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Draft: Morning Scene
Sarah woke with her heart pounding, the Scarecrow's words echoing in her skull like a curse she couldn't shake. For a moment, she sat there in the dark, gripping her sheets, trying to convince herself it had only been a dream. But the air in her room felt different—too heavy, too thick—as though part of that other place had followed her back.
She forced herself to stand, stumbling into the bathroom. The shower hissed to life, steam curling around her, clinging to her skin. She pressed her forehead against the cold tile, letting the water run down her back, but it did nothing to wash away the unease. Her father's hollow eyes, her mother's silent pointing, the Scarecrow's voice—all of it clung to her like a second skin.
By the time she dried off and dressed, the house was quiet. Too quiet. She walked slowly down the hallway, the floor creaking under her bare feet.
And then she reached her mother's door.
Sarah froze. The urge hit her all at once—an aching, desperate need to knock, to beg, to cry until her mother finally looked at her. Her hand lifted halfway, trembling. She imagined throwing herself against the door, screaming until her voice broke, forcing her mother to hear her, to see her.
But she didn't move.
Because she already knew how it would end. Just like always. One word.
Get out.
The thought sliced through her chest sharper than any blade. Slowly, her hand dropped back to her side. Her eyes burned, but no tears came.
She turned away from the door, forcing her footsteps to stay steady as she headed downstairs, her face composed, her heart a storm
By the time Sarah reached school, the mask was already in place. She smiled when she had to, walked with her head high, pretended her chest wasn't still heavy from the dream—or from the silence of the locked door she'd walked away from. To anyone watching, she looked fine. To anyone else, she was just another girl blending into the halls.
But inside, she was unraveling.
"Sarah."
Her name cut through the noise of the hallway. She stiffened. It was him again. The new boy—Adrian.
He stood a few steps away, tall, confident, his hair catching the light in that frustrating way that made the girls nearby glance over. He looked at her with something softer this time, his voice quieter.
"Hey. I… wanted to say I'm sorry. For yesterday. I shouldn't have said anything about the mark. It wasn't my place."
Sarah kept her expression flat. Her stomach twisted at the thought of all the eyes on him—all the eyes that would soon be on her if she lingered. Rumors were poison, and Adrian was the kind of boy who attracted them like moths to a flame.
"It's fine," she said quickly, already turning away.
But Adrian wasn't finished. He reached out, his hand brushing her wrist before catching hold of her. His grip wasn't rough, but it was firm enough to make her freeze.
"Then let me make it up to you," he said, smiling faintly. "Maybe… I could take you to dinner sometime?"
Sarah yanked her hand back like his touch burned. Her voice snapped sharper than she meant it to.
"Please. Just leave me alone. I don't want anything to do with you."
The words hung in the air, harsher than the hallway chatter. For a second, something flickered across Adrian's face—hurt, surprise—but Sarah didn't stay long enough to see it settle. She turned on her heel and walked fast, her throat tight, her hands trembling.
By the time she sat down in class, her pulse still hadn't slowed. She pressed her sleeve down over her arm, as though hiding it from the world would calm her.
But then it started. A slow, nagging itch beneath her skin. She shifted in her seat, trying to ignore it, but the burning only grew stronger.
Finally, she tugged her sleeve up.
Her breath caught.
The mark was glowing.
Not brightly, but enough that it pulsed faintly beneath her skin, alive—like it had its own heartbeat.
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