The Devil Inside

2: Temper, Temper

Somewhere in the Greenwitch Cemetery, beneath the shade of a magnolia tree, there was a grave.

And in that grave, there was a girl.

This girl had been beautiful once. But the earth and the relentless march of time didn't care for beauty. The earth took what it was owed. And time answered to no one.

Calla Parker knew this. Just as she knew that the girl beneath her feet—the girl that was not a girl, not anymore—didn't give a shit about the bundle of pale pink peonies left atop her headstone. She would have laughed at the flowers. What a waste, she would have said. What's the point? I'm gone.

Gone.

Calla perched against the sun-warmed headstone, trying for nonchalance. The fact that she had to try at all irked her. Indifference had been her constant companion for sixteen years.

But that too had gone, leaving her as brittle as a diseased bone.

Don't let your temper get the best of you.

It was the one piece of advice she'd taken from her ridiculous stint in school-mandated therapy. Dr. Peterson fancied himself a philosopher, and he loved nothing more than to drop nuggets of non-wisdom every chance he could, like "the past is the mold for our future" or "you are not your trauma, but the sum of your decisions". How she'd tolerated those hour-long sessions was beyond her.

Probably because she'd spent most of her time fantasizing about ripping that simpering smile off the good doctor's face.

Yes, Dr. Peterson. We are the sum of our decisions...and I decided to cut a girl's throat. Got any pills for that?

Still. His other mantra had stuck with her. Calla recited the words under her breath, tracing the edge of one of the pink flowers with her fingertip.

"Don't let—"

The petals were so very soft. She wondered who had left the bouquet. A relative?

"—your temper—"

Perhaps. Or perhaps not. The Smiths had never returned from their "temporary" stay in Florida. They had gone for good. Just like their daughter.

"—get the best—"

Cowards.

"—of you."

Calla glanced down at the flower now crushed in her fist. She sighed.

"Ridiculous," she muttered, brushing the crumbled remains into the dead grass. The summer had been a dry one, and the town (apparently) did not consider the parched expanse of lawn at the cemetery a priority.

Squinting up at the clouds, Calla pulled out her phone—don't let your temper get the best of you—and dialed a number she had memorized four days prior.

"Montgomery-Pearson College. How can I help you?" An upbeat voice that she recognized—male, young—answered on the second ring.

Hello, Patrick.

Calla had rehearsed this moment. She'd been calling the office of student affairs every hour, on the hour, for the last four days, all in an effort to familiarize herself with the staff. Alicia (who worked mornings) had been a bust; the old hag had a waspish snap to her voice that was both unpleasant and unhelpful—not an ideal prospect to pry information from. And Meredith (she worked late in the afternoon) had been too...perky.

The sound of her voice reminded Calla of ballerina costumes and obnoxious laughter.

Patrick had the right attitude: upbeat, but forgetful. Calla didn't bother keeping her voice low as she stammered out, "Hi. Hello."