Revilsa

  A week is long enough for wounds to scab but not long enough to forget. The whispers haven’t stopped. The looks haven’t faded. But I'll make sure they see something different now.

  The razor hums in my hand. A noiseless vibration.

  I press it to my temple, and the first strand of hair falls. It drifts down, weightless, lifeless.

  Then another. And another.

  I watch them pile in the sink—dark remnants of someone I don’t recognize anymore. Someone I don’t want to recognize.

  The girl who never got anything. The girl who got pushed, ignored, dismissed. The girl who let that cold, burning thing sit inside her quietly for too long.

  I run the razor higher, feeling it strip away the hesitation. The fear.

  The buzzing stops.

  I look up.

  The mirror is unkind. It never lies. It doesn’t pretend. It shows me exactly what I am now.

  The same scars. The same eyes. But the girl looking back isn’t the same.

  Good.

  I trail my fingers along the buzzed sides of my head, feeling the sharp bristle. The rest of my hair—wild, untamed—sweeps back like bck spines.

  A Crown of Spikes.

  I tilt my head, watching how the light catches the edges. Sharp. Uncompromising.

  I no longer see a victim. Neither an outcast.

  I see danger.

  And I like it.

  I head downstairs, my shoes tapping against the wooden steps. The house smells like fresh toast and mom's perfume. Morning sunlight drapes zily over the furniture, casting long shadows across the polished floors.

  She's in the kitchen, standing by the counter, coffee in one hand, swiping something in the air with the other via her View. She doesn’t look up right away.

  “Remember,” she says, flipping through something. “You’re back at school today. I expect you to behave after your little… incident.”

  Then she looks at me.

  The words die in her throat. Her face freezes.

  Crash.

  The coffee breaks like her temper would, and her lips press just a little too tightly together.

  A week ago, she would have sighed. Given me a lecture about being presentable. Something about how a proper young dy should look.

  Now?

  She says nothing, and that's good.

  I grab a slice of toast off the pte and bite into it as I walk past. Then, the door clicks shut behind me.

  The air outside is crisp, the morning sun already scorching the air. I sling my bag over my shoulder and head towards school, my shadow stretching long in front of me.

  This school is an uneasy truce.

  The rich kids carry their st names like weapons. The poor kids carry their scars the same way.

  The polished and the broken. The ones who take and the ones who endure.

  I used to think I belonged with the tter. That suffering made me one of them.

  But I was wrong.

  I don’t belong to either.

  And they don’t know what to do with me.

  When I step in, they whisper. Stare. Try to pretend I don’t exist.

  But the bullies? They’re always the first to test what's new.

  They think I’ve lost it. That I’ve gone crazy. And crazy is funny to them.

  One of them—a thick-skulled idiot with hands too big for his brain—blocks my path. He’s taller. Bigger. Slower.

  “What’s this?” he sneers, looking me up and down. “Pying dress-up?”

  I don’t answer.

  He moves to shove me. Careless. Like I’ll stumble, like I’ll ugh it off, like I’ll let it happen.

  I don’t move.

  His hand hovers for half a second too long. His fingers twitch—just a bit, but I catch it.

  He feels it.

  And just to make sure, I take a step forward. Just one.

  He shifts back. Instinct. A reflex. Doesn’t know he’s doing it.

  Then his jaw tightens. Now he knows.

  And that’s worse for him.

  His mouth twists. He scoffs, mutters something about me being a freak, then turns and walks off.

  I don’t smile.

  But I want to.