The Mindf*ck Series

Chapter 11

𝘐𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘶𝘴, 𝘥𝘰 𝘸𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘥? 𝘐𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘭𝘦 𝘶𝘴, 𝘥𝘰 𝘸𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘭𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩? 𝘐𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘱𝘰𝘪𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘶𝘴, 𝘥𝘰 𝘸𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘦? 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘶𝘴, 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘸𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘦?
- 𝘞𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘮 𝘚𝘩𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘦

𝗟𝗔𝗡𝗔

Shakespeare was one of the few philosophers who believed in revenge.

Then again, he was a romantic. Romantics always believe in revenge, because romantics love harder, suffer loss more painfully, and hold onto a grudge that has shattered their hearts. Their hearts are of the greatest importance, above all else—body, soul, or mind.

My body grew stronger and my mind turned calculated when I lost my soul to avenge my heart.

I guess that makes me a romantic.

I’m in the middle of texting Jake, who is also a romantic, when there’s a knock at the door, interrupting me.

Logan wouldn’t knock.

Warily, I go to the peephole, and I spot a very distinguishable redhead with her back turned.

I open the door, wondering what she’s come to say this time. But when she turns, there are tears in her eyes.

She walks by me, shouldering her way in.

The burden of my secret is apparently weighing on her too much.

Fuck.

I’m so close now.

Silently, I shut the door, and she takes a seat on the bed, while I lean against the door.

“Sixty-nine pictures and seventy nails,” she says, confusing me for a brief second. “Something tells me you’re not one to miscount.”

Realizing her meaning, I take a seat in the corner.

“This is about Ferguson?”

“I finally had the courage to look at the file today. I got up early to go in and look at it, then some things happened afterwards that we need to talk about. The point is, there were seventy nails and sixty-nine pictures. What’d you do with the other picture, Lana?”

My lips tense. She knows it was her picture I took. I don’t know how she’s going to react now.

“I burned it.”

“Why?” she asks without a flicker of emotion.

“Because the mind is a fragile thing. Your friends would have seen it; you’d have seen it too. It would have been the thing that broke you. Hearing it existed isn’t as critical as seeing yourself as that child who was exposed and vulnerable, then knowing proof existed all along. Hearing it is processed differently than seeing it. The mind is more delicate to sight than it is to sound. I didn’t want you broken. I didn’t want him winning from the grave. So I burned it.”

She wipes away the few tears that have managed to trickle down her face.

“I’m with you,” she says quietly. “Whatever you need, I’m with you.”