Chapter 4

Percy

Night comes heavy and slow. The small lights above the room glow dimly, shadows crawling along the walls, and I lie on the bed, eyes wide, unable to force myself to sleep. My sister’s face is there before me, even in the dark, soft, pale, hair falling loose over her shoulders. Lila. I see the way her small frame turns into corners, trying to make herself invisible.

I roll onto my side, pull the blanket tighter, but it doesn’t help. The room is silent, sterile. Nothing to distract me. No voices. No music. No games. Just me and the memory of what happened. I try to shove it away, but it sticks, clinging like wet ink to the edges of my mind.

Sleep finally drags me down, and the darkness of my eyelids doesn’t erase the images; it just shifts them. The world morphs, and I’m back at the school, standing in the shadows of the hallways I can never escape. My chest tightens. My hands shake, even as I lie in my safe, private room. I see her, the real her, the living her, and then him. Clay.

She had just left class. As usual, she’d gone to that quiet corner behind the gym where the other students rarely went. The place she went every day to be alone, to gather her thoughts, to let the noise of school pass by without touching her. I watch her in my dream, feel her small, careful movements, the way her books hug her chest like armor. Almost everyone disliked her because of our family, the Blackwell name carried weight, judgment, and rumor, but they weren’t any different than her. She didn’t deserve the attention. She didn’t deserve what was coming. She didn’t deserve the hate; she didn’t choose to be born into such a family.

And then he appears. Clay. The scholarship boy with a sharp smile and eyes that carried cruelty like a weapon. He doesn’t wait. He doesn’t hesitate. He steps into her corner as if he owns the space. And she tries to leave, murmuring, “Go away,” but he doesn’t. He presses on. He calls her names. He reminds her that her family is one of the problems he has built a lifetime of resentment around.

I feel every hit she takes before it happens. Every shove, every push. Her small hands raised in protest, her voice trembling as she tries to explain, to plead, to speak. And he doesn’t stop. He hits her across the arm when she resists, shouts at her to shut up, laughs, then pulls out his phone. He shows her something, something cruel, something meant to humiliate, and he laughs again, this time harder, triumphant. But she doesn’t laugh. Her lips tremble, tears welling in her eyes. She’s scared.

She cries. I feel the sound in my chest. It rips through me. She runs. And I run with her, but it doesn’t matter. I cannot protect her. I cannot stop what will happen next. 

Everything goes dark again, and I can feel myself free-falling, shaking, but I can't wake up.

Then I see her leave the house in the morning, quiet and nervous, clutching her bag like it could shield her from the world. She drives down the street, unsuspecting, and I'm there every turn. She arrives at school and meets Clay. I don’t know exactly how he convinced her to come, but it’s probably the video he showed her.

He’s waiting beside the pool when she gets there, like a calm predator in the early sunlight. She gets close to him, and without hesitation, he pushes her in.

I’m there with her, submerged in helplessness, struggling alongside her as she fights for air, crying out for someone, anyone, to help her. But he stands over her like he owns the world, making sure she can’t escape. I try to intervene, to reach her, to do anything to stop him, but I’m trapped in the same panic, just like her. I’m drowning with her.

Every time she tries to claw toward the edge, he shoves her back under. The fight goes on, long and merciless, until finally, she stops. Silence presses down. She stops breathing. And then, after a long, horrible moment, he’s walking away, satisfaction written plainly across his face.

I try to move, to follow him, to do something, anything, but my legs feel like lead, refusing to obey. My fists claw at the air, my mind screaming at me to act, but I’m paralyzed.

Eventually, movement returns, sluggish and reluctant. I stagger after him, trying to match his strides, my body screaming in protest, my hands itching to hit him. But before I can reach him, I feel myself falling, endlessly, impossibly, into nothing.

Then I jolt awake, the blanket twisted around me, my chest heaving, sweat slick on my skin, my heart hammering like a drum.

When I finally catch my breath, the room is the same, the shadows crawling along the walls, but the memory doesn’t leave. Sleep is gone. My heart races, blood pounding, mind running.

I can’t lie down or sleep anymore, and the silence is killing me. I don’t want to have those thoughts or dreams anymore.

I sit up and glance at the cupboard by the bed. The buttons. Red. Blue. They’re supposed to call a guard, get someone’s attention. Maybe if I press one, someone will come in and… sit with me.

I press the red button. A moment passes. Then I hear heavy footsteps. Boots thudding against the floor. And then they stop. The iron gate creaks, and the guard appears at the door, pausing just long enough to take in the room.

“What happened?” he asks, eyes cautious, scanning around.

“I need company,” I say.

“You want to be transferred to the general cell?” His brow lifts, skeptical.

“No. I need someone to sit here with me,” I clarify.

“Sorry,” he says, a trace of frustration in his voice. “We don’t do that here.”

“Then why am I in private?” I ask, letting the question hang in the air.

He doesn’t answer. He just turns, shuts the door, and walks away.

I don’t wait for him to disappear before I hit the red button again. Footsteps thud back down the hall, boots stopping at the threshold.

“We don’t keep prisoners company,” he says, tone sharper this time. Then, softer, almost cautiously, “But I’m here… what do you need?”

I shrug, a twitch at the corner of my mouth betraying amusement. “I have no idea what the button does. No one told me.”

“What button?” he asks.

“The one I pressed,” I point at it. “The red one.”

“Red is for emergencies. Blue is if you need anything,” he explains.

“What kind of emergencies can happen here?”

“Hm, Mr. Blackwell…” he begins.

“Percy, please. I’m not my father,” I correct him.

“Okay, Mr. Percy. There are rare situations where you could get attacked by another inmate or… anyone else,” he says carefully.

“Really? How would they even do that?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“You’re in jail, Mr. Percy. Everyone here is different from the next.”

“Okay, I get it,” I reply, because I do, and he’s starting to look less annoyed.

“Anything that happens outside the natural order is an emergency,” he adds.

“And what’s the natural?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

“Okay. So… what’s your name?” I ask.

“Just call me Officer Harris. Or Harris.”

“Okay, Officer Harris.”

“Is there anything else you need?”

“Nope. That’ll be it.”

He leaves, and I sit there, thinking about all the possible scenarios that could unfold in this place, things that might become dangerous to me.

I don’t let myself spiral too far, but sleep still won’t come, so I press the blue button.

I hear footsteps again. And again, and then it’s Officer Harris.

Before he can say anything, I lift my hands slightly. “I was just testing it to see if a different guard would show up.”

“That’ll still be me,” he says. “I’m in charge of your cell tonight.”

“Okay. Good to know.”

When he leaves, I lie back against the pillow and stare at the ceiling, my arms folded across my chest. My hands tremble faintly. The room smells of disinfectant and the lingering warmth of the bed. I try to hold on to that instead of her face.

I close my eyes and force my thoughts elsewhere.

I feel the mattress beneath me and pretend, just for a moment, that I am not alone. That I can laugh quietly without feeling guilty for it.

Tomorrow will come. The guards will continue their routines. The world will keep moving beyond these walls. But for tonight, the buttons, the laughter, and the memories belong to me.

And I can survive it.