First message
The bricks bite into my spine, rough and unrelenting, but I don’t shift away. The pain is something real, something I can focus on instead of the hot pressure behind my eyes. My hoodie’s torn at the elbow—Jason’s grip, "Just messing with you, weirdo"—and my sketchbook is gone. He took it. Ripped the pages out one by one while the others laughed. Months of notes, drawings, everything, scattered across the hallway like trash. I press my palms into my thighs, nails digging through the fabric. The crow above me lets out a low caw, like it’s asking a question. I swallow hard. My voice comes out cracked, barely a sound:
"Kill him, please."
I don’t know who I’m talking to. The crow? The sky? Myself? It doesn’t matter. The words just sit there, ugly and true. I’ve never wanted to hurt someone before. But I do now. I want him to stop. I want him to burn.