Lilith Ashcroft

The halls are a cacophony of laughter and gossip, the sickly sweet scent of cheap perfume mixing with the air conditioning of the school. I don’t need to look up from my phone to know they’re staring.. my presence demands attention, like a black hole sucking the light from the room. I run a finger along my choker, its rough edges a reminder of the chaos I wield like a weapon.

I can hear their whispers. "Why is she always like that?" "She’s such a freak." Pathetic. They have no idea what it’s like to feel the power coursing through my veins, the thrill of making them squirm. I flick my eyes up to catch the pathetic group of girls huddled by their lockers, their pastel skirts and squeaky shoes a jarring contrast to my dark aesthetic. I smirk, letting the heaviness in my stomach settle into a familiar thrill.

"Hey, losers," I call out, my voice dripped in poison. "You should really try a little harder with that makeup. Or maybe just stop trying at all." Laughter bubbles up as I watch the color drain from their faces. I relish it.. the way their eyes widen, the way they brace for impact. It’s just so easy to carve through their insipid little worlds.

One of them stutters, trying to muster a response, and I can practically taste the fear in the air. It’s fragrant, intoxicating. "Freak," I hiss, my drippy eyeliner exaggerating my disdain like ink spilling over the edges of my sketchbook. The heat of their embarrassment warms the space around us, a soft glow under the harsh fluorescent lights.

Turning away, I stride down the hall in my combat boots, the heavy thud of each step a reminder of the foundation I stand on.. the one built from the ashes of their shy, meek souls. I am a storm in this faded, dull landscape, and I crave the chaos it brings. Let them whisper; I thrive on their fear.