Chapter 25 #4
It ran down the cracks in the pavement like tiny rivers, soaking into my sleeves, my skin, seeping beneath my fingernails and I couldn’t stop staring at it—how it kept coming, kept spilling. It stained everything it touched. My hands. My knees. It smelled like metal, and salt, and death.
I remember the sound of her voice too. And the way it had leaked out of her like the blood pouring beneath her body. She whispered his name, not in fear, not even in anger.
It was peace, I realized.
Like she had already come to terms with the fact that she was going to die and didn’t want to spend her last moments bitter. Even when the world had been so bitter to her.
That’s the kind of person she was.
Me? I don’t think much about death. Never cared much for it. People die every day. Good ones, bad ones. It never mattered to me. Some deserve it, some don’t, but in the end, the ending is always the same. I’ve never wasted my time mourning strangers, or people in general.
But Wren?
She was different.
Wren deserved time. She deserved decades of it, lifetimes of it. Not this—not this.
That’s precisely why you should never expect anything from the world. Not fairness. Not mercy. Not even time.
It doesn’t stop to weigh your kindness against your suffering. It doesn’t tally up the good you’ve done and reward you for it. It doesn’t punish the ones you see as wicked, doesn’t spare the seemingly innocent. It watches you while you break yourself and asks why you were so careless.
The world isn’t cruel. That would mean it cares.
It doesn’t.
In the end, the sun will still rise tomorrow. Strangers will still walk these streets, never knowing who Wren was, never feeling the hole she left behind.
It doesn’t matter who you are. It doesn’t matter what you deserve.
The world will turn just the same.
After all, we are just a moment of time. A poem for the stacks and stacks of history books. We won’t be remembered, not really. None of us will be remembered for who we were, but what they made of us when we’re already gone.
No matter the tragedy, or the dying girl in your hands, the world won’t stop for heartbreak. It just watches, indifferently, as the river runs dry.
Blinks as the girl’s strength leaves her body. Yawns as her breath shudders, falters. Stretches as her fingers go slack in mine.
And then, finally, she speaks. A whisper that’s barely there, slipping through her lips.
“John Ross.”
She tells me who did it. Says his name like it’s just another fact, like the sky is blue, like she has already accepted that this is how it ends. Like she isn’t even surprised.
I held her against me as her warmth faded, as her life drained out onto the pavement, and all I felt was rage. A rage so deep it felt cold instead of hot. Something primal and bottomless and right.
Because I had promised her.
I had promised I’d never let anything like this happen to her. And I hadn’t.
At least, ever since we were dumped in that orphanage.
That had been his fault, too.
John Ross.
A pitiful specimen of a man. A moronic bastard. If I could conjure him back only to throttle the life out of him again, I’d do it without hesitation.
People mourned him. Some even pitied him.
Imagine that—to squander a life so completely and still be granted the dignity of grief.
Idiots.
I rip my hand away from Adeline, my skin feeling strange at the warmth of hers. Like I’ve touched something I had no right to hold.
I don’t bother asking any more questions.
She won’t tell the truth anyway. And it doesn’t matter.
I’ll find out anyway.
Because if I’ve learned anything in this world, it’s that justice doesn’t come on its own. Karma doesn’t knock on doors. Fate doesn’t balance the scales. No unseen hand will reach down and make them pay.
If you want something done, you have to do it yourself. That is the only way it becomes satisfactory.
I drag a hand through my hair, slowly, more now out of muscle memory than vanity. I lean back against the lockers, one shoulder pressed to the cold metal, spine loose.
From the corner of my eye, I spot three girls from my year, fluttering down the hall like anxious birds. They try not to look at me, which of course means they do. Repeatedly.
I don’t turn my head. Just shift my gaze toward them, a faint smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.
One of them—the brunette with the chipped nail polish and perpetually wide eyes—makes a sound. I can’t tell if it’s a laugh or a whimper. Then all three of them giggle, blush, and nearly trip over each other as they speed-walk away.
I lift one brow.
And then, just before they vanish around the corner, I wink.
Their squeals echo down the corridor.
I almost roll my eyes. Almost.
I learned years ago the effect I have on people. Women, men—it doesn’t discriminate. Back then, it made me uncomfortable. I didn’t want it. Would’ve given anything to make it stop: the attention, the stares, the way grown adults would speak to me.
I felt like a painting. Something to be gawked at.
But time is education, and nowadays I’ve found it to be excellent leverage. People reveal a great deal when they’re flustered.
It still bores me, the predictability of it all. But it’s useful. And I’ve always had a certain fondness for utility.
A of movement at the edge of my vision catches my attention, and I see Paris making her way over to me hesitantly.
She’s always been like this. For as long as I can remember.
I’ve known her and Berlin since childhood. Could always stomach Berlin—tolerate her at most. But I’ve always been naturally more drawn to Paris.
I don’t know why that is, but something about her keeps me around. Even if I’d rather be somewhere else.
She’s frustrating as hell. Vague. Defensive. Quiet. And yet somehow, she might be one of the only people I can stand to keep as company lately. A presence I don’t immediately want to walk away from the moment I get too frustrated.
Funnily enough, the company she keeps is tragic, and I’d rather slam my head in a car door than hold a five-minute conversation with any of her other friends. And I’ve come dangerously close to doing it.
They’re awfully bold for people who are so very disposable.
I haven’t known peace since I met those blundering fools.
Paris pretends not to notice. Or maybe she thinks they’re harmless. But not long ago, they somehow made her shoplift. A dress. A dress so ugly that I almost didn’t want to help her.
The thing was yellow. Not mustard or gold—yellow. Had ruffles down the front and some kind of asymmetrical sleeve situation that I still don’t understand.
The one thing I hate more than blundering fools, are blundering idiots with horrid taste.
I’m still recovering from that monstrosity.
There was also a scarf.
I don’t even want to talk about the scarf.
Listen, I’m not unreasonable. If you want to steal, fine. Everyone needs a little edge. But if you’re going to commit a crime, at least steal something worth it.
And yes, I helped her. Because I’m such a saint, apparently.
I told her she was an idiot. That they were idiots. That if she ever got caught doing something that pathetic again, I wouldn’t waste my own precious time rescuing her again. Then I did it anyway.
Not because I’m some bleeding heart. I certainly don’t want to be her saviour.
I just hate seeing her let people dim her down just to feel included.
In all honesty, I never meant to care, and yet I sometimes catch myself making sure she’s still there, still okay.
Because if Paris ever fully morphs into one of them, I’ll be forced to fake my own death. Or set something on fire. Maybe both.
God, I wish she had better taste in people.
Or at least worse taste in me.
I remember the first time I saw her. A bookish, quiet girl who—whenever asked a single question—went sickly pale. As if the thought of answering made her physically ill.
I recall thinking she might even faint.
At the time, I hadn’t paid much attention to it. To her in general. Over time, I’ve found I quite enjoy her company.
She stops beside me now, hovering like mist.
“W-what was that… about?” she asks, voice so soft I almost miss it.
I sigh through my nose, tired. “What was what?”
“Adeline,” she says. “I-is she… a-alright?”
I shrug slowly. “You tell me.”
Paris shifts, eyes flicking between mine. There’s a storm gathering in her fidgeting. “I s-saw the way you were l-looking at her.”
I turn my head, meet her eyes fully, and raise a brow. “Oh?” I murmur. “And how, pray tell, was I looking at her?”
Paris bites her lip—the lower one, slightly off-centre—and hesitates. “You c-can’t fool me, Kai,” she says. “W-what do you want from her? Why make me hack her phone?”
My lips curve. “Want? Who says I want anything at all?” I reply, gently. “Want is such a narrow road.”
Paris exhales, and for a second it almost looks like disappointment. Then she rolls her eyes. “She’s… nice,” is all she says.
Nice.
That is… not the word I expected.
Adeline makes her uncomfortable. That much is obvious to me. It’s not that she doesn’t trust her—I don’t think it’s even about Adeline as a person. It’s the resemblance. The likeness.
To Mason.
It’s uncanny. Uncomfortable. And Paris, as much as she may deny it, has never been immune to ghosts.
Admittedly, I never really knew what happened between Paris and Mason. Only that, for a while, he would show up to every one of her ballet showcases and bring the same white flowers.
He started turning up less and less after that, until he stopped coming altogether.
After his death, Paris never mentioned him again, and I never asked. In fact, the topic of him only seemed to deeply unsettle her.
I kept my distance from that part of her. Whether out of instinct or indifference, I couldn’t say.
I reach out gently and brush my fingers against the side of her hair. Not her skin, just the edge of the silver clip she’s wearing. It’s loose, slightly tilted.
She freezes. Doesn’t move. Just stands there and lets me fix it.
“There,” I murmur. “That’s better.”