Each day, Calla and her fragile heart are that little bit closer to death... but before she goes she'll prove to the world the boy she loves is no murderer.
🖤🖤🖤
With a life steeped in wealth and privilege, Calla Pierce should be protected from t...
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There's no air in this room. My clothes cling to my skin. I'm tugging and pulling at the collar but feel no relief. The musty old school hall, a former chapel with sweeping beams and wooden benches, with its glaring portraits nailed high on the walls, is oppressive and I feel it pressing down on me. I hate this space.
I sit in the packed room, strangers on either side of me. I can see Alice's blonde head in the front row. She seems to stare hard at her hands, her eyes never drifting to the stage even once. Her friends are rubbing her shoulders and whispering loudly in her ear. I think they're enjoying the attention of being friends with the school's resident 'widow'. Tragedy brings out something ugly in people. Mrs Hargreaves, the deputy head, is standing at the podium on stage, pushing her glasses up her nose as she smiles solemnly and glances down at her notes.
"Damian Steele was... a burst of sunlight in this school. People gravitated to him wherever he went. His smile, his kindness, his work ethic..." I bite my lip, trying my best not to roll my eyes or yell. Are those the things they'd say about me? Pretty plastic phrases that say nothing at all? Damian was the person everyone turned to stare at when he walked into a room. When he smiled at you, when his attention was on you, it was like being under a spotlight. You never wanted to leave that warmth. You knew how cold it was without it. Damian had a lot of qualities, enough that no one who knew him should have to resort to talking about his work ethic. Which was non-existent. I sink deeper into the uncomfortable bench, and scan the room, trying to see anyone who might know something useful, since there was no way anyone was going to stand on that stage and utter anything truthful. I can hear crying in the crowd though, whispers and sniffing. There may be no emotion on stage, but there's grief in the audience. How real it was, I didn't know. "... a future, a life cut short in such terrible circumstances. But I implore you all to focus on your memories of Damian, on the joy he brought into all our lives." She purses her lips and closes her eyes a little too dramatically. "Thank you all for coming. Please take a moment to sign the memorial book on your way out. We hope to pass it on to his family by the end of the week."
A room with over a hundred people desperate to get away from the fog of faux grief and airless room, shoot up and start heading for the exits. I hover, scanning for Alice and spot her blonde head bobbing by the doors nearest her chair, but by the time I get there, she's gone.
🖤🖤🖤
Damian and his friends always lounged behind the art buildings in the furthest corner of the school. They gathered between the building and the neglected woodland area that led out of the school. Mostly, the teachers left them alone. They were the kids of politicians and lawyers and bankers. Disciplining them was more hassle than it was worth. The sickly but earthy smell emitting from the area was a usual sign they were there. It wasn't any different today. I'm drifting slowly through the trees when I hear them. As I walk, I stare hard at the ground, avoiding brittle twigs and skeleton leaves that could signal my presence.
