Chapter 28 BETH
BETH
Do you hear that? She’s laughing. The devil inside her is laughing.
My favourite class was Introductory Psychology.
Maybe it was because I liked the teacher, Mr. Nicolai Walsh. He was funny. And the way he always slipped his family problem into every case felt realistic enough. Or maybe it was because the subject dealt with human behaviour and mental health.
There had been a point in my life where I started to wonder what had driven dad to do the things he did–if he did it. And what could’ve broken inside him. I thought studying psychology would help me understand better. Then I also wanted to know if the same flaw had a chance of running inside me.
Mother had dragged me to some doctor I barely remembered two months after we arrived in Scotland. A man with a cold hand and an even colder gaze. They had strapped me to some weird machine, made me sit still as some strange scan mapped out the inside of my head.
I never saw the result. Never learned about what they had found inside me. But Mother did. And something changed after that. Though it wasn’t immediate, I noticed the way her grip on my arm began to tighten a little too hard. The way her eyes would linger on me, watchful and weary.
One day, she brought in exorcists, I supposed. They were all men in stark white robes, their faces shadowed by candlelight, their hands clutching whips like some holy relics. They bundled me and tossed me into the basement, naked, cold, and afraid.
For three days, maybe more. Time blurred between the flickering flames and the suffocating dark. I remembered the cold bite of the concrete floor, the dampness seeping into my skin, and the sickly sweet smell of melted wax thick in the air.
I remembered the candles, ten of them, one for each finger. Their flames wavered, casting twisted shadows on the walls, on their faces–faces that called me tainted, cursed, unclean.
I remembered trying to hold the candles still, trying to be good, but the wax kept dripping, sizzling against my flesh, burning deeper and deeper. And when my hands shook, when the burn became too much, I let the candles drop.
Bad idea. Whips came as a wage.
The first lash stole my breath, the second forced a scream from my throat. The third, fourth, fifth…I lost count. Pain blurred into agony, and agony into something I could never really explain.
“Let the demon reveal itself!”
“Confess your sins!”
“Do you hear that? She’s laughing. The devil inside her is laughing.”
Except that I wasn’t laughing. I was choking on sobs, biting my lips until they began to bleed, as my body curled in on itself, as the skin on my back split open. I was crying because it felt like I was being burnt alive.
I begged. No, not for mercy. There was none. I begged for them to stop seeing something that wasn’t there. But they didn’t want to stop. Because they needed me to be a monster. Because if I wasn’t a monster, then what had they come to do?
Was I really a monster, too? A psychopath who would one day crave the smell of blood and fear? Was I simply just waiting for a trigger?
“Beth!” A strong hand shook me, snapping me from the cave of torture I had wandered into. I always kept that memory, amongst other ones, locked away. How reckless that I opened the door again?
“Are you okay?” Kenzo’s worried gaze came to view, his warm hand touching my face gently.
“I’m fine.” I forced out a smile, my voice trembling a little. The excruciating pain was back, a deep, bloody wound that took almost an entire school year to heal. The scars that forced me to wear a sweater even if it was so hot, it felt like the sun had come a mile too close to the earth.
“Beth, you are sweating and you look pale–”
The classroom door burst open and interrupted Kenzo.
My eyes settled on the person who just walked, brows knitted in confusion.
It was a teacher, but not Mr. Nikolai Walsh, the psychology teacher that we all knew.
“Who’s that?” I turned to Kenzo.
“That’s what I was saying and you zoned out,” he said, shrugging. “Someone said Mr. Walsh wasn’t coming anymore. He’s now a college professor.”
“No?” I bemoaned. “God, no. Why?”
“This loser can’t possibly be the new teacher.
” The comment was short, insulting, and unsurprising for me given its source.
Mia Cox, the cheer leading captain. She was always quick to throw jibes and insults around.
They said she was just being blunt. But I thought there was a difference between being a mean bitch and being blunt.
“Good morning, class.” I didn’t like the new teacher’s voice. I also realised I didn’t like his eyes as well.
“I’m James. James Donald,” he introduced, throwing the class into a buzz of soft protests. “And uh, I’ll be your substitute teacher in the meantime.”
“I don’t like him,” Kenzo concluded, slouching into his chair with a disappointed huff.
“I think many share your sentiment, though,” I chuckled softly, scanning the disgruntled look on everyone’s faces. “I might not really like him too. But let’s not be quick to judge.”
He scoffed with a deep eye roll. “Whatever.”
I naturally loved the subject. I just hoped that alone was enough to make me enjoy this class without Mr. Walsh being the teacher.
Mr. Donald walked to the desk and kept what looked like a laptop bag on top of it, then proceeded to the board.
I pulled out my note, looking over the scheme of work I jotted down at the back page. Today’s topic should be Sleep and Dreams. I remembered being excited for it. Learning how we slipped into dreams every time our eyes closed sounded like a fun knowledge to have.
After writing down the date and topic, my gaze lifted. But what was on the board right now was different from what I expected.
Psychopathy. A single word in bold, deliberate strokes.
A detour, perhaps. I didn’t think much of it as I struck out the topic I wrote before, replacing it with the new one. It was a pretty normal thing. Teachers took detours all the time. I was sure there was a reason why Mr. Donald was pulling up a topic that wasn’t supposed to be taught now.
“We’ll return to Sleep and Dream next week,” he said, voice calm and smooth as he turned to face the class.
No one was bothered. Not much really cared for what was on the scheme. I bet I was the only one that knew what today’s topic was supposed to be.
“Today.” He began to walk further away from the board, toward my row, eyes resting briefly on everyone, as if he was trying to memorise our faces. “I want us to look at a case that raises questions about personality development.”
Then he drew closer to me, but instead of briefly, his eyes remained glued on me, strange and eerie.
My fingers curled around my pen, a cold bloom opening behind my ribs. There was something about his hard brown eyes, the way they stared at me. It was as if he knew me.
“This case took place in France a few years ago.” There was a slight twitch on his lips as he said that. “Some of you must have heard of it.”
My heart dropped, my stomach hollowing. I shared a look with Kenzo, and his eyes were already on me, brows furrowed.
“Male offender,” he started calmly then turned around, heading back to the front of the class. “a college professor, charming in social contexts, exhibited a complete absence of empathy.”
My visions blurred. And I felt it, a warm hand slipping into mine, squeezing. “Calm down, okay?” Kenzo whispered to me.
I glanced around the class, anxiety coiling tight behind my ribs. My heart was racing so fast. Did they know already? Had they caught on?
But the class seemed relaxed. Students leaned back in chairs, clicking pens, listening like it was just another crime documentary on TV. They didn’t know yet. That I was right next to them, the daughter of the monster.
“Most of his victims were his students.” He was standing in front of the class now, devious eyes on me. “His motive? They didn’t turn in their projects on time, or walked into his class late.”
That was what dad said. Every killer had a motive. Most of dad’s victims were the ones he said were careless, unserious and always took him for granted.
Mr. Donald went on describing the details, the timeline, every word hitting like a punch to the gut. These weren’t just mere details. These were truths I had spent years burying beneath clothes and new identity.
I had spent years dead.
Who was this teacher? Why was he digging out the bones of my past?
I looked around the class again. They shouldn’t find out.
Not this class, not the next class, not this town, not this country.
I couldn’t live like that again. I couldn’t go through that horror again.
The discrimination, the stigmatization, bullying, revenge plans, murder threats. I couldn’t. I would die this time.
Kenzo’s strong grip wasn’t enough. My hand trembled. I snatched it from his hold, hiding them under my desk.
“And here is the interesting part.” His voice filtered into my ears again. “This man had a daughter that he cherished a lot. She was…his pride, you could say.”
“What the fuck is wrong with this fucker?” Kenzo whispered harshly under his breath.
My lungs stopped working.
“She was about 9 or 10 when her father was arrested.” He was staring at me. Eyes lingering too long. Too, too long. I could feel it in the way my skin scrawled.
“According to the neighbours, they were pretty close. You could hardly see the father without the daughter firmly in his grip.”
That was true. My father was my best friend.
At least that was what I thought. I adored him like he was the moon and the sun itself.
He was handsome and tall and had long hair.
I’d heard some parents say he was a hunk.
I didn’t know what that meant, then. Some senior girls were always giggling, expressions bashful, whenever he came to pick me up from school.
He was the most handsome man in the world to me.
I wanted to be his favorite girl. I used to hear some kids’ fathers packing up and leaving them behind.
It always ended up being the children’s fault that the parents fought and separated.
And I never wanted my father, my pride, the only reason kids liked me at school, to one day leave me and Mother.
So I was such a good girl. I wanted to be in his good books, always doing my homework, following him around like a damn shadow because I was afraid he would disappear if I wasn’t holding his hands.
Yes, they were right. My father and I were inseparable.
“Psychologists held a debate in Havard if there was a chance she could have inherited the same traits.”
Something inside me fractured. My visions narrowed.
I felt like throwing up. I felt like screaming, defending myself, saying it wasn’t me. But he didn’t mention my name. So all I could do was sit there and drown in fear.
But I wanted to run, disappear into the walls.
My classmates, so oblivious, didn’t ask questions, didn’t ask for his name or his daughter’s name. They just sat blinking at the wall, at his voice, at the fascinating horror of a distant case in another country.
No one looked at me except Mr. James Donald. He watched me like he was waiting for me to break.
I felt the old terror clawing its way back up my throat, the heavy certainty that no matter where I ran, the truth would always find me.
When the bell finally rang. I didn’t hear it. All I heard was my heartbeat, the sound of someone drowning, the cackle of children, the smell of alcohol, the feel of hands clawing at my skin.
All I heard was France whispering behind me again. Louder this time.