Chapter 17 Nicole
Nicole
I expected nightmares. Or fevered dreams.
But all night long, my mind returns to an old memory.
In sixth grade, Daria caught the flu and had to stay home. If I’d been smarter, I would’ve pretended to be sick too and remained in bed. But pride has never let me admit fear—not even to myself.
That morning, I stepped into the schoolyard with my heart pounding wildly, palms sweaty against the fraying straps of my backpack. Maybe I’d get lucky and avoid them altogether. Or if I did cross their path, I’d just endure it. I always had.
Daria and I had spent two months unintentionally provoking those girls just by being ourselves. We didn’t skip classes, didn’t smoke behind the building, and didn’t laugh when they picked a weaker target. That was enough to make us stand out.
But this was the first time I had to face them alone. And deep down, I knew it would go wrong. I was their “favorite.” Somehow, they could sense that my pride was stronger, that my anger was more volatile than Daria’s. That breaking me would feel like a bigger triumph.
They found me in the afternoon, on the way home. Back then, I didn’t have a private driver, a father with a well-known last name, or any way to stand up for myself—other than lowering my head.
Clementine led the pack, as always, flanked by her shadows, Dana and Sophie. But that day, there were more of them. The kind of girls everyone at school avoided.
They attacked me with the same old insults: “nerd,” “weirdo,” “loser.” Daria and I had a usual tactic: wait them out. Let their words lose power, or their interest shift to another target. Eventually, they’d get bored and move on.
“Where’s your stupid little friend?” Clementine hissed. I clenched my jaw, glancing away. She grabbed the front of my blouse. “I asked you a question, moron.”
Heat surged up my neck. They’d never touched me before.
“Get off,” I snapped, swatting her hand.
Another girl stepped in front of me. She was one of those notorious for her outbursts, always looking for an excuse to explode. “So you’re the cockroach who made out with Dana’s boyfriend at that party.”
“What?” I gaped. I’d never kissed a boy in my life.
“Don’t pretend, bitch. People saw you.”
“I don’t—”
A third girl curled her fingers into my hair and yanked hard. A sharp sting shot across my scalp.
“What’s this color supposed to be?” She sneered. “Gross.”
“Everything about her is gross!” someone shrieked. Laughter erupted.
The insults blur in my memory now, a jumble of cruel words flying from many mouths.
Too many jeers, too many hands yanking my hair until my scalp burned.
They shoved me from every side, clawing at my backpack as I twisted, desperate to escape.
But they had already formed a circle around me, tightening with each second.
I was prey, trapped and overwhelmed. The final shove sent me sprawling, knees scraping against the concrete, the air knocked from my lungs.
I tried to get up, but they pushed me down. My backpack had spilled next to me, and all around were scattered pencils, pencils, pencils… Pencils instead of tears.
I refused to cry. I kneeled there, arms over my head, holding onto the last thing they couldn’t take—my tears. Because if I gave them that one victory, I’d never recover.
The laughter hurt more than the bruises. It would leave a lingering echo, one that would haunt me even when no one else could ever touch me again. They were laughing at me. All of them. The bystanders. The world. They didn’t see girls ganging up on someone smaller.
They saw justice. The weakling, put in her place.
And maybe they were right.
I’m not sure if I was born like this or if my family shaped me, but I’ve never been one to complain.
Not now, and not back then. For a long time, I thought speaking up would only worsen the situation.
Daria told her parents right from the very beginning, but they couldn’t do anything.
The girls didn’t stop. They just became more cautious and shifted their attacks outside of school.
Besides, I was afraid my father would see my words as a sign of weakness.
That evening, however, while we had dinner, the tears came on their own. My mother didn’t notice as she rose from the table to get more bread. It took my father a moment.
“What’s wrong, Nicole?” he asked.
I gathered all my courage to open up about everything—how they attacked me for no reason, how they pushed and insulted me. I needed a day off to recover. I longed for my father to hold me and tell me it would be all right, and that he’d call their parents and put a stop to it.
Instead, he placed his heavy hand on my shoulder. “I could call your headmistress, but what do you think will happen? She’ll scold their parents, if she does anything at all, and that’ll be the end of it. The only thing you can do is learn to fight back.”
I didn’t want to fight.
He must have read my hesitation because he added, “The world is simple, Nicole. There are two kinds of people—predators and prey. Either you attack, or you’re attacked. There is no middle ground. Never forget that.”
I swallowed the salt rising in my throat. “I didn’t do anything to provoke them…”
My father took a sip of wine. “You showed weakness. Next time, show strength. Then everyone will respect you.”
I remember my mother standing in the doorway, a sorrowful expression on her face.
As if she wanted to say something but didn’t.
By then, she and my father had already started to drift apart, but she was still doing everything she could to please him, including not interfering with his way of parenting.
My father was both right and wrong. Although they never crossed the line into physical violence again, the attacks from those girls didn’t stop, regardless of how I showed up. It took some time until the taunts ceased—and only because I made sure of that myself.
What do I remember most from back then? The isolation, in my own home.
The sense that I was on my own, no matter what I faced.
To this day, the one thing that comforts me is knowing I never gave those girls the satisfaction of seeing me cry.
Another thing? I made sure that whenever someone accused me of stealing their boyfriend—or anything else—they were not mistaken.
In that, my father was correct. Instead of wondering how to hold back your tears, it’s better never to give anyone a reason to make you cry in the first place.
And while I’ve learned how to defend myself against aggression, what the Black Joker did last night was nothing like what I’ve faced before.
He tried to break me with his touch. Had I admitted how much I craved him even while I hated him, it would’ve meant surrendering to him.
And surrender isn’t just defeat; it’s losing the one thing I fight to keep: control.
If I let that truth slip, Gaetano would’ve claimed victory in his twisted erotic game.
Not just over me, but over everything I’ve built.
The memory of our game knots in my stomach like a warning. No matter how fiercely I pushed back, some stubborn part of me still longed to be claimed. And that terrifies me to the core.
* * *
I visit a place I never thought I’d step into again—our old neighborhood. The streets, the buildings, everything is as it was ten years ago. For most people, going back would bring warm memories, but for me, it feels like a stone pressing against my chest.
I drive down the familiar street and pass our old block.
A few minutes later, I pull up outside Daria’s building—an eight-story concrete monstrosity with multiple entrances. The empty benches out front remind me of the days when she and I would sit there, talking about boys who never paid us any attention.
Every step on the staircase traces a path etched deep in memory. Does Daria still live here? I knock cautiously. While I wait, I keep searching for a trace of him in the air. He won’t come. He never shows up in daylight.
Just as I’m about to leave, the door opens. Daria stands on the threshold. Her face is thinner than I remember, her hair the same chestnut shade, but longer. She wears a loose Friends T-shirt. It’s her favorite show. Her green eyes sweep over me, widening in shock. “Nicole?”
“Hi. Can we talk?” I ask, trying to keep my tone steady. She glances over my shoulder. “I’m alone.”
Her expression tightens, probably weighing whether this is a trap. Her features soften, and she smiles. “Sorry about that. You caught me off guard. Come in.”
I step inside. The corridor looks the same—walls filled with memories that now seem ready to crush me. The living room has been renovated, but the homey atmosphere remained.
“Would you like some water? It’s scorching outside,” she says.
I shake my head. “I don’t have much time, so I’ll get straight to the point. Do you remember when we once summoned the Black Joker?”
A furrow appears on her brow. The silence deepens, and I can’t stop straining for signs of him—his presence, his scent lingering in the air.
Then Daria’s smile returns. “You mean that time in my grandma’s attic?”
I nod, drawing a deep breath. “The Black Joker is real. And he’s stalking me.”
Another moment stretches between us. Daria assesses me, as if she’s determining whether I’ve lost my mind or am just overreacting.
I approach her. “On my twenty-first birthday, he appeared and pulled out a contract—an actual, signed document—saying he would subject me to three trials.”
“Signed…” She blinks, as though not understanding.
“Yes, signed. With my blood. If I pass his stupid trials, he’ll grant me a wish. But if I fail…” I swallow hard. “…he’ll take me. Permanently. To his castle. Wherever the hell that is. And he’ll claim my soul.”
Daria continues staring. Does she not grasp the urgency in this? I try a different tactic. “He showed up at the Deliberovs’ ball. You must have heard it on the news? Mr. Deliberov had a heart attack during the event. He’s in the hospital now.”