she is hit by the sense of déjà vu.

Her eyes fall on Ian’s desk, and her breath stills immediately. And no matter how hard she fights it, her gaze remains pinned on it, the image burning into her mind.

For a second, she swears she sees a piece of gum stuck on the wood, the memory fresh as though it happened a second ago—when she took out her gum to kiss him before any student could walk in.

She no longer has control over her mind as more memories keep slamming into her like flash photography.

She has her legs draped over his lap, her head resting against his chest. There’s silence, but it is the kind that feels safe.

She feels it, the brush of his fingers tracing circles. And he whispers, so low she barely hears it, ‘You’ll be okay. I promise.’

“Out of the way, man!” A hard bump against her shoulder jolts her back to reality. The boy that shoves past her barely spares her a glance, a wave of sandy blond hair disappearing into the crowd.

Her blood turns to ice when she finally realizes that the entire class is now looking at her.

Whispers.

Snickers.

Their eyes are like knives.

Ignore them.

Vivienne takes in a sharp inhale, clench her hands tighter around her books, and heads for her desk. But something isn’t right.

Crumpled sheets litter her desk like discarded trash, slur and derogatory words scrawled across her table’s surface in bold, ugly black marker.

Slut.

Whore.

Bitch

How much to suck my dick?

Her throat tightens, the corners of her eyes itching. But she doesn’t let herself physically waver as she bends down and picks up one of the crumpled sheets.

Unfolding it, she finds a sharp scrawl in red ink.

‘Kill yourself, why don’t you?’

Her breath catches, fingers tremble as she staggers a bit. And in a brief, bitter moment, she thinks; Believe me, I have tried. It just didn’t work.

Her jaw clenches, her fist tightening around the paper before she crushes it back into a ball and tosses it across the room.

She is determined not to give them the satisfaction of seeing her break or run. So, placing her books on the now disfigured desk, she sits, turning their words into a background buzz.

Several minutes pass, and the door finally swings open. But it isn’t Ian Griswyk. It’s a teacher Vivienne doesn’t know.

It is not the same man that used to sit behind her desk.

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