CHAOS

N I N E T E E N

I took the painkillers from Bentley's outstretched hand, avoiding his seeking gaze and gulped them down without water —hoping, begging it would rid the pounding in my head.

Now, I just needed something for the images.

Hendrix was still like a statue across from me, his eyes rimmed in red and his hands just barely twitching for hours on end. Every so often, his jaw clenched, a tiny stutter of muscle, like he was grinding back a scream he didn't trust himself to release. Adir took up the seat on my left, fingers fiddling with the ring on my hand -spinning it, stopping, spinning it again. His gaze stayed fixed on the wall before him, unfocused, like he saw something there none of us could afford to see.

Bentley knew the most about Laken's history and he was the best at comforting him, so we let him be — his voice low, steady, a tiny human warmth trying to reach someone locked behind a door none of us knew how to open. His hand rested on Laken's shoulder, fingers moving in small circles that looked practiced, familiar. It wasn't enough. But it was something.

There was nothing to say.

Because how could we get the images out of his head if we couldn't get our own out?

The dead body. Slumped. Head resting on the innocent keys. A knife driven through its fractured skull. A deafening sound. Blood pooled beneath. The splatters of what pumped around in my very own body. The single overhead light. The pale faces of colleagues and staff.

The chilling words.

Teachers had rushed around, scrambling for any way to calm the now hysterical students. Their voices had been sharp, too loud, cracking at the edges as if they were barely holding themselves together. Clipboards clattered to the floor. Shoes squeaked against linoleum. Someone kept repeating, "It's okay, it's okay," but it sounded more like a plea than reassurance.

Students were herded back to their dorms for the rest of the night, doors slammed shut behind them with a finality that felt more like containment than safety. The hallways emptied in waves — frightened faces, streaked mascara, trembling hands clutching backpacks.

Phones calls were being made left and right. Police stations. News stations. Parents.

God, it was a mess.

A raw, sprawling, living mess — fear bleeding into chaos, chaos into rumor, rumor into something uglier. And underneath it all, the truth sat heavy and unspoken, staining the air like smoke you couldn't see but could feel crawling into your lungs.  

And yet here we were, sitting in the cafeteria with the lights off. The darkness was the only thing shielding our expressions, letting us hide behind shadows because none of us trusted our voices enough to speak.

The dark made it real. It made us understand — this wasn't some twisted prank. If whoever did this had gone far enough to kill someone, then there was nothing they wouldn't do.