Chapter 3

With Quilla at my side, the crowd hesitated.

Whispers spread. The teachers, alerted by the noise, stepped in to investigate.

Beatrix, fearing disciplinary action, backed off.

But she didn't forget. She held a grudge against Quilla.

Quilla, a rising star on the basketball team, was scheduled for a major game.

Beatrix smeared some kind of chemical on Quilla's practice ball.

Quilla's hands broke out in a vicious rash. It itched so violently, she had to pull out of the match for fear of infecting her teammates.

The act was so cruel, the coaching staff intervened. But there was no proof. Beatrix denied everything and walked away unscathed—again.

I carried the guilt of it all. Quilla had stood up for me and paid the price.

Fueled by rage—and a late-night Virelia action film where Dorian punish the wicked—I finally snapped. I fought her.

That was when she went for the kill.

Our dorm was near the stairwell, my bunk close to the door.

On the day of the sports festival, when we were all required to wear specific shoes, she coated the soles of mine with lubricant.

I slipped the shoes on, unaware, and the moment I stepped into the stairwell—I fell.

My head struck the edge of a step. Hard.

I was declared comatose. I remember the sensation of being trapped in my own body, aware of voices, of presence, but unable to respond.

My mother drained every last cent, sold the house, quit her job. I watched her fade.

Quilla visited often. I remember her tear-streaked face as she whispered, "I'm sorry. I should've known. I should've stopped her."

She'd confronted Beatrix after our fight, demanding an apology.

She'd known it was another of Beatrix's games.

But knowing and proving were worlds apart.

My mother sold the house. The car. Every possession that could be exchanged for cash. Still, it wasn't enough to cover the mounting cost of keeping me alive.

She petitioned the university for an internal investigation. Quilla stepped forward, brave enough to say that it was Beatrix who had tampered with my shoes.

But Beatrix, shameless as ever, denied everything. "I warned Halcyon not to fool around," she said, eyes wide with faux concern. "She was the one messing about. I had nothing to do with it."

My mother dropped to her knees in the dean's office, voice cracking with desperation. "Please," she begged, "just tell the truth. Tell me what happened to my daughter. I have nothing left. I need help. She's still so young… There's still time to save her."

A lawyer had advised us—if the school were found even partially responsible, they'd be required to shoulder most of the compensation.

But Beatrix, unflinching, pinned all blame on me, erasing even the slimmest chance of redress.

I lay in a hospital bed, unconscious, breathing through a machine.

And Beatrix still found room for cruelty. "She and her mother," she scoffed to anyone who would listen, "it's all just a scam. Tragic, sure—but don't pin your mistakes on someone else."

Her words landed like blades. Each rumor she spread drove another splinter into my mother's already shattered heart.

With nowhere left to turn, and no funds for further treatment, my mother chose the only path she could see. She drank pesticide.

Before she did, she pulled the oxygen tube that kept me alive and, through sobs, shouted, "I'm sorry, Halcyon. I've failed you. But if life ever gives you another chance… don't live like this. Don't ever be weak."

Later, back in the classroom, I stood between Beatrix and Quilla. My tone was cool, measured. "I saw what you did. You wanted to humiliate her."

Beatrix shrugged, every inch the picture of indifference. "So what? It was just a joke. You don't have to make such a big deal out of it."

I met her gaze without flinching. "In that case," I said quietly, "I trust you can take a joke just as well as you make one?"