11 - I’m Not Okay
Cordelia
It starts with vivid dreams. Well, more like nightmares.
Terrifying depictions of blood and brutality.
Bullets tearing through muscle and bones cracking against their will.
At first, the images are brief. Fleeting.
Like overly graphic adverts designed to etch themselves into my mind, shackling my consciousness to reality.
But soon, the peaceful dreams are swallowed by darkness, and a certain figure begins to plague my waking mind.
My imagination reels with gruesome memories from that chilling night.
The treacherous rain soaking us to the bone, the cigarette smoke curling through the night sky, the faint but pungent scent of gunpowder rising.
The visions get darker, thick and fast. Vivid memories of the fear on the boy’s face, of the knife glinting in the moonlight, and twisting through his flesh.
My heart racing as I ran for my life, bolting through the streets of London.
And in between it all—those stormy eyes.
Haunting me, becoming my obsession. I’d started sketching them most days.
Any chance I had to get pen to paper. Sometimes they’d be surrounded by blood, crimson splatters of acrylic set upon linen canvas.
Other times they’d be engulfed in darkness - a sea of ebony set apart from the vibrant blue.
Every night I wake, saturated in a pool of sweat.
Limbs shaking uncontrollably, eyes wide, and temperature soaring.
It always takes me ages to get back to sleep afterwards, and it’s never restful.
I’ve spent countless hours reliving that night and trying to determine what to do about what I saw.
The broadcast has been on the news every day - a constant reminder that I couldn’t escape even if I tried.
In the midst of the chaos, I missed my period. My body is usually like clockwork, and it’s sending my anxiety soaring through the roof. I can’t be pregnant. Yes, the condom failed, but I took the morning-after pill. The chances were virtually impossible, unless Logan’s got super sperm.
Speaking of Logan, we haven’t spoken much since the incident, and he’s still in possession of my laptop.
I need it back, but that would require meeting with him and having a rational conversation.
After I’d found out what he’d done, what he and Clarke had done, I’d blanked both every opportunity I got.
It was hell returning to the academy once everyone found out.
Apparently, Logan had marched around tearing down the posters, but the damage was already done.
Everyone had been avoiding me because I was the new kid; now it’s because I slept with one of Knightsbridge’s bad boys.
And that brought about its own problems. Vindictive, jealous bitches targeting me, spreading cruel rumours and throwing accusations in my face.
They’re welcome to that egotistical arsehole. And his idiot friends too.
I’m currently sitting between the two of them in our psychology lecture. The one class I can’t evade them even if I try. The prickling at the back of my neck confirms they're watching me. Predators at ease amongst their prey, which happens to be me.
Something warm and unexpected brushes my cheek, and when I glance from my workbook, Logan is frozen in place, a few strands of my hair looped around his finger.
I jerk away, glaring at him with ice in my eyes.
He smells freaking incredible today, and I can’t put my finger on why.
It’s the same obnoxious combination of oil and cedarwood. Yet today it doesn’t seem so obnoxious.
He waves his hands in surrender. “Woah, Cor,” he grins nervously, watching the hair slip from his finger. “Just checking you’re ok.”
No, I am not okay.
“You not sleeping, Orphan?”
My eyes snap to Clarke, and I sneer at him. “Well, if I’m not, it’s your fucking fault.”
Neither of them has an answer for that, unsurprisingly.
With a low growl that doesn’t quite sound human, I drag my attention to the pages spread flat on the wooden table.
But the sudden cramp in my stomach has me folded over, arms clutching my stomach.
Like if I hold tight enough, I can will it away.
My body flushes with heat, skin getting clammy.
“Cordelia,” Logan says beside me. His tone is stern but wavering slightly, as if he’s predicting how I might react.
“Fuck off,” I snarl. “Leave me alone.”
The chair scrapes over the floor as I thrust it back.
With my head held high, despite the pain roiling in my gut, I force my feet to move.
The door slams behind me moments later. A quick turn down the corridor takes me straight to the toilets because I’m pretty sure I’m about to be sick.
The nausea rises from my stomach up my throat, a burning wave that makes my hands tremble and my chest tighten in panic.
I barely make it through the bathroom door before I’m doubled over, clutching the sides of the toilet seat.
My body convulses violently with each wave as I’m forced to expel the remnants of my entire stomach.
The tang of putrid metal explodes on my tongue.
And my head spins like a carousel at the fair, vision blurring at the edges.
When the worst of it passes, I fall back against the tiles.
The cold is a welcome transition to the scorching fever ravaging my bones.
Closing my eyes tight, I wait for the pain in my tummy to subside.
For my heart rate to stabilise, and the rush of endorphins to provide the relief I so desperately crave.
And when it does, I haul myself upright on wobbly legs and scramble to the sink.
What the hell just happened?
Water spurts from the tap, flowing freely and cascading into my cupped hands.
I splash the icy liquid over my face, my mouth, and wet my dry lips.
If I return to class reeking of vomit and sweat, Clarke and Logan won’t be satisfied by my ignorance.
It will raise suspicion and turn into an all-out interrogation, so I dip my hand into my pocket, pull out my mobile, and call Nico.
He answers on the first ring. “Miss Rousseau?”
“Bonjour, Nico,” I greet him, trying hard to hide the trepidation in my voice. “Please, may you pick me up from the academy? I’m feeling a little under the weather.”
“Oui, of course.” He replies without hesitation. “On my way.”
I remain curled up on the toilet floor as the time passes by. At one point a student wanders in, takes one look at me and stalks back out.
Nico arrives in record time. It takes every ounce of energy to drag myself outside and meet him at the school gates. As soon as he sees my face, he frowns.
“Miss Rousseau. You look like death. What’s wrong?”
Despite my stomach churning, I manage to snort. “Gee, thanks, Nico.”
He sees through my facade as if I’m as transparent as the car windows surrounding us.
Eyes full of suspicion watch me from behind the wheel.
When he raises a single eyebrow, I know he’s not fucking around.
With the stubbornness of an oak tree in a storm, he crosses his arms over his chest, digging his heels in.
For what seems like forever, we stare each other down, neither of us blinking, neither of us willing to yield. Until the tension in the confined space is palpable. He never asks questions. Why is he deciding now, of all times?
Come on, Nico. Read the room…or car, so to speak.
“Alright, alright,” I finally peel my eyes away from him, twiddling nervously with my fingers in my lap. “I think, I think. Je suis peut-être enceinte.”
The words come out in French, because somehow that makes it seem less like my world is falling apart.
Nico keeps his eyes pinned on mine for a good few seconds before he speaks again.
“Whose is it?”
That question, I wasn’t expecting, but the lie slips from my tongue with little to no effort. “I don’t know. I slept with a guy. At that party.”
Technically, it’s only half a lie. It’s got to be better than admitting I slept with a psychotic murderer.
Nico slides his hand down his face, squinting his eyes shut tight. When he opens them again to peer at me, their dull, lacking the usual spark. “Cordelia, you’re barely even legal.”
I scoff and roll my eyes. “Nico, I’ll be nineteen in a couple of months.”
“Not old enough to have a child, fille,” he shoots back, voice uncharacteristically sharp. “What on earth is your father going to say?”
I glance away, heart breaking at the way he’s looking at me - like he’s disappointed. Papa will be furious. He’s not a violent man, but for this he’ll hunt Logan down and skin him alive for getting his little girl pregnant.
“Please,” I beg, eyes chasing a squirrel clambering up a tree, just so I don’t have to face him. “You can’t tell Mama and Papa.”
His throat works as he swallows hard. His breathing is strained and heavy as he contemplates what action to take. The silence stretches out between us, curling around me to the point that I squirm uncomfortably in my seat.
In the end, I can’t endure the heavy tension any longer.
I spin back to face him, widening my eyes and tilting my head a fraction.
Nico’s always had a soft spot for me. Regardless of his loyalty to Papa, I’m well aware of the binds my womanly charms can get me out of.
Since the age I could talk, I’ve been able to wrap him around my little finger.
It’s a talent I possess that works to my advantage when I’m in a pinch.
“Please.”
He exhales another long, drawn-out breath, but eventually dips his chin in a stiff, reluctant nod.
With nothing more to say, he places his hands on the wheel and starts the engine.
He’s not happy about me swearing him to secrecy.
It’s clear from the way he’s gripping the steering wheel, all his usual laid-back attitude absent.
“One more thing,” I say sheepishly as we pass through the open gates. His eyes sweep to mine without moving his head an inch. “Can we please stop at that pharmacy again?”
Nico insists on going in for me. He obviously has no problem being seen buying pregnancy tests in public.
When he returns to the car, he hands over three different types of tests with a shrug.
They all vary: some are digital, some supposedly tell you how many weeks have gone by, some are 97 percent accurate, others 99.
The whole way home, my fingers twitch, aching to know the truth.
We pull up outside the house, and I bolt for the front door.
I sprint upstairs to my bedroom and swing open the door to my en-suite, catching my reflection in the bathroom mirror.
I pull a disgruntled face. My cheeks are red and puffy, the bags under my eyes huge, and I’m rocking a generally grey-tinged skin tone.
When I lick my lips, I’m rewarded with a nasty metallic taste, like my tongue is coated with something unpleasant.
Grabbing a plastic container from under the sink, I place it on top of the cabinet. I’ve never done this before, but surely it won’t be as easy as just shoving the stick in my pee. With shaky hands, I pull down my trousers and sit on the toilet. The cold plastic is jarring, making me flinch.
Whilst I’m waiting for the result, I wash my hands five times just to occupy myself.
Then I wander restlessly back through the door and pace around my bedroom like a caged lion in the zoo.
After precisely two minutes have passed, a sharp sensation of dread climbs up my throat.
A constricting vine, twisting, turning, and leaving me gasping for air.
I creep back to the bathroom to peer at the plastic rod. My eyes fixate on the two solid blue lines crossing one another. Unmistakably clear.
Positive.
The empty packaging lies on top of a pile of rubbish in the bin, so I snatch it up to check the instructions.
I even hold them up side by side, flicking my gaze from one to the other.
Irrational fear has me tearing open the other two packets and dipping them both at the same time.
My knuckles turn white as I grip the side of the sink, waiting anxiously for the results.
Three positive tests.
I don’t understand… I took the morning-after pill.
How can I possibly be pregnant?
The tests must be faulty. Could three different tests all be wrong? The likelihood of that happening is slim to none. Which would suggest that I am in fact growing a human inside of me.
Logan.
What the hell have you done to me?