Chapter 9 Nicole
Nicole
A chill shoots up my legs. The soles of my feet pound the cold stone floor while I run through endless corridors.
My black dress rises with each step, and the white tail stitched on it bounces mockingly behind me.
The rabbit ears on my headband tilt with every movement.
The leather collar around my neck is choking me.
My fingers fumble to loosen it, but the metal ring won’t budge.
I trip. The rough floor scrapes the skin off my knees, and the fabric of the dress pulls tight in protest. The rabbit ears droop, the collar tightens further.
I glance over my shoulder, heart pounding in my ears. The shadows leap after me like a pack of wolves.
But it’s not them who break me. It’s the wall behind them. And the word BUNNY, scrawled across it and struck through.
Panic consumes me whole. I attempt to scream, but my voice has been stolen again. The roar of the darkness intensifies until the shadows completely surround me.
I jerk up in bed. The duvet lies discarded on the floor, and I’m clutching my throat.
For a moment, I’m back in the schoolyard, knees scraping against the asphalt. A wall of laughter and taunts surrounds me. I haven’t done anything to deserve it, but no one cares. Not the participants, nor the spectators. The humiliation weighs heavier on my shoulders than their insults ever could.
It took me time to realize I was as responsible for the bullying as the girls who did it, simply because I let it happen. I was weak.
You’re either a victim or a predator. That’s how the world works.
Back then, I made myself a promise: I would never end up on the wrong side of the leash again. Never tuck your tail. Never let your knees tremble. Never again stand like a lamb awaiting slaughter.
The ballerina figurine on my shelf has been moved from its original place.
Evidence of his presence. I reach for it with hesitant fingers but don’t touch it.
It was a gift from my aunt—my mother’s younger sister, who used to be a ballerina.
She played the role of Odette in Swan Lake and was a guest performer at several internationally renowned theaters.
But then she met her first husband and abandoned her career for love and family.
She gave me the figurine when I was five, with a wish that I’d chase my dreams.
As my fingers hover over the tiny dancer, my mind drifts to my future.
A two-story minimalist mansion with a pool and its own forest, where I walk my two Rottweilers.
A garage with a sleek sports limousine for summer and a luxury SUV for winter, both in black.
An office atop a skyscraper I designed, with a panoramic view of the city and a massive, solid wood desk that commands respect.
Maybe I’ll have a husband who’s wealthy, well-connected, and good-looking. I’m not sure if I want children. Probably yes. I don’t really care. Unlike my aunt, I’m not na?ve enough to chase windmills. Once I graduate, I’ll build my life by my own rules, and no one will get to tell me what to do.
That future? It’s what I always envisioned for myself. But daydreams won’t save me now—not with the Black Joker intent on taking my soul.
Pull yourself together, Nicole. You’re no one’s prey. For the first time in hours, my feet are on solid ground. I remind myself who I am. What I promised myself.
With a deep breath, I withdraw my hand from the figurine and open Facebook. I type “Angelina” into the search bar. That’s the name of the girl who gave me the summoning incantation for the Black Joker all those years ago.
We crossed paths at the ballet lessons my mom enrolled me in after I heard my aunt’s story. Angelina’s grandmother was Italian. She moved to Sofia in the ‘80s after falling in love with a Bulgarian doctor she met abroad.
My hope is Angelina knows an incantation to unsummon the Black Joker. I browse through profiles, relying on mutual friends, but find nothing. I don’t remember her last name, and none of the “Angelinas” I come across resemble the girl I knew.
Until I recognize her in a photo. Angelina Karastoyanova. Older, but with the same rounded features, and that small mole at the corner of her lips. Lives in Siena, Italy. She obviously reconnected with her roots.
Her profile picture shows her standing on a terrace, overlooking rolling green hills. There’s a soft smile on her lips, captured in profile by the camera.
I click on her name and wait for the page to load.
Even before I begin to scroll, unease coils in my stomach.
At the very top appears a post she’s tagged in.
A link to an article. The photo is black and white, capturing Angelina in full-length.
The headline is in Italian, so I can’t understand a word.
The next post is from another account, also tagging her. A candid shot of two women seated at a café table, mid-laugh. Angelina is on the right. The caption above is long, written in Italian.
I scroll further. Most posts, filled with lengthy texts and links to articles, all in Italian. Below them—broken heart emojis, praying hands, candles.
One photo shows Angelina in a white dress, standing in front of a stone church. And finally, a post in Bulgarian: “Come home, my little baby.”
I don’t need to check the account to know it’s her mother.
My fingers barely hold the phone, but I keep scrolling. More posts. All in the same tone.
I open a link in a new tab and run the article through Google Translate.
“Police in Siena are still searching for twenty-one-year-old Angelina Karastoyanova, who disappeared shortly after her birthday on June 21st. She was last seen near her grandmother’s villa, which, according to her mother, has remained uninhabited since the elderly woman’s death three years ago.”
My legs buckle beneath me.
I sit on the bed, gasping for air.
I can’t breathe. I can’t…
I go back to her profile and translate a few more posts.
“Friend of the missing girl: ‘She’d been saying strange things lately… Said she was seeing shadows. Demons…’”
“Twenty-one-year-old Angelina Karastoyanova, missing for five months, believed she was being followed…”
“Dr. Luigi Benedetti, psychiatrist at Santa Maria della Misericordia Hospital in Siena, said: ‘The girl likely suffered from paranoid schizophrenia, triggered by an acute panic episode. It’s possible she consumed psychoactive substances on her birthday, which may have intensified her hallucinatory symptoms. The mention of a figure called “the Black Joker” is typical of delusional narrative constructs.’”
My fingers freeze on the screen. Please, don’t cry.
I stand on wobbly knees, feeling like the walls themselves are closing in. Still, my heart refuses to fall back into rhythm—each beat sharp and uneven, like a crown slipping off my head.
Am I really about to disappear in three weeks?
* * *
Two hours later, I step out of the fitting room in the mall, wrapped in a bold merlot gown by Elisabetta Franchi.
The color speaks of refinement, while the daring neckline and bold slit baring my thigh scream confidence.
Even before I glance in the mirror, I know the fabric clings to my body like a perfect shell.
And yet, everything inside me remains tight, drawn inward.
Boyana lets out a soft gasp as I emerge. “Stupefying!”
“Seriously.” Misha nods, her black curls bouncing. “Red is totally your color. With that hair? Full-on vampire vibes.”
I spin around. “Vampire vibes? What are you, thirteen?”
Her lips part in some inane attempt at explanation, but I’m not interested.
My attention slides down to my reflection, following the line of my hips beneath the crimson fabric, then down my legs.
I press my lips together, the thought biting at me: in three weeks, I could lose everything.
My belongings. My opportunities. My plans.
“Oh my God, it’s so perfect! Ideal for the Deliberovs’ ball,” Boyana chirps, still glowing with excitement.
I might face the potential end of my life, but for Boyana and the twins, the upcoming ball is the only thing that matters.
The Deliberovs are influential, wealthy, and renowned for hosting events that go beyond social niceties. These are stages, curated by ambitious mothers who parade their daughters like rare and precious gems, hoping to attract the right suitor.
“Maybe I’ll wear a potato sack to the Deliberov ball,” I mutter.
Boyana frowns. “What do you mean?”
There’s no way I’m telling them about my mother’s deranged ambition to marry me off to the Deliberovs’ son.
The curtain to the next fitting room pulls aside, and Marie steps out in a gown of royal blue satin that seems to choke every curve of her body. The design caters to a more slender physique.
“Damn, girl!” Boyana exclaims. “That is hot.”
Misha makes an approving hand gesture. “With those Manolos? Total knockout.”
Boyana blows Marie a kiss. “Every guy there is gonna lose his mind. Guaranteed.”
I cast a sidelong glance at the blue gown, with its straining seams. “The dress is lovely, darling. A truly bold choice,” I say, smooth and soft, then return my attention to my reflection.
Marie takes a step toward me. “What do you mean by that, Nicole? Do you like it or not?”
“Oh, it’s just that… that particular dress works best on someone with longer legs. Someone like me. Or Boyana.”
Marie’s lips press into a tight line. The truth is never pleasant, but it’s necessary. If I don’t say it, she’ll waltz into the party in that ill-suited dress, yet another victim of the sugar-sweet lies her sister and Boyana dispense without effort.
“I’m not trying to offend you, sweetheart,” I continue, my tone calm and even. “I just think there might be better options for your body type. Of course, if you feel good in it… That’s what matters.”
Cruel? Perhaps. But it’s honest. And who wants a friend who buries them in niceties while they walk into public humiliation?