Page 13 of A Drop of Anguish
It makes me sick to my stomach, but my issue is not with Corrine or Liz.
Mr. Vandozer is a predator in several ways, and I will get through each day by imagining the slow, agonizing torture I’ll dole out when I finally get the chance.
I’ve spoken with Corrine exactly two times since school resumed—both very short conversations. Enough for me to make it clear I want to help her.
Though she never told me outright, I’m confident she did sign the magically binding contract to the Akrasia Games. She has no choice but to follow their call, and she’s physically unable to speak about the games or what she witnessed.
It likely also means she can’t outright tell me if she has contact with anyone involved, but I’ve made it clear I want to help her. I don’t want anyone else to die for that sick form of entertainment.
The games are highly illegal, so I’m hoping the authorities are tracking Corrine after learning of her involvement, but of course, no one will tell me anything. Maybe Jarron knows, but I haven’t talked to him in weeks either.
So far, Corrine has remained pretty scarce in the school halls. I only see her occasionally in the mornings just before classes start. She has made it clear she regrets her role with Mr. Vandozer and is terrified of the day she’ll be forced to fight other students to the death.
I absently rub the inside of my forearm.
I am not bound to the games in the same way, but they left their mark regardless. Shimmering golden lines of a tattoo curl and twist over my veins in a half-completed symbol.
I didsort of partiallysign the magical contract to enter the Akrasia Games. Jarron was injured, and if I didn’t sign, Mr. Vandozer was going to kill him before help came. Pretending to sign the contract may have saved his life, but I did write part of my name on the parchment. I didn’t feel the effects then, but when I woke up the next day, these golden lines, nearly translucent, shined up at me.
They’re not very noticeable, unless light reflects off of them, and my uniform covers them anyway.
The authorities questioned me thoroughly about the games, and I was able to answer every question, so I know I’m not bound to the games the same way.
The fact that I bear a mark means something, though. I just haven’t figured out what. Maybe the game runners can track me now. Maybe it’s the reason I got that stupid taunting note the other night signedthe jinn.
I’m certain some jerk student thought it was a hilarious prank to send me that note, but it still makes my gut clench to think about the actual jinn—the creature behind the power of the games—sending me messages.
My stomach squeezes, but I refuse to let it get under my skin any more than it already has. Instead, I roll onto my belly and stare down at my new schedule.
I spent hours this afternoon casually flipping through my book of elective options.
Janet and Lola were right; my options are extremely limited due to my lack of magic. More than two-thirds of the electives have a magical requirement.
I scrawled a list of the classes I could take without a drop of magic and ended up with less than a dozen, most of which don’t interest me at all.
Several on my list sound boring as hell. The thought of anthropology and runes makes my eyelids droop immediately. I could do the cryptozoology class but truthfully, I’m not too into animals. I’m not patient enough, and I don’t do good with icky things.
I bite my lip. The more I think about it, the more obvious the answer is.
There’s something I’ve been thinking about since I started at this school. Potion-making isn’t the only possible way for me to use magic; it’s just the only one I have any experience in.
So, a class about magical objects is perfect. It’s only a history class—background information and stuff—but it’s necessary if I’m ever going to begin using objects that hold magic in them. Maybe I will, maybe I won’t, but it’s better to be prepared. It shouldn’t be too challenging since it’s a 101 class, and it could help me eventually. Win-win.
I sent off a message to Ms. Bhatt before dinner and then hid the rest of the night away in my room. That was probably a mistake, considering I feel so isolated now, but I still can’t make myself venture out into the common rooms.
The sun is setting, and now dark shadows rise up in the already dingy bedroom.
Sometimes, it’s nice to have the room to myself, but in the still darkness of my dorm, I occasionally feel utterly and suffocatinglyalone.
I flick on the orange night light and glance at the copy ofArt of Warthat Jarron gave me. I never had the chance to focus on it, and now I don’t have the mental energy to give it a go. One day, I’ll read it.
I miss him.
I want to talk to him. I want to hug him. I want to see if he’s okay after everything. I want to tell him I’m sorry for how it all ended and thank him for saving me—more than once.
My journal stares at me from the side table by my bed. I haven’t bothered to even open it since I got it back, not wanting to let my mind spiral down those tunnels of fear and doubt and shame and guilt. So much to wade through.
Biting the bullet, I grab it from the table and hold it tightly in both hands. Then, I flip it open. How much did Jarron read of it? I gave it to him, after all. He was welcome to read every page if he wanted. Even my stupid fears about how I thought he was a monster.
