Awake | Wattys Winner!

ELEVEN: obedience

The first time I met Gianna Ramos, she had grazed her knee by falling in the dirt. She hadn't cried about it, though; girls didn't cry on soccer camp. She stood proud, even showing off the gash to her peers. I had won her affection by pointing out it was in the shape of a love heart. Even now, she still had the scar across her knee.

Today, she stood bent over the kitchen counter, scribbling haphazard words onto the notebook in front of her.

"Washing liquid, eggs, milk and what?" she asked Isobel, blowing a string of silken hair which had slipped from her ponytail.

"Toilet paper. Keep up. Shops close in twenty-five minutes!"

"You go then," she grumbled, ripping the paper away from its binding.

"I can't! Aaron's meeting me any minute now." Isobel was wildly shoving things into her handbag, her pretty dress hinting a special occasion.

"Are you sure we should be... you know. Leaving her alone?"

They both turned to me.

"I can't believe she just... hasn't said a word."

It was hard to form words when words themselves didn't offer a solution. Or even an explanation.

I didn't see Gia lounging against the bench pretending she had no interest in picking up groceries, nor Isobel's enthusiasm about dressing up nice for her boyfriend.

I saw Gia carrying a knife, and running through the woods with the girl from her French class. I saw her clawing at the ground with her hands, digging up enough dirt to cover her bloodied body, and I saw Conrad, sitting contentedly in his office, tapping his thumbs against one another as he somehow absorbed the life of the girl Gia had killed.

Nobody would ever know. It would all go unsaid, unseen. Nobody would know Gia's hands were dirty with another's blood, or that the girl's life had been ripped from her by someone without the intention to do so. It was all swept under the rug, aided by the power that had been stolen from her. By Conrad spindling his web, casting the illusion that nothing was wrong. 

I pictured the tally on his blackboard. Seven dashes for seven lives, all ended by members of the psychology class.

It's not about having power over the minds of others. It's about having control over our own.

"I'm okay," I croaked, running my hands over my upper arms, shooing away the thoughts spreading an angry poison through my veins. I searched my brain for something to bring up, to take away their worry. To keep them safely oblivious. "Just... wondering what happened to our phones. It's so weird."

Lying came so easily.

"Oh God, Aspen, we were getting so worried. Something is so wrong with you. You said it was just homesickness, but this is so much more. It's... wrong," Isobel said, dropping her bag to the floor and taking me into a tight hug. "You know what, I'm cancelling. We can hang out instead, talk about things-"

"No," I said quickly, my words muffled against her chest. "Please don't."

Isobel pulled back to give me a concerned look, which was mirrored by Gia behind her. "It's fine, when he comes I'll just tell him we're having a girl's night-"

"No, Bel," I said, a little more sternly. "I want you to go."

She stared at me blankly.

"Go. Stop worrying about me. Stop it." My temper was spiking, and I didn't know why. It was as if I were lashing out, as if my helplessness and horror was translating into rage.