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My class partipated in a government-run test. Two of us passed, but only one survived.
The day my brother tried to force me to down cleaning detergent to avoid going on a school field trip should have set off alarm bells in my head.
It wasn't a high-class trip abroad since our school prioritised its sports department over pretty much everything else.
So, they decided the petting zoo was an ideal place to take fifty eighteen year olds.
I wasn't interested in animals, or petting them. I couldn't afford the trip, anyway. But somehow my mother had magically come up with the funds on the day of the trip, pressing a bright green envelope into my hand. Inside was my permission slip, and four crisp twenty dollar bills.
Money that she couldn't afford to give me.
We could barely afford to eat the night before, scrounging on microwave meals and expired convenience food, and somehow my mother had some real cash. I tried to give it back, but Mom was insistent on me joining my classmates and having a good time.
“At a petting zoo?” Spooning stale cereal into my mouth, I was still frowning at the envelope of cash. *How did she get it?* Mom had lost her job.
She had no family, and my father wanted nothing to do with us. We lost our house a year prior, and luckily had found a small apartment in the middle of the city. There were only two rooms and mould in the bathroom, noisy neighbours, and a resident rat under the floorboards. But it was home. It was better than being homeless, anyway.
Mom was unusually smiley that morning, pouring real squeezed orange juice in my glass. The proper kind that was like ten bucks a carton. I was used to plain water at breakfast, but for a moment, I revelled in the luxury of proper orange juice, gulping it down.
It tasted good, tangy and fresh flushing down my throat.
Early morning sunlight filtered through the blinds, basking my mother in shadow. I could just see the thick wool of her robe, straggly blonde hair dangling in her face. Mom smelled like cheap raspberry shampoo and instant coffee. “How did you afford all of this?”
I didn't just mean the juice. There were fresh croissants and Nutella in the refrigerator. Mom had filled my backpack with chips and cookies for the coach ride.
She had real free range eggs, packs of pasta and rice, and enough candy filling the cupboard to feed us for months.
It's not like I was complaining.
Neither was my brother, who was unusually quiet sitting across from me. Unlike me, he had piled his plate with waffles and cookies, a giant glass of chocolate milk in front of his plate.
I continued spooning choco-pops in my mouth, since neither Mom, nor my brother, wanted to comment.
“Mom,” I swiped at milk running down my chin. “Since when do we buy fancy orange juice?”
Mom stopped flitting around the kitchen like a frenzied butterfly. “I wanted to give you a nice breakfast,” she planted a kiss on my head, before placing the envelope of cash in front of me. I noticed she was shaking. Her fingers playing with my hair, pulling it into my usual ponytail, were trembling.
“Go with your friends and have fun.”
“It's a petting zoo,” I deadpanned. “What's *fun* about a petting zoo?”
I caught my brother’s eye across the table. He looked away quickly, but I still saw something flicker in his eyes, lips pressed into a line. Connor had always been loud at breakfast, picking arguments and singing to the radio.
That morning, an imposter was sitting in his seat.
This boy was pale and kept his head down. I wanted to talk to him, but every time I tried, it's like our mother was putting herself in front of us. My brother was always ready for school, often commenting on me being a slow poke, and fighting me for bathroom privileges. But this time he was still in his pyjamas. *No.* Connor had slept in yesterday's clothes, a crumpled shirt and jeans.
His eyes were shadowed with sleep circles.
Had he even slept?
He looked like he might speak, before Mom dumped my backpack in my lap with a wide smile, and he went back to glaring down at his breakfast.
“You should hurry up,” she hummed, maintaining a fake smile, pulling me to my feet. Both of us knew she was forcing it. Connor rolled his eyes, stuffing a waffle into his mouth, chewing mechanically. Mom ignored his glare. “You don't want to miss the bus.”
Mom excused herself to go grab her bag, and I was left alone with my brother. When the door slammed, Connor downed his glass of chocolate milk before turning to me, his eyes were dark and confusing, a hollowness to them I didn't understand. I couldn't read his expression. He was supposed to be coming on the field trip too, but Mom could only afford for me. I didn't think he’d be *this* salty about it.
“There's dishwasher soap behind you,” he grumbled, forking up waffles and stuffing them into his mouth. I don't think he was enjoying them. It almost look like he was trying to gag himself.
“If I were you, I'd drink it.”
Connor’s half lidded eyes flicked to the door. He swallowed his food, which looked painful, washing it down with more chocolate milk. He didn't seem to notice it dribbling down his chin.
Connor’s eyes pierced right through mine, finding oblivion, his movements almost robotic.
He gestured to the washing detergent sitting on the faucet, and something sickly twisted in my gut.
“Before…” He burped loudly, covering his mouth. Connor seemed to come to life for a moment, eyes growing frenzied, his gaze flicking to the ceiling.
I had never seen my brother look so desperate, and yet helpless. He didn't move. I knew he wanted to, but I wasn't sure he could, his body rocking back and forth. “Before Mom comes back.”
I laughed, even when his words tangled my gut.
“Wow,” I said, “That stings.”
Connor’s lip twitched. “I'm deadly serious.”
“What?” I shouldered my backpack, settling my brother with a frown. “Are you okay?”
His eyes didn't leave me, even when he was draining his third glass of chocolate milk. Connor’s cheeks were a pale, almost sickly green. He poured himself another helping of cereal. “I'm peachy.”
I started forwards, and he flinched back, like I was diseased.
“Connor,” I spoke softly. “What's going on?”
Something seemed to snap inside my older brother’s expression, his eyes narrowing. He straightened up, lips parting like he was going to speak. I should have known. When my brother’s eyes filled with tears, his hands balling into fists, I should have questioned it.
“Mara?” Mom was standing behind me, and she was wearing her forced smile again. “You should get going, sweetie.”
I turned back to Connor, who slumped in his chair with a scoff. “I'm fine,” he grumbled. “Go ahead. Have fun.”
Instead of questioning my brother’s strange behaviour, I turned away from him and followed my mother out into the yard.
I felt Connor’s glare following me out of the door.
I never saw that version of my brother again.
Maybe that's a good thing though.
If I ever *do* see my older brother again, the boy I left that day, who watched me walk away and didn't say a thing, I will blow the fucker’s brains out.
I was still thinking of my brother’s words when I boarded the school coach a few hours later. Mom told me he was just tired, but I couldn't call *that* tired.
I texted him with a question mark, but it didn't send.
*Did he block me?*
Ignoring my brother’s weird behaviour, I found a window seat and slumped down. The bus was nicer than normal, plush seats and velvet curtains. It reminded me of a night bus. I get motion sickness, so I corked in my music and closed my eyes.
“You're awfully quiet.”
We were maybe an hour into the journey, when a familiar southern accent sliced through my music, and I twisted around in my seat, plucking an earphone out. Something wet pooled down my chin, and I swiped it away, horrified. I didn't usually drool when I was awake. The sound of my classmates' laughter and yelling hit me, and I resisted corking my earphone back in.
“I was sleeping,” I told the seat behind me.
“Liar.”
I arched my neck. “Why are you hiding?”
“I'm not,” he whispered. “I'm keeping a low profile. Nate says I talk too much.”
“You do talk too much,” I said. “Have you ever talked to *you*?”
He blew a raspberry. “I'm offended.”
I couldn't resist a smile. “I'm not talking to polkadot seats. Show yourself, or I'm going back to drowning my sorrows.”
“Wait, what?”
Taz Eaton poked his head through the gap in my seat. I could just glimpse his sandy coloured hair, sleepy eyes regarding me with bemusement.
Taz and I had known each other from way back, since our mother’s were friends, and we were forced together through playdates. I vaguely remember not even being self aware yet, and this other kid was always at my house, who picked at his nose and stole my toys.
As we grew older, our friendship became natural. I was twelve when I stopped seeing Taz as a gross disease.
When his hair grew out and he lost his baby fat, I started to avoid him in class, trying to hide burning cheeks and an unsettled stomach. But he was yet to get the memo. Taz was my usual seatmate on class field trips, but that particular coach ride had a strict seating plan. Which meant we couldn't sit at the back and throw peanuts at other kids like usual.
Luckily, Lily Myers had the flu. So, I had the luxury of a seat to myself.
“Drowning your sorrows?” he inclined his head. “It's eleven in the morning.”
“Metaphorically.” I corrected him. I lowered my voice. “How is sharing a seat with a psychopath?”
Taz’s seatmate was Nathan Collete, who had spent half of the coach ride kicking my seat and arguing with the teacher. I could just about see the boy leaning over the back of his seat, yelling with his equally annoying friends.
Taz’s lip curled. “I’d give it a zero out of ten.”
“That's generous.”
“Save me,” Taz whispered through the gap, his voice a mocking whine. “He's…so loud. He's driving me crazy.”
I settled him with a smile. “You should be sitting with me.”
His lips split into a grin. I liked it when he smiled like that. I remember my teenage hormones held my hostage over this boy's one smile, the dimples in his cheeks. Taz made my chest kind of ache.
“Hey, it's not like I had a choice!”
I turned back to my window, avoiding being caught in Nate’s wrath. He was already screaming at kids who had the guts to tell him to shut up. The last thing I wanted was to be caught in the crossfire. Outside, I could have sworn we had driven past the same sign. I leaned my head against the window, something wet and warm seeping down my chin.
Drool.
I swiped at my mouth with my sleeve.
*Again*?
“Can you ask to move seats?” I asked Taz, keeping my gaze glued to the window.
*Maybe I was dehydrated.*
I had a bottle of water, but it was at the front of the bus.
The teacher had taken our bags to avoid us snacking on candy and throwing up everywhere. Which was fair. I didn't go on our last field trip, but it had been infamously remembered for multiple kids getting sick on the bus.
“I already did,” Taz groaned. His reply was a little bit delayed. I shook my head, swiping at more drool. I could feel it now, bleeding from the corners of my mouth. Maybe I was getting sick.
This time Taz kicked my seat, and I jumped. He stuck his head through the gap. “According to Mrs Jenson, I have to have a serious health problem if I want to move seats, and even then, I'll just be moved to the back. Which means unless I'm dying of fucking rabies, I'm stuck here with *him*.”
“Him.” I found myself laughing, a hysterical giggle slipping from my lips.
*Rhymes with blim.*
“What's so funny?” I could hear the smile in his voice. “You think rabies is funny?”
I laughed at that too.
“Sorta.” the word rolled off of my tongue.
*Rabies*, I thought dizzily, my thoughts cotton candy. I covered my mouth.
Wasn't drooling a main symptom of rabies?
“Taz.” I didn't realise I was slurring until I heard my own voice, which sounded a million miles away, caught in a tunnel.
“Yeah?”
My head hit the back of my seat, and suddenly my eyes were far too heavy, flickering. Outside, I saw the same sign we had driven past. Which meant we hadn't even left our town. I opened my mouth to tell him, but I was already speaking, my voice a tangled giggle.
I didn't mean to laugh, but everything was just… funny. The sign outside that we kept driving past, and my own hands in front of me. The world around me was slowing down. Even my own voice, my brain, my breaths coming out in sharp pants. “Are you… drooling?”
“Drooling?” Taz’s voice sounded kind of weird, “Like… drooling drooling?”
“Yeah,” I laughed again, but my body wouldn't move. I blinked, and a figure was looming over me. For a disorienting moment through tunnel vision, the shadow had my brother’s face. Connor’s hollow eyes stared down at me, lips parting into a silent cry. He was clad in dark clothing, a heavy looking weapon strapped to his side.
*Mara.* he shook me, and my head bounced side to side.
I liked the movement, the bounce, bounce of my brain jumping in my skull.
“Go.” His voice felt real, his breath in my face. Connor prodded me when I was falling, my eyes flickering again.
“Mara, I need you to listen to me,” he whispered. “Can you move?”
When I tried to speak, only gibberish came out.
He shook me again. “Can you run?!”
I couldn't.
Time came to a confusing halt, and I was trapped in a single second.
The moment another towering figure came over and stuck a gun in the back of my brother’s head, I realised I couldn't feel fear. I was numb. *“What did I say about expressing emotion?”*
His voice sounded funny.
Like he had inhaled helium.
Connor straightened up. “I was making sure she was inebriated, sir. Agent Mac ordered me to make sure my sister is out cold.”
The shadow blurred, before disappearing. I could still hear his voice long after he'd left, his barking command still rattling on my skull.
*“You may continue. Express emotion, and face deactivation and execution. Are we clear?”*
I could no longer hear my classmates. I couldn't hear Taz or Nate. There were just my own strangled breaths, as the shadow with no face, and then my brother’s face, pressed something plastic over my mouth and nose. I tried to shake it off, stern hands holding my head in place.
I didn't speak properly until my face was lodged against the window, my vision blurring in and out of reality. I don't know why, but my response to Taz was still tangled on my tongue, trying to slip through my numb lips.
“Drooling drooling.” I told my brother still standing over me, muffling into harsh plastic suffocating my breath.
*Drooling drooling.*
The words stuck to my brain, and I danced for a while. I didn't fall. I don't think the purpose was to make us sleep, or maybe it was and my brain was just refusing. I just felt really high, like the time I tried weed with Taz, the two of us failing to inhale, and then dumping it.
My body swayed back and forth, but it was like dancing.
At some point, the bus stopped.
The windows turned pitch dark, and behind me, Taz kicked my seat again.
“Wait, what's going onnnn?” His voice was a slow slur. “What are you doing?”
He kicked my seat again, and my head jolted.
Almost bringing me back to life.
But not quite.
“Hey!” His cry grew stronger, this time his hands and feet battering the back of my seat. “Hey, get off of me! Get off!”
When his cries turned to muffled whimpers, I closed my eyes, sleep finally coming to drag me away. It was delayed, my body already limp, my head uncomfortably resting on my shoulder. I could still sense my brother keeping guard, a whole swarm of shadows standing up and down the bus.
I thought I was hallucinating when Connor let out a harsh laugh, crossed with a sob.
“You fucking idiot.”
I woke up, being shoved off of the bus and straight into dirt.
Barely conscious, my vision was one big confusing blur, before rough hands were grasping hold of my shoulders and pulling me to unsteady feet. I went back to sleep, but my body was carried, dragged, while my head bounced up and down. When I was fully awake, I was sitting in a large room, my arms chained to a desk. There was something stuck to my ear. It felt like an Airpod, but this thing was glued to me.
There was a tallish man who smelled like axe spray flitting from desk to desk, prodding the devices attached to us.
I started to ask what was happening, but my mouth tasted metallic, and I threw up instead.
The chains would only let me go so far, so I was hanging off of my seat, heaving up orange juice that stung my throat, dribbling down my lips and chin.
I remember lifting my head, my mouth still filled with mushy bile.
The sun was rising in a pretty blue sky. The windows were filthy, but the world had not stopped. It was still going on out there, normal workdays and schooldays beginning. I thought it was the end of the world. I thought had been brought to a shelter to avoid fallout.
I should have been out there with my Mom and brother, getting ready for school. So, why was I trapped inside a room with my hands chained down?
Where was my mother?
Twisting around in my chair, I searched for Taz.
But the ghostly faces that stared back were strangers.
“Sit up.” The voice cut into the eerie silence.
I did, sitting as if I was in class.
“Congratulations.” a voice came from above.
It was mechanical, an inhuman text-to-speech.
“You have been chosen to participate in–”
The voice was drowned out, suddenly, by a screech in my ears.
No, not my ears.
It was directly inside my skull, a rooted thing creeping its way into my mind.
I remember screaming, my cry joining the cacophony around me. I slammed my head into the desk when I couldn't press my hands over my ears, resorting to knocking myself out. I could taste metal in the back of my throat and glued to my teeth, sticky on my tongue.
It wouldn't stop.
I slammed my head into the desk again.
And again.
And again.
Behind me, a boy dropped to the ground, pooling crimson seeping around around his head.
*Was I going to end up like that?*
It wouldn't stop.
It wouldn't fucking stop. Above me, blinding lights flickerered. I watched them, dazedly, blood spilling from my lips. I remember my head hit the desk, and it was still there, still leeching inside of me. It was going to fucking kill me.
It wouldn't stop.
Next to me, a girl was trying to pry her earpieces off by dragging her head against the wood of her desk. I tried to copy her, but the thing only grew louder, a shrill, intense wail in my skull.
Until my head was tipped back, my eyes squeezed shut.
I was begging, my tears felt thicker, salty blood on my lips.
*It was never going to fucking—*
Class 7B were considered our school’s royalty.
We were the smart kids, the ones with connections. I used these kids for my own benefit. Scarlet Janus was the daughter of the head of the school board. I was already in talks with her mother about tutoring.
Kaian Hardy, the son of a Korean diplomat, was one of my best friends. I was invited to his family's get-together in the Hamptons, and was planning on having a chat with his father about my *privilege* being Kaian’s best friend.
Kaian’s dad was known for making people disappear, and by disappear, I mean drop off of the face of the planet, and then be found in pieces, stuffed into a suitcase at the bottom of a lake.
Sure, if I ever had to backstab my best friend, I needed to have enough shit on his family to play my cards.
I never thought of us as psychopaths.
Just the privileged brats other kids secretly hated.
We were a group of seventeen year olds, born with a silver spoon in our mouths. I thought the only ones capable of murder were our parents. That was until a 50 page Google Doc landed in my inbox during Math class.
Opening it, the doc contained dirt on everyone in the class, their dirty laundry and darkest secrets right there in size 11 calibri font.
Lucas Warner, the mayor's son, had already been accepted into an Ivy League, thanks to a generous donation by the mayor himself. Emma Cline, class president, was selling herself to older men. Alex Castor, valedictorian, had suffocated his little brother to death for getting better test scores— and his family had covered it up. Kaian Hardy had the longest list under his perfectly made up name. The list did not surprise me.
After all, there was a reason *why* I followed that fucking cockroach around.
**Assault.**
**Battery.**
**Murder.**
His victims were his step mother, and step sister, neither of whom were public knowledge. His father had an affair, and Kaian killed the two of them for trying to become part of the family. Their deaths were covered up. But there was a video revealing everything in wonderfully filthy detail, I got shivers.
My lips were already curling into smile, ripples of pleasure sending me into ecstasy.
*I didn't need to dig around his family*, I thought, my hands tightening around my phone. *Because all of it was here.*
Kaian’s red slicked hands, his wide grin, when he slammed a glass paper weight into his mother’s head. When his sister tried to run, he grabbed the back of her neck, dragged her back, and smashed rose quartz into her temple.
Behind me, Emma Cline threw her Macbook against the wall with a shriek. “What the fuck?!”
I wanted to laugh, giggles already creeping up my throat. I scrolled further down, expecting more names, more scandalous secrets. There was a name at the very bottom. When I saw it, something sour crept up my throat.
**Wendy Atlas.**
There was a picture of me, a selfie taken straight off of my Instagram. I had meticulously scanned every inch to make sure it was perfect. I was smiling, my dark hair pulled into a ponytail, my signature red ribbon tied into a bow. I wore red on Wednesdays. Always. It was part of my obsession to constantly be wearing the colour of my own blood.
**Wendy Atlas is living a lie.**
My first reaction was to delete the document. But I couldn't. I couldn't just press a button, it wasn't mine to delete. I wasn't even watching the attached video, and my trembling hands were already stabbing at my laptop's tracking pad trying to delete it from existence.
I had to keep a poker face.
Wendy Atlas did not *care* about what people thought of her.
Except my carefully moulded facade was splintering piece by piece the longer I stared at the Google doc, not just detailing my lies, but also exposing them in HD on every screen. There I was, caught in gritty camera footage standing in a dumpster full of shit, my filthy hands wrapped around a Gucci Diana Mini. I was grinning, and I could see the greed on my face, my wide eyes glued to the bag.
I sacrificed everything, even the relationship with my father, to maintain my lie. I came from dirt. My father never worked, and we barely scraped by on government handouts. Our apartment stunk of rot, and my room didn't have a carpet. I used to pick lice from my hair because dad refused to run the hot water. I did *everything* to become a perfectly made up lie. I cleaned rich people's houses, trying on their wardrobe, snapping pictures of myself.
It was for self validation at first.
Then it became an obsession. I wanted these clothes, these material things, so much it hurt. Kaian could throw away a five thousand dollar watch because it didn't match his designer blazer.
I dug in the trash and pulled it out, making it mine.
The Google doc exposed everything. My cleaning job, stealing clothes, and dumpster diving for high end fashion.
There were grainy pictures of my real apartment, my bedroom covered in filth, my father staring dazedly at a television that wasn't even on. They even knew about my mother’s death, throwing herself off of a bridge when I was six years old. But I think the worst part was the collection of images of me when I was at my worst.
Inside the convenience store, baggy jeans and a vomit coloured sweater, my hair in my face. I was buying one dollar ramen.
I felt exposed, almost naked.
I could already hear their snorts of laughter.
The door opened, and a man appeared, dropping a large bag in front of us. I already knew what was inside.
The Google doc said one thing at the bottom, and those words were still in my head, motivating me forward, my lips splitting into my usual Wendy Atlas grin. I could fix this. I could maintain my reputation and remain number one.
**The only ones you have seen this are you.**
Daddy used to say he had killed people for hurting his family. Bad people used to come to the door and ask for cash, and he would get rid of them. Before he lost his mind, Daddy told me I would *never* be like him. He made me promise I would grow up to be better than him. I never thought I would be capable of *truly* hurting someone, until the reality of the situation slammed into me. Lucas Warner was digging inside the bag and grabbing a gun, swinging it towards us, his eyes wild. He would kill to hide his secrets.
It's not like I blamed him.
I would do *anything* to keep that disgusting part of me hidden.
Fifteen people knew about my apartment.
My father.
Dumpster diving in shit.
So, ignoring the principal’s son blowing Lena Carson’s brains out, I followed the others, reaching into the bag and scrambling for a weapon. Jake Taylor, who was almost guaranteed to be signed to a major music label, pulled out a machete, and without a word, swung the blade into Liam Jay’s head.
I didn't scream when Liam’s blood spattered my face.
Stumbling back, my fingers around the blade. Not the best weapon, but it was either a knife, or a grenade. I didn't know how to use grenades, and I had a shitty aim. I think we all had the same idea. The same desperation. I watched my classmates scatter, some of them diving under desks, while others went straight for the kill. Emma Cline grabbed me by the throat and shoved me into the wall, teasing the blade of an axe across my throat. The teeth rolled over my skin, and she let out a loud laugh. ”I knew you were fucking poor!”
Emma’s smug grin snapped something inside of me. The bitch called me poor. She *knew* about my apartment, about my father's breakdown, and the lengths I had taken to get what I wanted.
Emma thought she was untouchable.
She thought her Mommy and Daddy could get her out of everything.
So, I split her skull open.
It was easier than I thought, a single plunge into the back of her head, and then forcing the knife deeper.
Emma’s blood felt good dripping down my face. I had half a mind to rip off her Gucci skirt. The one I really wanted. But before I could, I found myself being shoved to the ground. Warren Mears. He tried to strangle me, his fingers cinching around my throat. He would have killed me if someone's knife didn't impale him straight through his skull.
I stopped coherently thinking after that.
Crawling across the floor, all I could see were 15 pairs of eyes watching me digging in dumpster trash. Blood spattered the walls, pooling down my face. I was covered in it, but I didn't care. I stamped on Allie Castor’s head, driving my heel into her skull. I sliced Becca Marie's throat before she could *utter* the word poor. Warm red slicked my hands, my vision blurring.
I didn't stop, forcing my knife into bodies still moving.
Still screaming.
Pain, mercy, or frustration, I couldn't tell.
Two of us left.
The room was quiet, and I was panting, swiping my knife on my dress.
Lucas Warner was perched on a desk, his legs dangling. He caught my eye, lips curling into a smile. The bastard opened his mouth, but I was already moving across the room. He had a gun, but judging from the way he was playing with it like a toy, I was sure he was out of ammo. Clearly, he thought he had the advantage. When I stabbed at him, he just slid across the desk.
“Brave,” he said in a chuckle. “Are you *sure* you want to do that to someone like me?”
He was doing it again.
Looking down on me, even when I had a knife to his throat.
The bastard looked down on me, even when I wore designer clothes.
When I stood on top of the social hierarchy, *he* still regarded me like dirt, refusing to even look at me in the hallways, and casting his gaze to the ground when I happened to catch his eye.
I caught him off guard when he was gearing up for an attack. His hands came to wrap around my throat, but I was already knocking him to the floor.
He chuckled, rivulets of red already beading down his chin.
Luke was already hurt.
I glimpsed the red stain on his shirt, pressing weight onto it.
He screamed, but it was more of a laugh. Luke spluttered deep red, giggling. “*You* dumpster dive?!” he snorted. “Wendy Atlas?” Inclining his head, his venomous eyes drank me in, as if for the first time. “The same Wendy who forced a girl to kill herself last year for wearing thrifted clothes?”
Luke barked out a laugh, shivers creeping down my spine. I lost my grip on my knife. “You're fucking poor?”
I found myself responding in an attempt to defend myself. “That wasn't me.”
Luke raised a brow, laughing manically through blood splatters. “Oh, now you're denying it? That's rich! You wanted to fake it, huh? Well, here's the thing, babe. You don't *belong* with us,” he spat blood in my face. “Get your disgusting welfare hands off of me.”
His words shouldn't have felt like knives stabbing into my spine, enough to send me lurching back. I still had the advantage, but he was the one laughing.
Pressing pressure on the blade, I traced the flesh over his Adam’s apple.
I needed to carve my lie directly from his throat.
“Do it.” Luke whispered, his lips curled with spite.
“Fake bitch,” his eyes teased me. “You could have just *asked* for like, five dollars. You know I give to charity, sweetheart.”
I couldn't resist a screech, stabbing the blade into his throat.
Suddenly, I craved his insults, so I could rip out his voice box.
*“Attention!”* the intercom announced.
For a moment, the world around me contorted. The two of us jerked, like something was pulling our puppet strings.
Luke’s gaze met mine for the fraction of a second, his lips mouthing the exact same words clanging in my mind.
*Intercom*?
“Project Mackerel has now ended. Lower your weapons. You have been participating in a test by the United States government in an attempt to locate and train future field agents–”
A sudden sharp screech in my ears sent me toppling off of the boy. I thought it was an alarm, but Lucas Warner sad screaming too, teeth clenched, his hands slamming over his ears. The sound stopped. Just like that. Luke blinked rapidly. His expression changed, from manic glee to confusion, and then to pain. His hands went to his throat, but I was already straddling him again, shaking the mechanical screech trying to claw into my mind. Luke surprised me with a sharp hiss, his frightened eyes finding mine. “Mara–”
I couldn't hear him, his real voice whipped away.
I could only hear his earlier words haunting me.
*Disgusting welfare hands.*
“Mara,” Luke whispered, his voice different. He struggled to get up, hissing in pain. “Mara, what's happening?”
I didn't listen, plunging the knife into the bastard’s throat. Warm wet redness spattered my cheeks, and I laughed this time. I watched his eyes roll back, then turn glassy, his body going limp. I was still laughing when my vision blurred.
“Mara!” The intercom screeched. “I said lower your weapon right now–”
No, the bastard called me *poor*.
Luke knew about my past. He knew I was a welfare kid. The bastard would take pleasure in telling Kaian. So, I kept going, singing over the orders for me to stop. I stabbed, sliced, and ripped onto him, ignoring glistening innards. But even when he was dead, even with his body reduced to scarlet mush, I could see the *reflection* of the Google doc in his glassy eyes. *Oh God, I could still see it.*
I could see myself burying myself in shit, fishing for high end fashion. I could see my desperate grin, my fingers gripped around the Diana Mini.
A frustrated cry escaped my lips. I plunged the knife into his eye, scooping it out with my fingers and squeezing it between my fists. I stabbed and severed his tongue, just to make sure, pulling the slithering appendage from his lips.
Again.
And again.
AND AGAINANDANDAGAINANDAGAIN–
*”Miss Michael's!”*
The door flew open, a stampede of footsteps drowning my ears.
There was a familiar murmur in my mind, a soft, soothing voice.
“Mara, it's me. It's okay, you can stop now.”
I shoved the shadow away, continuing with the knife, carving into my best friend’s face. I needed all of him gone, every piece that had watched that video, and seen the expose. I didn't stop until a sharp prick was slicing into my neck, and I was screaming, fear finally taking hold. Fear that had been removed to assure I would kill, with the rest of my emotions. Reality started to contort back into shape. Lucas Warner wasn't real, and the body underneath me had a face I knew. I wasn't in a classroom at a prestigious school.
I was still inside the room I had been taken to when I was kidnapped and dragged off of the bus.
I wasn't wearing a Gucci minidress and a pearl necklace.
I was stuck in my old plaid shirt and best jeans.
I was not Wendy Carlisle.
Wendy Carlisle was the device attached to my ear.
When it stopped transmitting, I was fully aware of what I had done.
I had killed my best friend.
His name hit me in a wave of ice cold water, real pain beginning to thread through me, poison streaking through my blood. With the *thing* still attached to me, still inside my head, I still saw Lucas Warner. I couldn't see him.
*He* was a distant and warped memory shoved away.
Taz.
Once the thing was removed, I was dragged into the biting cold.
I could remember parts of him, but his blood slicked my cheeks, staining my hands.
There were others around me, kids covered in blood, hollow eyes enveloped in oblivion. “Congratulations.” that same mechanical text-to-speech voice spoke over the intercom. “You have passed Project Mackerel, a government run test to locate and train future agents in our field.” it paused. “Please stand up.”
We did, almost robotically.
I could see my brother among the soldiers guarding us.
He didn't even look at me.
“Welcome to the program.” the voice said. I jumped up, and I was running, stumbling. I was in the middle of nowhere, a military base in rural Virginia. I started forwards. There was a wire fence and my first thought was to climb it But *he* was grabbing me, hissing in my ear. *If I ran, I would die.*
“Don't be an idiot,” Connor grunted in my ear.
He dragged me back to my place, shoving me back to my knees.
“You will spend the next five years training to become part of our youth program, young people who will become our leaders, our flies on the wall in places of importance. Project Mackerel is finding the young people of tomorrow. The ones who will lead us, and our great country, into a proud future.”
I completed my training six months ago.
I'm one of the rarities who did not lose their humanity.
They're not going to give up.
I'm definitely not a *young person of tomorrow*.
I’m scared of what they're going to make me do next.
I just want to go home.
Back to my Mom.
And my *lie* of a brother.
Please help me.
#entertainment
source
The day my brother tried to force me to down cleaning detergent to avoid going on a school field trip should have set off alarm bells in my head.
It wasn't a high-class trip abroad since our school prioritised its sports department over pretty much everything else.
So, they decided the petting zoo was an ideal place to take fifty eighteen year olds.
I wasn't interested in animals, or petting them. I couldn't afford the trip, anyway. But somehow my mother had magically come up with the funds on the day of the trip, pressing a bright green envelope into my hand. Inside was my permission slip, and four crisp twenty dollar bills.
Money that she couldn't afford to give me.
We could barely afford to eat the night before, scrounging on microwave meals and expired convenience food, and somehow my mother had some real cash. I tried to give it back, but Mom was insistent on me joining my classmates and having a good time.
“At a petting zoo?” Spooning stale cereal into my mouth, I was still frowning at the envelope of cash. *How did she get it?* Mom had lost her job.
She had no family, and my father wanted nothing to do with us. We lost our house a year prior, and luckily had found a small apartment in the middle of the city. There were only two rooms and mould in the bathroom, noisy neighbours, and a resident rat under the floorboards. But it was home. It was better than being homeless, anyway.
Mom was unusually smiley that morning, pouring real squeezed orange juice in my glass. The proper kind that was like ten bucks a carton. I was used to plain water at breakfast, but for a moment, I revelled in the luxury of proper orange juice, gulping it down.
It tasted good, tangy and fresh flushing down my throat.
Early morning sunlight filtered through the blinds, basking my mother in shadow. I could just see the thick wool of her robe, straggly blonde hair dangling in her face. Mom smelled like cheap raspberry shampoo and instant coffee. “How did you afford all of this?”
I didn't just mean the juice. There were fresh croissants and Nutella in the refrigerator. Mom had filled my backpack with chips and cookies for the coach ride.
She had real free range eggs, packs of pasta and rice, and enough candy filling the cupboard to feed us for months.
It's not like I was complaining.
Neither was my brother, who was unusually quiet sitting across from me. Unlike me, he had piled his plate with waffles and cookies, a giant glass of chocolate milk in front of his plate.
I continued spooning choco-pops in my mouth, since neither Mom, nor my brother, wanted to comment.
“Mom,” I swiped at milk running down my chin. “Since when do we buy fancy orange juice?”
Mom stopped flitting around the kitchen like a frenzied butterfly. “I wanted to give you a nice breakfast,” she planted a kiss on my head, before placing the envelope of cash in front of me. I noticed she was shaking. Her fingers playing with my hair, pulling it into my usual ponytail, were trembling.
“Go with your friends and have fun.”
“It's a petting zoo,” I deadpanned. “What's *fun* about a petting zoo?”
I caught my brother’s eye across the table. He looked away quickly, but I still saw something flicker in his eyes, lips pressed into a line. Connor had always been loud at breakfast, picking arguments and singing to the radio.
That morning, an imposter was sitting in his seat.
This boy was pale and kept his head down. I wanted to talk to him, but every time I tried, it's like our mother was putting herself in front of us. My brother was always ready for school, often commenting on me being a slow poke, and fighting me for bathroom privileges. But this time he was still in his pyjamas. *No.* Connor had slept in yesterday's clothes, a crumpled shirt and jeans.
His eyes were shadowed with sleep circles.
Had he even slept?
He looked like he might speak, before Mom dumped my backpack in my lap with a wide smile, and he went back to glaring down at his breakfast.
“You should hurry up,” she hummed, maintaining a fake smile, pulling me to my feet. Both of us knew she was forcing it. Connor rolled his eyes, stuffing a waffle into his mouth, chewing mechanically. Mom ignored his glare. “You don't want to miss the bus.”
Mom excused herself to go grab her bag, and I was left alone with my brother. When the door slammed, Connor downed his glass of chocolate milk before turning to me, his eyes were dark and confusing, a hollowness to them I didn't understand. I couldn't read his expression. He was supposed to be coming on the field trip too, but Mom could only afford for me. I didn't think he’d be *this* salty about it.
“There's dishwasher soap behind you,” he grumbled, forking up waffles and stuffing them into his mouth. I don't think he was enjoying them. It almost look like he was trying to gag himself.
“If I were you, I'd drink it.”
Connor’s half lidded eyes flicked to the door. He swallowed his food, which looked painful, washing it down with more chocolate milk. He didn't seem to notice it dribbling down his chin.
Connor’s eyes pierced right through mine, finding oblivion, his movements almost robotic.
He gestured to the washing detergent sitting on the faucet, and something sickly twisted in my gut.
“Before…” He burped loudly, covering his mouth. Connor seemed to come to life for a moment, eyes growing frenzied, his gaze flicking to the ceiling.
I had never seen my brother look so desperate, and yet helpless. He didn't move. I knew he wanted to, but I wasn't sure he could, his body rocking back and forth. “Before Mom comes back.”
I laughed, even when his words tangled my gut.
“Wow,” I said, “That stings.”
Connor’s lip twitched. “I'm deadly serious.”
“What?” I shouldered my backpack, settling my brother with a frown. “Are you okay?”
His eyes didn't leave me, even when he was draining his third glass of chocolate milk. Connor’s cheeks were a pale, almost sickly green. He poured himself another helping of cereal. “I'm peachy.”
I started forwards, and he flinched back, like I was diseased.
“Connor,” I spoke softly. “What's going on?”
Something seemed to snap inside my older brother’s expression, his eyes narrowing. He straightened up, lips parting like he was going to speak. I should have known. When my brother’s eyes filled with tears, his hands balling into fists, I should have questioned it.
“Mara?” Mom was standing behind me, and she was wearing her forced smile again. “You should get going, sweetie.”
I turned back to Connor, who slumped in his chair with a scoff. “I'm fine,” he grumbled. “Go ahead. Have fun.”
Instead of questioning my brother’s strange behaviour, I turned away from him and followed my mother out into the yard.
I felt Connor’s glare following me out of the door.
I never saw that version of my brother again.
Maybe that's a good thing though.
If I ever *do* see my older brother again, the boy I left that day, who watched me walk away and didn't say a thing, I will blow the fucker’s brains out.
I was still thinking of my brother’s words when I boarded the school coach a few hours later. Mom told me he was just tired, but I couldn't call *that* tired.
I texted him with a question mark, but it didn't send.
*Did he block me?*
Ignoring my brother’s weird behaviour, I found a window seat and slumped down. The bus was nicer than normal, plush seats and velvet curtains. It reminded me of a night bus. I get motion sickness, so I corked in my music and closed my eyes.
“You're awfully quiet.”
We were maybe an hour into the journey, when a familiar southern accent sliced through my music, and I twisted around in my seat, plucking an earphone out. Something wet pooled down my chin, and I swiped it away, horrified. I didn't usually drool when I was awake. The sound of my classmates' laughter and yelling hit me, and I resisted corking my earphone back in.
“I was sleeping,” I told the seat behind me.
“Liar.”
I arched my neck. “Why are you hiding?”
“I'm not,” he whispered. “I'm keeping a low profile. Nate says I talk too much.”
“You do talk too much,” I said. “Have you ever talked to *you*?”
He blew a raspberry. “I'm offended.”
I couldn't resist a smile. “I'm not talking to polkadot seats. Show yourself, or I'm going back to drowning my sorrows.”
“Wait, what?”
Taz Eaton poked his head through the gap in my seat. I could just glimpse his sandy coloured hair, sleepy eyes regarding me with bemusement.
Taz and I had known each other from way back, since our mother’s were friends, and we were forced together through playdates. I vaguely remember not even being self aware yet, and this other kid was always at my house, who picked at his nose and stole my toys.
As we grew older, our friendship became natural. I was twelve when I stopped seeing Taz as a gross disease.
When his hair grew out and he lost his baby fat, I started to avoid him in class, trying to hide burning cheeks and an unsettled stomach. But he was yet to get the memo. Taz was my usual seatmate on class field trips, but that particular coach ride had a strict seating plan. Which meant we couldn't sit at the back and throw peanuts at other kids like usual.
Luckily, Lily Myers had the flu. So, I had the luxury of a seat to myself.
“Drowning your sorrows?” he inclined his head. “It's eleven in the morning.”
“Metaphorically.” I corrected him. I lowered my voice. “How is sharing a seat with a psychopath?”
Taz’s seatmate was Nathan Collete, who had spent half of the coach ride kicking my seat and arguing with the teacher. I could just about see the boy leaning over the back of his seat, yelling with his equally annoying friends.
Taz’s lip curled. “I’d give it a zero out of ten.”
“That's generous.”
“Save me,” Taz whispered through the gap, his voice a mocking whine. “He's…so loud. He's driving me crazy.”
I settled him with a smile. “You should be sitting with me.”
His lips split into a grin. I liked it when he smiled like that. I remember my teenage hormones held my hostage over this boy's one smile, the dimples in his cheeks. Taz made my chest kind of ache.
“Hey, it's not like I had a choice!”
I turned back to my window, avoiding being caught in Nate’s wrath. He was already screaming at kids who had the guts to tell him to shut up. The last thing I wanted was to be caught in the crossfire. Outside, I could have sworn we had driven past the same sign. I leaned my head against the window, something wet and warm seeping down my chin.
Drool.
I swiped at my mouth with my sleeve.
*Again*?
“Can you ask to move seats?” I asked Taz, keeping my gaze glued to the window.
*Maybe I was dehydrated.*
I had a bottle of water, but it was at the front of the bus.
The teacher had taken our bags to avoid us snacking on candy and throwing up everywhere. Which was fair. I didn't go on our last field trip, but it had been infamously remembered for multiple kids getting sick on the bus.
“I already did,” Taz groaned. His reply was a little bit delayed. I shook my head, swiping at more drool. I could feel it now, bleeding from the corners of my mouth. Maybe I was getting sick.
This time Taz kicked my seat, and I jumped. He stuck his head through the gap. “According to Mrs Jenson, I have to have a serious health problem if I want to move seats, and even then, I'll just be moved to the back. Which means unless I'm dying of fucking rabies, I'm stuck here with *him*.”
“Him.” I found myself laughing, a hysterical giggle slipping from my lips.
*Rhymes with blim.*
“What's so funny?” I could hear the smile in his voice. “You think rabies is funny?”
I laughed at that too.
“Sorta.” the word rolled off of my tongue.
*Rabies*, I thought dizzily, my thoughts cotton candy. I covered my mouth.
Wasn't drooling a main symptom of rabies?
“Taz.” I didn't realise I was slurring until I heard my own voice, which sounded a million miles away, caught in a tunnel.
“Yeah?”
My head hit the back of my seat, and suddenly my eyes were far too heavy, flickering. Outside, I saw the same sign we had driven past. Which meant we hadn't even left our town. I opened my mouth to tell him, but I was already speaking, my voice a tangled giggle.
I didn't mean to laugh, but everything was just… funny. The sign outside that we kept driving past, and my own hands in front of me. The world around me was slowing down. Even my own voice, my brain, my breaths coming out in sharp pants. “Are you… drooling?”
“Drooling?” Taz’s voice sounded kind of weird, “Like… drooling drooling?”
“Yeah,” I laughed again, but my body wouldn't move. I blinked, and a figure was looming over me. For a disorienting moment through tunnel vision, the shadow had my brother’s face. Connor’s hollow eyes stared down at me, lips parting into a silent cry. He was clad in dark clothing, a heavy looking weapon strapped to his side.
*Mara.* he shook me, and my head bounced side to side.
I liked the movement, the bounce, bounce of my brain jumping in my skull.
“Go.” His voice felt real, his breath in my face. Connor prodded me when I was falling, my eyes flickering again.
“Mara, I need you to listen to me,” he whispered. “Can you move?”
When I tried to speak, only gibberish came out.
He shook me again. “Can you run?!”
I couldn't.
Time came to a confusing halt, and I was trapped in a single second.
The moment another towering figure came over and stuck a gun in the back of my brother’s head, I realised I couldn't feel fear. I was numb. *“What did I say about expressing emotion?”*
His voice sounded funny.
Like he had inhaled helium.
Connor straightened up. “I was making sure she was inebriated, sir. Agent Mac ordered me to make sure my sister is out cold.”
The shadow blurred, before disappearing. I could still hear his voice long after he'd left, his barking command still rattling on my skull.
*“You may continue. Express emotion, and face deactivation and execution. Are we clear?”*
I could no longer hear my classmates. I couldn't hear Taz or Nate. There were just my own strangled breaths, as the shadow with no face, and then my brother’s face, pressed something plastic over my mouth and nose. I tried to shake it off, stern hands holding my head in place.
I didn't speak properly until my face was lodged against the window, my vision blurring in and out of reality. I don't know why, but my response to Taz was still tangled on my tongue, trying to slip through my numb lips.
“Drooling drooling.” I told my brother still standing over me, muffling into harsh plastic suffocating my breath.
*Drooling drooling.*
The words stuck to my brain, and I danced for a while. I didn't fall. I don't think the purpose was to make us sleep, or maybe it was and my brain was just refusing. I just felt really high, like the time I tried weed with Taz, the two of us failing to inhale, and then dumping it.
My body swayed back and forth, but it was like dancing.
At some point, the bus stopped.
The windows turned pitch dark, and behind me, Taz kicked my seat again.
“Wait, what's going onnnn?” His voice was a slow slur. “What are you doing?”
He kicked my seat again, and my head jolted.
Almost bringing me back to life.
But not quite.
“Hey!” His cry grew stronger, this time his hands and feet battering the back of my seat. “Hey, get off of me! Get off!”
When his cries turned to muffled whimpers, I closed my eyes, sleep finally coming to drag me away. It was delayed, my body already limp, my head uncomfortably resting on my shoulder. I could still sense my brother keeping guard, a whole swarm of shadows standing up and down the bus.
I thought I was hallucinating when Connor let out a harsh laugh, crossed with a sob.
“You fucking idiot.”
I woke up, being shoved off of the bus and straight into dirt.
Barely conscious, my vision was one big confusing blur, before rough hands were grasping hold of my shoulders and pulling me to unsteady feet. I went back to sleep, but my body was carried, dragged, while my head bounced up and down. When I was fully awake, I was sitting in a large room, my arms chained to a desk. There was something stuck to my ear. It felt like an Airpod, but this thing was glued to me.
There was a tallish man who smelled like axe spray flitting from desk to desk, prodding the devices attached to us.
I started to ask what was happening, but my mouth tasted metallic, and I threw up instead.
The chains would only let me go so far, so I was hanging off of my seat, heaving up orange juice that stung my throat, dribbling down my lips and chin.
I remember lifting my head, my mouth still filled with mushy bile.
The sun was rising in a pretty blue sky. The windows were filthy, but the world had not stopped. It was still going on out there, normal workdays and schooldays beginning. I thought it was the end of the world. I thought had been brought to a shelter to avoid fallout.
I should have been out there with my Mom and brother, getting ready for school. So, why was I trapped inside a room with my hands chained down?
Where was my mother?
Twisting around in my chair, I searched for Taz.
But the ghostly faces that stared back were strangers.
“Sit up.” The voice cut into the eerie silence.
I did, sitting as if I was in class.
“Congratulations.” a voice came from above.
It was mechanical, an inhuman text-to-speech.
“You have been chosen to participate in–”
The voice was drowned out, suddenly, by a screech in my ears.
No, not my ears.
It was directly inside my skull, a rooted thing creeping its way into my mind.
I remember screaming, my cry joining the cacophony around me. I slammed my head into the desk when I couldn't press my hands over my ears, resorting to knocking myself out. I could taste metal in the back of my throat and glued to my teeth, sticky on my tongue.
It wouldn't stop.
I slammed my head into the desk again.
And again.
And again.
Behind me, a boy dropped to the ground, pooling crimson seeping around around his head.
*Was I going to end up like that?*
It wouldn't stop.
It wouldn't fucking stop. Above me, blinding lights flickerered. I watched them, dazedly, blood spilling from my lips. I remember my head hit the desk, and it was still there, still leeching inside of me. It was going to fucking kill me.
It wouldn't stop.
Next to me, a girl was trying to pry her earpieces off by dragging her head against the wood of her desk. I tried to copy her, but the thing only grew louder, a shrill, intense wail in my skull.
Until my head was tipped back, my eyes squeezed shut.
I was begging, my tears felt thicker, salty blood on my lips.
*It was never going to fucking—*
Class 7B were considered our school’s royalty.
We were the smart kids, the ones with connections. I used these kids for my own benefit. Scarlet Janus was the daughter of the head of the school board. I was already in talks with her mother about tutoring.
Kaian Hardy, the son of a Korean diplomat, was one of my best friends. I was invited to his family's get-together in the Hamptons, and was planning on having a chat with his father about my *privilege* being Kaian’s best friend.
Kaian’s dad was known for making people disappear, and by disappear, I mean drop off of the face of the planet, and then be found in pieces, stuffed into a suitcase at the bottom of a lake.
Sure, if I ever had to backstab my best friend, I needed to have enough shit on his family to play my cards.
I never thought of us as psychopaths.
Just the privileged brats other kids secretly hated.
We were a group of seventeen year olds, born with a silver spoon in our mouths. I thought the only ones capable of murder were our parents. That was until a 50 page Google Doc landed in my inbox during Math class.
Opening it, the doc contained dirt on everyone in the class, their dirty laundry and darkest secrets right there in size 11 calibri font.
Lucas Warner, the mayor's son, had already been accepted into an Ivy League, thanks to a generous donation by the mayor himself. Emma Cline, class president, was selling herself to older men. Alex Castor, valedictorian, had suffocated his little brother to death for getting better test scores— and his family had covered it up. Kaian Hardy had the longest list under his perfectly made up name. The list did not surprise me.
After all, there was a reason *why* I followed that fucking cockroach around.
**Assault.**
**Battery.**
**Murder.**
His victims were his step mother, and step sister, neither of whom were public knowledge. His father had an affair, and Kaian killed the two of them for trying to become part of the family. Their deaths were covered up. But there was a video revealing everything in wonderfully filthy detail, I got shivers.
My lips were already curling into smile, ripples of pleasure sending me into ecstasy.
*I didn't need to dig around his family*, I thought, my hands tightening around my phone. *Because all of it was here.*
Kaian’s red slicked hands, his wide grin, when he slammed a glass paper weight into his mother’s head. When his sister tried to run, he grabbed the back of her neck, dragged her back, and smashed rose quartz into her temple.
Behind me, Emma Cline threw her Macbook against the wall with a shriek. “What the fuck?!”
I wanted to laugh, giggles already creeping up my throat. I scrolled further down, expecting more names, more scandalous secrets. There was a name at the very bottom. When I saw it, something sour crept up my throat.
**Wendy Atlas.**
There was a picture of me, a selfie taken straight off of my Instagram. I had meticulously scanned every inch to make sure it was perfect. I was smiling, my dark hair pulled into a ponytail, my signature red ribbon tied into a bow. I wore red on Wednesdays. Always. It was part of my obsession to constantly be wearing the colour of my own blood.
**Wendy Atlas is living a lie.**
My first reaction was to delete the document. But I couldn't. I couldn't just press a button, it wasn't mine to delete. I wasn't even watching the attached video, and my trembling hands were already stabbing at my laptop's tracking pad trying to delete it from existence.
I had to keep a poker face.
Wendy Atlas did not *care* about what people thought of her.
Except my carefully moulded facade was splintering piece by piece the longer I stared at the Google doc, not just detailing my lies, but also exposing them in HD on every screen. There I was, caught in gritty camera footage standing in a dumpster full of shit, my filthy hands wrapped around a Gucci Diana Mini. I was grinning, and I could see the greed on my face, my wide eyes glued to the bag.
I sacrificed everything, even the relationship with my father, to maintain my lie. I came from dirt. My father never worked, and we barely scraped by on government handouts. Our apartment stunk of rot, and my room didn't have a carpet. I used to pick lice from my hair because dad refused to run the hot water. I did *everything* to become a perfectly made up lie. I cleaned rich people's houses, trying on their wardrobe, snapping pictures of myself.
It was for self validation at first.
Then it became an obsession. I wanted these clothes, these material things, so much it hurt. Kaian could throw away a five thousand dollar watch because it didn't match his designer blazer.
I dug in the trash and pulled it out, making it mine.
The Google doc exposed everything. My cleaning job, stealing clothes, and dumpster diving for high end fashion.
There were grainy pictures of my real apartment, my bedroom covered in filth, my father staring dazedly at a television that wasn't even on. They even knew about my mother’s death, throwing herself off of a bridge when I was six years old. But I think the worst part was the collection of images of me when I was at my worst.
Inside the convenience store, baggy jeans and a vomit coloured sweater, my hair in my face. I was buying one dollar ramen.
I felt exposed, almost naked.
I could already hear their snorts of laughter.
The door opened, and a man appeared, dropping a large bag in front of us. I already knew what was inside.
The Google doc said one thing at the bottom, and those words were still in my head, motivating me forward, my lips splitting into my usual Wendy Atlas grin. I could fix this. I could maintain my reputation and remain number one.
**The only ones you have seen this are you.**
Daddy used to say he had killed people for hurting his family. Bad people used to come to the door and ask for cash, and he would get rid of them. Before he lost his mind, Daddy told me I would *never* be like him. He made me promise I would grow up to be better than him. I never thought I would be capable of *truly* hurting someone, until the reality of the situation slammed into me. Lucas Warner was digging inside the bag and grabbing a gun, swinging it towards us, his eyes wild. He would kill to hide his secrets.
It's not like I blamed him.
I would do *anything* to keep that disgusting part of me hidden.
Fifteen people knew about my apartment.
My father.
Dumpster diving in shit.
So, ignoring the principal’s son blowing Lena Carson’s brains out, I followed the others, reaching into the bag and scrambling for a weapon. Jake Taylor, who was almost guaranteed to be signed to a major music label, pulled out a machete, and without a word, swung the blade into Liam Jay’s head.
I didn't scream when Liam’s blood spattered my face.
Stumbling back, my fingers around the blade. Not the best weapon, but it was either a knife, or a grenade. I didn't know how to use grenades, and I had a shitty aim. I think we all had the same idea. The same desperation. I watched my classmates scatter, some of them diving under desks, while others went straight for the kill. Emma Cline grabbed me by the throat and shoved me into the wall, teasing the blade of an axe across my throat. The teeth rolled over my skin, and she let out a loud laugh. ”I knew you were fucking poor!”
Emma’s smug grin snapped something inside of me. The bitch called me poor. She *knew* about my apartment, about my father's breakdown, and the lengths I had taken to get what I wanted.
Emma thought she was untouchable.
She thought her Mommy and Daddy could get her out of everything.
So, I split her skull open.
It was easier than I thought, a single plunge into the back of her head, and then forcing the knife deeper.
Emma’s blood felt good dripping down my face. I had half a mind to rip off her Gucci skirt. The one I really wanted. But before I could, I found myself being shoved to the ground. Warren Mears. He tried to strangle me, his fingers cinching around my throat. He would have killed me if someone's knife didn't impale him straight through his skull.
I stopped coherently thinking after that.
Crawling across the floor, all I could see were 15 pairs of eyes watching me digging in dumpster trash. Blood spattered the walls, pooling down my face. I was covered in it, but I didn't care. I stamped on Allie Castor’s head, driving my heel into her skull. I sliced Becca Marie's throat before she could *utter* the word poor. Warm red slicked my hands, my vision blurring.
I didn't stop, forcing my knife into bodies still moving.
Still screaming.
Pain, mercy, or frustration, I couldn't tell.
Two of us left.
The room was quiet, and I was panting, swiping my knife on my dress.
Lucas Warner was perched on a desk, his legs dangling. He caught my eye, lips curling into a smile. The bastard opened his mouth, but I was already moving across the room. He had a gun, but judging from the way he was playing with it like a toy, I was sure he was out of ammo. Clearly, he thought he had the advantage. When I stabbed at him, he just slid across the desk.
“Brave,” he said in a chuckle. “Are you *sure* you want to do that to someone like me?”
He was doing it again.
Looking down on me, even when I had a knife to his throat.
The bastard looked down on me, even when I wore designer clothes.
When I stood on top of the social hierarchy, *he* still regarded me like dirt, refusing to even look at me in the hallways, and casting his gaze to the ground when I happened to catch his eye.
I caught him off guard when he was gearing up for an attack. His hands came to wrap around my throat, but I was already knocking him to the floor.
He chuckled, rivulets of red already beading down his chin.
Luke was already hurt.
I glimpsed the red stain on his shirt, pressing weight onto it.
He screamed, but it was more of a laugh. Luke spluttered deep red, giggling. “*You* dumpster dive?!” he snorted. “Wendy Atlas?” Inclining his head, his venomous eyes drank me in, as if for the first time. “The same Wendy who forced a girl to kill herself last year for wearing thrifted clothes?”
Luke barked out a laugh, shivers creeping down my spine. I lost my grip on my knife. “You're fucking poor?”
I found myself responding in an attempt to defend myself. “That wasn't me.”
Luke raised a brow, laughing manically through blood splatters. “Oh, now you're denying it? That's rich! You wanted to fake it, huh? Well, here's the thing, babe. You don't *belong* with us,” he spat blood in my face. “Get your disgusting welfare hands off of me.”
His words shouldn't have felt like knives stabbing into my spine, enough to send me lurching back. I still had the advantage, but he was the one laughing.
Pressing pressure on the blade, I traced the flesh over his Adam’s apple.
I needed to carve my lie directly from his throat.
“Do it.” Luke whispered, his lips curled with spite.
“Fake bitch,” his eyes teased me. “You could have just *asked* for like, five dollars. You know I give to charity, sweetheart.”
I couldn't resist a screech, stabbing the blade into his throat.
Suddenly, I craved his insults, so I could rip out his voice box.
*“Attention!”* the intercom announced.
For a moment, the world around me contorted. The two of us jerked, like something was pulling our puppet strings.
Luke’s gaze met mine for the fraction of a second, his lips mouthing the exact same words clanging in my mind.
*Intercom*?
“Project Mackerel has now ended. Lower your weapons. You have been participating in a test by the United States government in an attempt to locate and train future field agents–”
A sudden sharp screech in my ears sent me toppling off of the boy. I thought it was an alarm, but Lucas Warner sad screaming too, teeth clenched, his hands slamming over his ears. The sound stopped. Just like that. Luke blinked rapidly. His expression changed, from manic glee to confusion, and then to pain. His hands went to his throat, but I was already straddling him again, shaking the mechanical screech trying to claw into my mind. Luke surprised me with a sharp hiss, his frightened eyes finding mine. “Mara–”
I couldn't hear him, his real voice whipped away.
I could only hear his earlier words haunting me.
*Disgusting welfare hands.*
“Mara,” Luke whispered, his voice different. He struggled to get up, hissing in pain. “Mara, what's happening?”
I didn't listen, plunging the knife into the bastard’s throat. Warm wet redness spattered my cheeks, and I laughed this time. I watched his eyes roll back, then turn glassy, his body going limp. I was still laughing when my vision blurred.
“Mara!” The intercom screeched. “I said lower your weapon right now–”
No, the bastard called me *poor*.
Luke knew about my past. He knew I was a welfare kid. The bastard would take pleasure in telling Kaian. So, I kept going, singing over the orders for me to stop. I stabbed, sliced, and ripped onto him, ignoring glistening innards. But even when he was dead, even with his body reduced to scarlet mush, I could see the *reflection* of the Google doc in his glassy eyes. *Oh God, I could still see it.*
I could see myself burying myself in shit, fishing for high end fashion. I could see my desperate grin, my fingers gripped around the Diana Mini.
A frustrated cry escaped my lips. I plunged the knife into his eye, scooping it out with my fingers and squeezing it between my fists. I stabbed and severed his tongue, just to make sure, pulling the slithering appendage from his lips.
Again.
And again.
AND AGAINANDANDAGAINANDAGAIN–
*”Miss Michael's!”*
The door flew open, a stampede of footsteps drowning my ears.
There was a familiar murmur in my mind, a soft, soothing voice.
“Mara, it's me. It's okay, you can stop now.”
I shoved the shadow away, continuing with the knife, carving into my best friend’s face. I needed all of him gone, every piece that had watched that video, and seen the expose. I didn't stop until a sharp prick was slicing into my neck, and I was screaming, fear finally taking hold. Fear that had been removed to assure I would kill, with the rest of my emotions. Reality started to contort back into shape. Lucas Warner wasn't real, and the body underneath me had a face I knew. I wasn't in a classroom at a prestigious school.
I was still inside the room I had been taken to when I was kidnapped and dragged off of the bus.
I wasn't wearing a Gucci minidress and a pearl necklace.
I was stuck in my old plaid shirt and best jeans.
I was not Wendy Carlisle.
Wendy Carlisle was the device attached to my ear.
When it stopped transmitting, I was fully aware of what I had done.
I had killed my best friend.
His name hit me in a wave of ice cold water, real pain beginning to thread through me, poison streaking through my blood. With the *thing* still attached to me, still inside my head, I still saw Lucas Warner. I couldn't see him.
*He* was a distant and warped memory shoved away.
Taz.
Once the thing was removed, I was dragged into the biting cold.
I could remember parts of him, but his blood slicked my cheeks, staining my hands.
There were others around me, kids covered in blood, hollow eyes enveloped in oblivion. “Congratulations.” that same mechanical text-to-speech voice spoke over the intercom. “You have passed Project Mackerel, a government run test to locate and train future agents in our field.” it paused. “Please stand up.”
We did, almost robotically.
I could see my brother among the soldiers guarding us.
He didn't even look at me.
“Welcome to the program.” the voice said. I jumped up, and I was running, stumbling. I was in the middle of nowhere, a military base in rural Virginia. I started forwards. There was a wire fence and my first thought was to climb it But *he* was grabbing me, hissing in my ear. *If I ran, I would die.*
“Don't be an idiot,” Connor grunted in my ear.
He dragged me back to my place, shoving me back to my knees.
“You will spend the next five years training to become part of our youth program, young people who will become our leaders, our flies on the wall in places of importance. Project Mackerel is finding the young people of tomorrow. The ones who will lead us, and our great country, into a proud future.”
I completed my training six months ago.
I'm one of the rarities who did not lose their humanity.
They're not going to give up.
I'm definitely not a *young person of tomorrow*.
I’m scared of what they're going to make me do next.
I just want to go home.
Back to my Mom.
And my *lie* of a brother.
Please help me.
#entertainment
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