𝐃𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐓
HERE'S THE BULK OF THE IRONY: for having a surname like Lovelace, Chantara had never understood the feeling of love. To care for another human without any strings attached. It was something she never seemed to grasp, becau...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
SHE PLUNGED THE KNIFE INTO the dog's heart, it's teeth sunken deep into her shoulder as a small wail left its mouth, blood streaming down her right hand. There wasn't a single ounce of remorse coursing through her body, only satisfaction, knowing that she had completed the first obstacle of the test.
Chantara stood and clutched her bleeding shoulder — she knew it wasn't real because the bite had hurt, and in real life, pain wasn't nearly as painful. She had learned to swallow it like air, barely feeling it. But this: ithurt. Her eyes trailed the dog's frame, noticing the way its brown fur stopped rising and falling as the dog died, its eyes blank and the noir darkness staring back at her.
Her lips curled into a smirk as her surroundings changed: a morph of color sweeping past her, voices echoing in her ear.
The next time she opened her eyes, she was in a room full of beds lined up against each other. People were screaming and running beneath her, forcing the girl to rise. Heat glazed her face like fresh honey as she saw the flames travel closer to her from across the room. There was a fire. She jumped down from the cot and ran with the others towards the door, her pulse rising immensely as sparks of the flame reached her heels.
There came screams from the fire, alarming her that some had not made it.
Chantara collided with the ground as people pushed past her, her fingers curling around the dirt beneath her, as fresh air entered her smoke-filled lungs. She coughed, a breath of relief escaping her.
"Here," a voice materialized. Black boots were inches from her face and as she looked up, she was met with a hand. Grasping it, she stood and faced the man. He looked her deeply in the eyes, his gaze ice-cold. "Are you alright?" She nodded. "Do you know who did this?" he asked, not letting go of her hand.
She shook her head. "No. I–I don't think so."
"Are you sure?" His grip tightened, but she didn't give him the satisfaction of flinching. "Take a look around."
She obeyed and let her eyes dance around the crowd of shaken teenagers. There were none she recognized. And then she saw him. That same face which had caused her so much horror, that same nose that buckled like no other, and those eyebrows which were thick like caterpillars. A sneer grew on his lips as they locked eyes. She felt fear and hatred coarse through her body as she answered. "On second thought, I think he did it."
"Are you sure?" The man asked, finally letting go of her.
"Yes. Positive," she lied.
He squinted his eyes. "If he isn't the one, you do realize he will be punished as guilty." The man's face was disoriented, almost blurry, and she knew he wasn't real by the look of him. "Death is the penalty, therefore there can't be any hesitation in the accusation, do you understand that?"
