peak of midnight | {clue 3 midseason}

[umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]]

He was decidedly not having a good time. He came because he'd been invited, and Elaina was nice to him, and it would have been rude not to show up. But he'd arrived late, and by the time he walked into the party, several people were already very, very drunk. He sighed, caught Maverick's stare, and resigned to hiding on the living room couch, buried beneath plush throw pillows, the haze of too-loud music, and the nostalgia of voices carrying over through the walls of adjacent rooms. He'd already decided he'd leave at eleven before he even showed up, but thinking back on it, that was almost a full hour away. Clara promised she'd be here but he had taken a double-shot of tequila to quell his nerves, and kept his eyes peeled for her for thirty minutes to no avail. Finally, at long last, he caught sight of her walking through the front door. He was on his feet and locking arms with her before the door closed, ushering her back out onto the lawn. "The tequila made me feel queasy. I couldn't even finish my nachos. Are you gonna try out for the volleyball team?" he droned, walking over to a large oak tree and leaning his shoulder against it. He asked because if she was, she would have to submit for a drug test. And if she had to submit for a drug test, she wouldn't have anything to take the edge off. And if she didn't have anything to take the edge off, he might start crying. "Also, Mav is inside, and he's super drunk." He left out the part about how badly he wanted to talk to him. In the months since everything had happened, there had been next to no clarity made between them. Maverick had gone back to being his usual, cryptic self, and Presley had convinced himself that every time he caught Maverick looking in his direction that it was because he must hate him. Because why else would he be looking at him? Because he liked him? Doubtful; Presley tended to treat people he cared about with, like, a completely different set of rules. One of those rules, he was sure, being that you don't have sex with someone to keep your grief at bay and then never speak to the person again. So, while he definitely wanted answers, or clarity, or closure, or at the bare minimum, acknowledgement, he was also terrified of what that might mean. Plus, Clara hated Mav now, which was a fun new development. He worried she might be the type of friend who legitimately meant it when she said to end a relationship, and he knew first-hand that she was the type to be easily scorned when people didn't do what she wanted them to do. He leaned his head onto her shoulder. "Aka, this night sucks ass." And it would only get worse.

[sidney]

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C L A R A Going to a party was the last thing on her mind. It was why she took so long to get ready, why she stopped to get a bite to eat on her way, why she hadn't shown up until nearly eleven. Because, simply, she didn't want to be here. The past few months had been hard enough, the last thing Clara needed was another drunken scene in which she embarrassed herself in front of someone else, or worse, got so drunk she would barely remember what happened.  Not again, she promised herself as she approached the house. Muffled music blared, occasionally roaring to life whenever someone opened the front door, giving whoever was outside a peek into the cesspool inside. This time it was Clara who was shown a preview. She caught glimpses of a crowd writhing to the beat, took note of all the red solo cups and the keg off in the distance near the kitchen, then sighed heavily and decided to loiter a bit longer in the fresh air before making her way in. As soon as she stepped into the house, however, her arm was instantly grabbed and she was pushed back through the door and out onto the lawn. Presley smiled excitedly and then starting talking a little too fast for her to follow. "Whoa, whoa, slow down," she laughed and squeezed his hand in hers tightly before she let go and fished into her pocket for the bag of joints she'd pre-rolled especially for this occasion. If she wasn't going to drink, she would definitely need to smoke. Thank ripred Presley likes to, too. "I already talked to the coach last Wednesday, and he said I'm the next best choice for Captain actually, now that Cleo's, uh..."  It felt unnatural to talk about her like that. Like she was really gone. Forever. Clara had been so stubborn after her funeral, wholeheartedly believing it had been some kind of cruel joke. As far as she knew, being cremated was the last thing Cleo would have wanted. To be burnt to a crisp and then shoved in some ugly urn. She would have wanted to be on display for the world to see, for everyone she ever knew to come and mourn her. She would have wanted to be buried somewhere special, somewhere important, somewhere good enough for a girl as magnificent Cleo Burns.  "Anyway, I won't have to tryout. I'm already on the team," she smiled to Presley and it felt like glass cutting along her cheeks. Like a happiness she should have never been afforded. Like an accomplishment she would have killed for, only she hadn't. Someone else did.  "Ew," she said without even thinking as soon as she heard Maverick's name. "Of course he's drunk." Clara rolled her eyes but let out a little squeal of excitement as she finally found a lighter in her jacket pocket. "But listen, I brought party favors!" She frees a joint from the bag and puts it between her lips, then flicks the lighter and inhales deeply as it sparks the spliff to life with a sweet scent. "The night is young, P. Let's enjoy it, yeah? Forget about him, okay? He's such an ass." She extends her hand toward Presley to pass him the joint and looks away for a moment, a question on the tip of her tongue but she was nervous to bring it up. Especially after she'd just shit all over his crush. Clara knows it was an awful thing to do, but she just couldn't stand the way he let Maverick walk all over him.  "Did you, uh, see Naomi in there?"

[eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris]

One weekend.

That's the appropriate amount of time to make your brother's tragedy about yourself. It's simple, really. Not as harsh as it might sound. On that first night he comes home again, broken and scarred, it's your job to look him in the eye and see him for who he is now. Watch him flinch at every sudden movement, fingers trembling, chest rising and falling fast.

It's a kind of mourning ritual families don't like to talk about. Your brother will never be the same again. As much as it hurts in some quiet part of yourself, you have to accept this. You're experiencing trauma. I'm experiencing trauma. At this point, I should be used to watching my plans catch fire in front of me. To succeed, I'll do just about anything.

Still, pity has always made my skin crawl. It's a tactic I can understand. Make yourself small, so everyone around you is forced to lift you up to their level. Then you step on them. Crush them. Meh. I've just always enjoyed the thrill of people knowing I'm capable of handling myself. Or, at least, that's the story that made it to the page.

When Cleo's casket was lowered into the earth, I buried many things down there with her. I've made my peace with that. But, at my center, I'm a selfish creature. Entitled, too. So, I give myself those last two days to feel sorry for myself. Skip a class I'm not in the mood for, get a free lunch, milk it for every brownie point I can possibly win.

For all the terrible things happening to my peers, this strikes closer to home than anything else. More than losing my boyfriend, or my best friend. I cry, and I don't find a reason to tell myself to stop. Until enough time has passed, and I have to stand up tall again. There's too much on the line. Zeke has a robotic hand, and Cleo is half way to a skeleton.

I'm dancing with more passion than I have this entire year. A few times, I've snuck out of the dorms and spent the night with Benji. I feel like I'm in control. Until all of us start to think we're okay, like we're ever going to be okay, and we let our guards down again. Like we always do. And there's a bottle in my hand, and so many bad intentions in my grip.

Grady smiles at me with a mouthful of sugar, and I want to punch every grain of it down his throat. But I smile, and squeal, and I play the part. If Cleo's gone, well... her successor has been found. Unfortunately enough for me. I give Benji a kiss on the cheek before I disappear from his side, fading into the background noise and the neon lights.

It's a party. Don't kill the mood.

"Can I just say," I almost slur my words, pressing a finger to my lips and laughing down a hiccup. I know how to handle my beer to a certain extent. "Clara has me on my last nerve. I really needed this break from her." And then I gasp, looking straight at Grady with a pitiful stare. "I'm sorry, I should ask how you've been holding up."

I measure him with a calculated glance. Head to toe.

Every sad little inch.

"Losing Cleo the way you did, I can't even imagine." Then I snicker a little coldly, bringing my bottle of vodka up to my mouth. I don't hesitate before the burn rushes down my throat. "Though, I have to say, you look a little refreshed. Set free, even." That makes me laugh again, but this time instead of lowering the sound, I lean closer to him.

"Really, how are you? Now that you've wriggled out of her leash?"

[gamemaker tallis 🧚🏽‍♂️kaitlin.]

maverick. Going to the party is the worst idea that you can think of, so of course it's the only thing that you can do. One thing after another, the people in your life fall away from you like dominos. Naomi looks at you with ghosts behind her eyes that you don't know how to get rid of, and Clara matches them with daggers at every opportunity. Parker and Zeke make their way onto the list of people you care about that find themselves in harm way, however adjacently your affection was, and maybe it's narcissism to think that it's you that's the through line. You've always been good at indulging in your flaws though, and rampant self-destructive narcissism is nothing if not one of your forte's. Maybe that's why you refuse to let yourself be kind to Presley. He's the only one that you feel the impulse to be kind to, the only one that you could see yourself bending for, but you can't help it. You make it look like you're using him. Worse, like you've used him, like you're done with him. Like you're here, getting blindingly drunk and living your life and forgetting the shadows. Forgetting the past. Forgetting your dead best friend, hung in his bedroom. Forgetting Naomi, with her mouth sewn shut. Zeke and his broken leg. But you can't stop looking at Presley. It feels like something that you can't control, and that makes your stomach twist and turn itself into knots you don't think you're ever going to be able to undo. It's half the reason that you're here tonight, with everyone's eyes on you. Because of him, because for whatever reason, he's there buried under your skin and you're doing everything in your power to make him realize that you're the last person in the world that he should care about. You want every time he looks at you to feel like seconds wasted of his life, want him to look at you and see all the ways in which you could ruin his, because if you look at him and he looks at you and he doesn't look away, you're going to go to hell just to kiss him. You look at him. His eyes are on you for half a second this time before darting away. Does he see the truth? You don’t want him to, but sometimes there's no hiding it. A part of you is glad when he leaves, walks right out the door and into the arms of one blonde wearing a dead girl's face. A part of you wants to follow him, tell him how you wish that you could be sorry, that you could be different. "Coward," you mutter under your breath instead, pretending, pretending, pretending. Presley walks out the door and you feel yourself slump, your whole body crumbling under the weight of something you refuse to acknowledge you're carrying, sink down onto a couch and bring your cup up to your lips. You take a sip, long and slow, and wish you'd disappear.

[[nyte]]

It's a patchwork of scars, peaks and valleys resting above and below trembling lips. It got worse after the wounds had healed. There was no more searing pain but a peculiar numbness, crimson and clumsy and so very wrong. In the handful of times Naomi had attended singing lessons since the incident, she hadn't managed to finish a song.

You're better than this. Has the sea witch stolen your voice, little mermaid? Her music professor had made to lay a comforting hand on her shoulder, their lips upturned in silent laughter and-

Naomi cries far too often these days. Always alone, always when no one else is watching. Crumpled in dark corners where it's quiet and cold. Comfort was not worth sacrificing her pride. She's almost glad her memories of those first few weeks is feverish or else she might not have been able to show her face in Salvatore ever again.

She knew she'd been more than pathetic. Curled up under Mav's sheets and clinging to Clara's hand. Asking for Presley to stay in the room too, even though they barely knew each other because it meant there was less room for the nightmares.

Needless to say she'd apologized the minute she'd figured out how to speak again.

This party is a terrible idea, but Naomi is looking forward to it anyway. News of Zeke and Parker had taken care of most of the whispers she'd been forced to wade through. Though the reputation of the last girl to see Cleo Burns alive is a hard one to shake. She was nothing before that monster and now she's defined by everything it did to her.

She tells herself this will be a break from it all and spends the three hours it takes to get ready trying to believe that lie. Naomi would have been on time, had she not ruined her makeup twice over. There was something so unsettling about the way foundation laid across her scars.

Her dress is short enough to be daring, cold air nipping her knees as she reaches the thick of the party. Naomi doesn't put to words why such considerate care had gone into her look tonight, though blonde hair and pouting lips flash in her mind's eye. A blush quickly follows, alongside the urge to pick up the nearest cup and drain it of its contents.

With alcohol resting warm in her stomach she feels a little more at home.

Mav's drunk enough that she doesn't bother worrying about whether he wants her to greet him. Then, she makes small talk with vaguely familiar faces before the scent of spilled drink and sweat becomes overbearing and she deems it's been long enough that it's not impolite to flee.

God, she'd almost forgotten what fresh air feels like. That house is like a prison.

And it's not like she was looking for Clara, but Naomi seems to be drawn to the girl regardless. Her lips are parted around some kind of cigarette. Naomi's gaze follows the trail of smoke as it curls against her cheeks, clinging to her hairline before dissipating in the night air.

Weird, she's just a little more breathless than she had been before.

"Guess who!" Naomi takes the long way around, coming up behind Clara and Presley and stretching on her tip-toes to cover the former's eyes. Her head swims and she laughs a little too loud at the way her skin heats at the contact. "I hope I'm not interrupting. It's hell in there."

She pouts toward the front doors. "I needed a break and some friendly faces."

[tick 12a / calla]

G    R    A    D    Y

Look, you and Elaina aren't exactly friends, and Cleo isn't around anymore to drag you around by the arm, but you show up to her silly little party anyways.

It's all about appearances, right?

The chunk of time that everyone had been sent home for left you jumpy and agitated and you can somehow still feel the echo of it however many months later. The air still feels tense, and the social ladder is still wobbling, but you'd be stupid not to keep fighting tooth and nail for your spot.

You're good at masks, and you're good at walls, and even though you can still see Naomi's face in that hospital and can still hear the way Parker spat her accusations at you, you suck it up. Sure, rooming with Maverick has been hell. Sure, you were pissed off when Zeke disappeared because that meant it was just the two of you in a confined room, but then he came back with some kind of pseudo robot arm and you stuck your foot in your mouth before you made the whole thing worse.

But it does get worse, because that's just how your life works. You don't know what time it is or how long you've been trying to melt into the sofa. You don't know how long you've been glaring at the wall or how many condolences you've brushed away with something that stings like ethanol. You're only on drink number two but you're such a fucking lightweight that it doesn't even matter.

Stella melts away from the crowd like she smelled your misery, like some kind of glittering manicured shark, and Benji is right there behind her because of course he is.

But you still take her hand, holding it like she's your best friend and what she's saying actually means something to you.

"I never got to thank you for those flowers." Yeah, you'd chucked them out the window, and yeah you both know that you're allergic, but that's part of the stupid game you both play, "They were beautiful, really, you need to give me the name of your florist."

Then you can bulldoze the fucking place and feel the first sliver of peace in a year.

"But, do me a favour and send them through a courier next time," You let your head fall against the back of the couch, dropping her hand like it's a used tissue and grimacing at the ceiling, "Your boyfriend broke down my door."

He'd almost made you have a break down and spill your guts too but you keep that part to yourself.

Except Stella seems to take that as an invitation to keep talking. She gets in your space and you fight the urge to spill your drink into her lap. You pick at the upholstery instead and roll your eyes.

Because Cleo's dead now, and you're just on the wrong side of drunk, just far gone enough that your eyes slide to Benji and then back to Stella and isn't this so familiar. Isn't this just like Scarlet all over again. Isn't this the story of a girl having to die so Stella can get her way.

You've got broken glass in your smile when you turn your head to her, taking your time to blink until the room stops jittering, "If this is a proposition, I'm not interested."

"I admire your tenacity, Stell, I really do." You've got pins and needles in your fingers and a buzzing in your head, but you feel in control and that's all that really matters, "Takes guts to use the same strategy twice."

Then you tilt your head enough that you can stage whisper into her ear. You wonder if her boyfriend knows about the way that she schemes or if he was in on it too, but then you decide that you don't care, "You're just not my type."

[gamemaker sloane ♕ kaяi ♕]

A L L Y

None of it seemed real.

The dead girl, the abductions, the mystery killer on the loose.

At first everything seemed like a dream. At first it all seemed like one big prank. But now her best friend is dead.

And suddenly this dream turned into a nightmare.

The first time she was told of Cleo's death, she thought they were lying. Ally refused to believe that Cleo, the queen bee, the girl who can't be beat was found lifeless somewhere for who knows how long. It seemed impossible for someone so invincible to come crashing to the ground. They had to tell her ten times when they broke the news. It's as if her brain wouldn't process what exactly had happened.

Then it came like a tidal wave.

Reality hit, and she fell apart.

Since then, Ally St. Cloud has not been the same. She was a small piece of the girl she used to be. There was not nearly as much skip in her step, not as much passion in her designs, and her voice was monotone at best. For a girl who used to fill the room with joy, she just as easily became a cloud of doom.

Now her free time was spent forgetting, and the easiest way to do that was to drink. This way there was nothing to remember. As soon as the word party was mentioned she was elated. Finally, an excuse to drink without it being so depressing. Deep down she knew she would not be able to face everyone sober, so she made sure to take her bottle of vodka she had hidden and start much earlier than anyone else.

By the time she arrived she could barely stand straight.

Everything was a blur, the past few weeks, school, but especially the night. Ally was pretty sure she had talked to a few people, but she wasn't quite sure who or when or what was even talked about. The only thing she was sure about is if she wasn't remembering the night she wasn't thinking about Cleo either.

Whoever she had just finished talking to stepped away and she was alone. It was a dangerous game to play, because times like this is when she normally did something stupid. Quickly she scanned the room, barely able to make out who is who, but she spotted a familiar face on the couch. With her mostly empty bottle of vodka clutched tightly in her hand she clumsily made her way over to Maverick, plopping onto the couch cushion next to him.

There were so many things she wanted to say, so many things she wanted to ask, but even with almost an entire bottle of alcohol in her system she still couldn't.

Because what do you say to the boy who broke your heart when he even had it to begin with?

"Did you know your hair is shiny...like really shiny?" The words came out of her mouth before she could stop them and her hand was reaching up towards his head, but she had enough sense to pull it back. Instead, she settled for another long gulp of her alcohol. She didn't know why she sat by him or why she so wanted him to want her. Maybe its because she was drunk, or maybe because she as just desperate.

She was desperate for attention.

Desperate for anything.

Just desperate to forget.

[gamemaker kelsier]

b e n j i .

"We might
be broken
by design"

There is a red plastic cup in his hand, the walls bent slightly in from his grasp. Foam migrates down the inside and Benji stares at it as if he's only just noticed it.

He was somewhere else.

Stella's arm is wrapped around his loosely and she's bent forwards, talking to Grady about something, they're both so drunk though that he's pretty sure neither know what the other is talking about. Benji glances out the window, looking for a hint of what time it might be but it's just dark outside. They could have been here for hours or minutes, it's hard for him to say. Time has begun to allude him.

He loosen's his arm from Stella's and entwines their fingers together instead. He presses the pad of each finger against the back of her hand, 1,2,3,4.

It'll be okay, he's just been more tired lately. It's weird having a roommate, specifically a social butterfly constantly flapping against the door, in and out. Benji's taken to drawing in the library just for some peace but it's hard, there are so many ghosts.

A pleasant feeling settles over him and Benji looks down. The cup is gone from his hand and Stella sits on the couch in front of him. He's untethered and so he hovers for a moment, watching as Grady leans in so close to Stella that they could kiss. He wonders if that would even bother him. It's hard to think like this. The music from the party is so loud and Stella's wearing that dress he likes.

He likes everything she wears.

Grady looks cold and Benji glances around for a blanket, absentminded. He gets it, after all. Benji's still tying to regain feeling since Scarlet and losing Cleo didn't help. He can't look at Clara anymore without feeling this horrible twinge of pain in his chest and half the people who look at him think he's the one who did it.

He's the one who found her that night, after the first time. He'd held her close to him, felt her heart beating against his chest and promised her that she was safe.

It all seems like a joke now.

The pain has begun again, the dull thudding in the back of his head like a countdown. When he was little, he used to think it was a timer playing for off in the distance. It just means a migraine is coming, a searing thing that smothers him and mutes the world. Scar used to lay beside him, even on sunny afternoons, with her head on his chest and kiss his hand every time he tensed up from the pain.

He didn't deserve her like he didn't deserve Cleo, like how he doesn't deserve Stella.

And did Grady even love her?

A warmth spreads behind his eyes and Benji blinks, a sharp prickling beginning at the bas of his skull. He thinks about his bed and how quiet the dorms must be if everyone is here.

"I'm going to get more beer," he tells Stella but she's too busy with Grady and she doesn't seem to notice when Benji leaves for the kitchen.

[arx!!]

       

       

zeke provence.
_{friendly neighborhood taurus.}

It takes him a few drinks to notice that he's been watching the doors, the windows, the exits—the places where someone could get in. His eyes trace the paths of his friends, insteps overlapping as they tangle themselves up in knots over- fuck, who knows what. It all just sounds like white noise to him.

But he knows Presley's outside with Clara. Mav and Ally have both had too much already, and he's fairly certain Grady wants to get his teeth knocked in. But they're all here.

Hahaaaa. Mostly, right?

He nods to Naomi as she passes to join the cross-faded crew outside. The night air is a relief against the sweat keeping his shirt stuck to his back. He breathes deep, slow—as if what hadn't been working in physical therapy might work at a-

A party. A fucking party? The district borders are closed, the Peacekeepers  do. not. give. one. single. fuck.  about anything, and for fuck's sake. If Salvatore sends one more truancy notice?

The robotic skeleton fingers guiding his hand into a gentle grip around the plastic cup were nothing to them. Nothing. It's difficult to smile, but he manages over the rim of his cup.

Whatever. He didn't care. The borders got all locked up, it's been weeks and they still haven't figured anything out, telling the world—"It's over. Probably."—is okay with it?

And you know what? Yeah. So was he.

The gun was lighter than he'd expected. Mav says that's the correct answer, just not what most people say. It'd made him feel stronger, bigger than he was in the moment, but the "irreversible nerve damage" sure made it difficult to learn how to grasp, to hold, to lift, to point, to aim, to sq-

BANG!         

These things are way too damn simple.

When Benji leaves for the kitchen he nods at his empty cup, moving to follow him. "Yeah," He takes one last look around the room, mind laying a map of the paths everyone's been walking as he goes. "Me too."

⋆

[Tom]

Empty Eyes.

Hollow eyes follow her wherever she goes. Whispers of muffled words, echoes of a pain that'll never heal the same, and the crutches she's been pushing herself on for over a month. Every waking breath holds eyes staring back at her, empty sockets to hide the face of retribution. Parker was useless in the eyes of everyone else and she continued to be to them; whispers of her own thoughts boiling over with that desire to fit in when she's never fit in once. Clara. Zeke. Ally. Elaina. Naomi. Maverick. Stella. Benji. Grady. Presley. Cleo. Cass. Names with a connection; a flawed group of teenagers who pushed too far and this is Empty Eyes' retribution. There's no other explanation for why them.

Broken bones made her collapse into a hole of her own design. Photos lost with the cast around her hand with fingers stabilized and her passion in life spiraling down in those empty eyes that laughed in her face. All of the fight she'd carry before with shoulders straightened and arms crossed was nothing more that ashes like her only ex-friend through life. Parker's ashamed of where she's ended up, but all the fire in her has only caused the paranoia to set in. Losing her passion is one thing, but she's losing her mind over and over again. Staring across the room at Ally who'd shared a room with her in this state of mayhem.

Smoke filled lungs and bloodshot eyes waking from dreams in the dark rooms.

The party is a sick joke. Mingling teenagers together as if a killer on the loose had just disappeared finally. Locked down borders and traces of a killer in the outskirts; Parker Gautier didn't believe it. A sense of justice in their hollow eyes had proven her point. None of this was over and she had a feeling it was only just beginning. Broken bones and two dead students; all of this was a start to Empty Eyes' plan. Nothing could convince her otherwise.

The only issue she had was with a single question.

Who?

Who would be the one to throw everything away for retribution or justice or whatever the hell was going through Empty Eyes' plan. As she sips from a cup of some gross sickeningly sweet drink, she follows them all from the corner. Crutches long gone, but remnants of her injuries still there. A cast with stabilized fingers attached to her form as she clutches the alcohol in her good hand. Zeke's hand had become a symbol to her in many ways. Guilt and pain following along the guiding lines of what could be considered a grasp. All of this had been her fault. Never good enough to stop the people around her who've shown care to her from being hurt. Always causing problems with her mouth and never for the right reasons.

Everyone hated Parker Gautier.

A useless girl in a stream of neverending failures.

Isn't it pointless?

She's lost everything, but her life already. No yearbook. No photography. No grades. No future. No friends. Glaring like the saddest girl in the world at Grady who's still on her list of possible Empty Eyes' candidates, she can't help to remember her words to him. It's been over a month since they'd fought in an alley way. Bitter words thrown at one another and she's tired of feeling low. A lost drop in the sea of petty high school drama. Kids no longer kids anymore. Alcohol in their veins and smoke in her lungs, she decides then and there to give in to it all.

Did anyone truly care about her?

Zeke may have. Maverick did at times. Clara had been there for her after Cleo; a break through a heavy fogginess and relaxation in the guise of a school project. Now, she felt alone in this party of teens with too many secrets and fear following them. Enough is enough. Knocking back the empty cup in her hands, her feet move her closer to the end of Grady and Stella's conversation. Grady had become the worst of the worst and she wasn't afraid of anyone anymore. Broken bones be damned, the worst she could do now was die for what she carries in her pocket.

Hollowed out holes in her own heart as she watches Benji leave.

The last time Parker Gautier will get to see him without more guilt piled onto her shoulders.

She's fallen so far.

How much more was there to go?

Only time would tell.

Stopping next to them now, she can feel her own heart beating in her throat. Eyes narrowed to small points as a thick cloud of a storm was starting to form behind her head. Thoughts being tossed around with an anxiousness through her head until she feels her good hand tighten into a fist. Psychopath. It's what Grady called her. After everything, it's what they'll see her as for what she's about to do. One last chance is all Trust Fund gets from her. Instead of looking at Stella, she stands as comfortably as a still recovering teenager can. Words pouring from her lips with the same venom in that alley way. The same venom she'd spit at Empty Eyes with the promise of breaking them.

"Time's up, Daddy's Boy."

The end of the world was coming.

Retribution would catch up with her eventually.

Parker Gautier knew she was as good as dead already.

Why not burn down everything else with herself?

"Tell her now," Looking over to Stella for emphasis, "or I will."

[✨ zozo.]

elaina.

The way this semester has gone you're half-surprised that anyone turned up to your party. A part of you was petrified that you'd be left to drink alone like a no-friends Nancy, but two hours in you're nothing but overwhelmingly relieved that they did. The first four pre-drinks in were to take the edge off, halfway to wallowing in your own-self pity about nobody turning up before someone knocked on the door. Then the onslaught arrived, and at that point you'd had so many more glasses of punch you even let asshole number one Grady in.

Funny of him to turn up to what was a secret celebration of Cleo's untimely demise - not that you'd utter that out loud to anyone. Well, you think, finishing off your eight glass, not sober, at least.

You sit on your couch in the corner, bopping along to a curated playlist you'd spent hours perfecting the night before. Everyone mingles and dances, hugs, enjoys one-another. You're a host, but if you're honest with yourself nobody would give two fucks if you weren't here. For a child desperate to be in the spotlight you've picked up a bad habit of being sidelines.

The thought makes you clench your fist tight around your glass, thoughts spinning with the room. Your irrelevancy was supposed to die with Cleo Burns, buried underground with her wretched, rotting body. Foolishly you'd thought that the teasing would stop, that you'd fall into the popular crowd with ease once more. But if anything it made their circle tighter, strengthening their walls and boundaries - even Stella only offers a seat next to you out of pity. How could you have possibly thought they would want you to be their friend? All the parties and punch in the world wouldn't change their impression of you.

With a huff you stand up and stomp toward the punch bowl, beelining for another glass that you really shouldn't drink but will anyway. Not five steps in and the room tilts violently, and you follow the rush of blood from your head all the way to the floor - landing at the feet of partygoers with a thud and a shattering of your glass on wood vinyl.

There are stars on the roof, stars in your eyes. At least they're all looking at you now.

"Y....you guyshh having fun?"

The ghost of Cleo Burns cackles in your ears and you groan.