Chapter Four
Amelia
I t’s been a week.
A week since I walked away from my village. A week since I chose myself over them. It was a selfish decision, but I just can’t bring myself to regret it.
But that also means it’s been a week since someone else took my place. There’s no way the ritual stopped just because I ran. They must have chosen another girl.
The thought curls around my throat like it’s going to choke me from the inside out, but I shove it down. Guilt won’t bring her back, whoever she was. Whoever they decided was next.
My hands press into the dough, fingers kneading, pushing, stretching. Margaret works alongside me, seasoning some chicken breasts. Her presence is warm. She doesn’t hover or scold me when I make mistakes. She lets me learn at my own pace.
Not like them.
Not like the village where every mistake I ever made was broadcast and shamed. Margaret isn’t like that. She’s been nothing but kind. Accepting.
Guilt rears its ugly head again. I left them behind. And because of that, someone else was sacrificed. No . Stop . I can’t think like that. I had to leave. I had to. What was I supposed to do? Offer myself to the monster that has terrorized my village for years?
My fingers dig too hard into the dough, and Margaret hums at me, as if telling me to get out of my own head. I let out a breath, easing my grip, smoothing the surface again.
The restaurant has changed since I started working here. The air isn’t as stale. The tables don’t wobble like they used to; courtesy of me tightening the screws. The menu is wider, with some dishes from back home. It’s cleaner, fresher.
Better, if I may say so myself.
Margaret told me yesterday that before I came along, she barely got a customer or two. That people passed this place by without a second glance, but now, business is picking up. I don’t know why that makes something warm settle in my chest. I shouldn’t feel like I belong here. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
The bell above the door chimes. A man walks in, and I immediately move to serve him. He makes his way to a table without looking at his path once, his eyes glued to the small glowing square in his hand. A smartphone. I only recently learned what they were called. My little village is so behind on these inventions, it should be illegal.
He smacks his gum loudly, making my skin crawl. It doesn’t get better when he finally speaks; he still doesn’t even glance my way.
"Yeah, uh… burger. No pickles. Fries. Coke.” He snaps his fingers at me. "And hurry it up."
“Of course, sir.”
He doesn’t acknowledge me. Just keeps tapping at his phone. I glimpse Margaret watching from behind the counter with a frown.
I rush to prepare the order, making sure everything is exactly as he asked. I double-check. Triple-check. Finally, I carry the tray to his table.
“Enjoy,” I say softly as I set his food down.
For the first time, he actually looks at me, but he glares like I’m an annoying fly that won’t stop buzzing in his ear.
"Are you fucking kidding me?"
“Sir?”
He shoves the plate forward, knocking over his drink. "I said no pickles."
I stare at the burger, certain I didn’t put pickles in it. I know because I checked. Twice.
“I—I’m sure I—”
I flinch as he slams his hands on the table.
"Jesus Christ, just fucking fix it."
What can I say? He’s not even letting me explain. My hands shake at my sides. I don’t want to argue with him, the customer is always right, after all.
All I can do is nod quickly and reach for the plate, but he’s already standing. He doesn’t even give me a chance to “fix” this. He storms out, cursing me under his breath.
This is humiliating. It feels like ropes are wrapping around my lungs. I can’t breathe.
What if Margaret kicks me out? What if I messed up? What if—
A warm hand touches my shoulder.
It’s Margaret, and she looks at me with sympathy.
“Don’t,” she says gently. “Don’t let an ass like that get to you.”
She rubs slow circles into my back. I don’t think she even realizes she’s doing it, but it fills me with relief; she’s not mad at me.
With a huff, she pulls a small envelope from her apron pocket and holds it out to me.
“What’s this?”
“Your pay for the week.”
I shake my head fast. “No, Margaret.” I take a step back. “I don’t need it. You’ve already done more than enough.”
“What you need is to go buy yourself something nice.” She presses the envelope into my palm. “And take the day off. I’ve got it from here.”
“But—”
“No ‘but.’” She folds my fingers over the money. “Go.”
I should insist. Truly, I will never be able to repay her, even if I work in the restaurant for free for years. But what I’ve learned about Margaret over the past week is that she’s very stubborn. So, I agree.
***
I roam the streets carefully, dodging shoulders, watching the way everyone moves with such purpose. I don’t know if I’ll ever walk like that.
A shop catches my eye, it’s a boutique with a mannequin in the window dressed in something that makes you want to spin in front of a mirror. I walk in, trailing my fingers down different dresses, but one in particular catches my eye.
The color is a deep, emerald green and it feels like silk. The neckline dips just enough to feel like a secret. The skirt is full, made to catch a breeze. I lift it off the rack, pressing it against me. It’s perfect. Then I check the price tag.
My stomach drops.
I put it back immediately. Ever since I started working at the restaurant, I’ve become smarter with money. I may still have a lot to learn, but one thing I’m sure of is that this dress is worth more than a week’s revenue at the restaurant. Much more.
I shake it off and leave.
Outside, the cold air stings my face. The city feels louder now, harsher.
A small shape is curled up by a building; a cat. Thin. Patchy fur. Trembling. It flinches away from people as if expecting to be kicked.
I turn and step into a convenience store without a second thought. Five minutes later, I crouch in front of the cat, peeling open a can of tuna. It stares at me, suspicious. But hunger wins out. It slinks closer, sniffing before taking the first bite.
“There you go,” I murmur. “Better than nothing, right?”
Eventually, the cat finishes and licks its paws, already forgetting I exist. Typical.
The sun bleeds into the horizon, deep oranges fading into bruised purples. By the time I reach the restaurant, the windows are dark. Margaret’s already locked up for the night.
I fish my key from my pocket, hands stiff from the cold, and slip inside. The restaurant’s atmosphere has become comforting. Familiar. I lock the door behind me and make my way to the back.
The storage room is small, but it’s mine. A bed is shoved against the wall, and a small bedside drawer houses all my belongings, which are not much. The lamp flickers as I turn it on, casting everything in a dim glow.
My eyes widen when I notice something on my bed. It’s the emerald green dress from the store, it's lying there, spread out like something waiting for me. My heart stutters.
There’s a box beside it. A gift box.
The box is smeared with something dark, something that looks too much like blood.
My ears ring.
My hands shake as I undo the lid. Inside, nestled in white tissue paper, is a severed human tongue.
The air leaves my lungs. A sharp, choked sound gets caught in my throat.
My vision blurs, my body locking up, refusing to process what’s in front of me.
There’s a note.
The paper is folded neatly, placed right beside the tongue. I force my fingers to unfold it.
The words are scrawled in deep, jagged ink.
No one disrespects my angel and walks away unscathed. Now, be good and put on the dress for me.
I drop the note. The room tilts, my breaths coming too fast, too shallow.
There’s something wrong in the air.
Something watching.
I am not alone.