Chapter 5: In Her Wake
The town buried Matthew beneath a sky so gray it looked bruised. The wind howled through the branches of trees, carrying the scent of wet earth and rot, as if the world itself mourned. Leah didn't attend the funeral. She didn't need to. She wasn't the type to stand in crowds and pretend. Instead, she watched from a distance, hidden behind trees at the edge of the cemetery. The fog rolling off the graves clung to the ground, swallowing the mourners whole, a thick veil of grief that left everything feeling damp and cold.
Leah stood still, her hands stuffed deep in her coat pockets, and observed. She watched their faces, cataloging each reaction with the kind of detached curiosity she'd come to master. Who cried? Who pretended? And who already seemed to forget? Most of them. All of them, really. In the end, they all forgot.
But Clara…
Clara stood at the edge of the crowd, alone, clutching a single white flower. The purity of it made Leah's stomach twist. White flowers were supposed to be symbols of hope, of innocence. But Clara's hands were trembling. Leah could see it, even from where she stood, watching through the darkened branches. The girl's eyes were wet, but she held her ground.
Leah didn't know what it was about Clara. It wasn't just the way she smiled or the way she moved — it was more than that. Clara's presence unsettled her in a way she didn't want to understand. It was like the air itself thickened whenever Clara was near, like Leah was holding her breath.
When the last of the mourners trickled away, Leah lingered, just for a moment, until the cemetery was empty. Then, she walked home, the taste of salt on her tongue, though no tears had been shed. Her dreams that night were full of rivers, rivers full of bones, and Clara drowning in them. The water turned dark and deep, choking the girl as her hands reached for the surface but never quite touched it. Leah woke with clenched fists, her chest tight, her heartbeat loud in her ears. She could still feel the salt. Not from her tears, but something older, something deeper, like the memory of the sea.
The Beast was restless. She felt it curling inside her, a clawed thing, eager to move. She tried to ignore it, but it was impossible.
The next day, Leah walked to school with Clara. Their footsteps echoed in the empty hallways, but the silence between them wasn't the same. It wasn't heavy. It wasn't awkward. It was different. Warm, almost. Clara had this way of being near, of existing, that made the static in Leah's skull dull to a faint hum, like the buzz of an old lightbulb. It almost felt human. Almost.
Until Jason.
Jason with his sharp tongue. Jason with the insults that never missed their mark, that always cut deeper than anyone realized. He had a way of making people bleed with words. But Clara… Clara flinched when he passed by. Leah saw it, the way her shoulders tightened, her eyes darting to the ground. It was small, almost imperceptible. But Leah remembered. She remembered how many times Jason's words had sliced through her skin when she was younger. How many had he scarred, and how many of those scars were still hidden beneath their skin?
The Beast stirred, a low growl deep in her chest.
It wanted him. It wanted to hurt him, to make him feel everything. To make him pay.
Leah ignored the whisper in her mind and kept walking, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. She didn't need to act on it. Not yet.
But that afternoon, something changed.
Jason was walking alone, cutting through the alley near the skate park. The sound of wheels skimming pavement, the laughter of the older kids, echoed from the distance, but no one was close enough to hear the footsteps that followed him. Leah was already there, waiting for him.
He never saw her.
Jason thought he was invincible, wrapped in a blanket of noise and friends and careless bravado. But Leah knew. She knew better than anyone that everyone walked alone, sooner or later. The Beast knew it too.
When Jason turned down the alley, he found nothing waiting but the shadows. Leah didn't give him a chance to scream. She was too quick. Too quiet. He barely had time to register the sharp crack of his body hitting the ground, his breath stolen from him. The alley swallowed him whole, and Leah was gone before his friends even realized he'd vanished.
It was different this time. Quieter. Cleaner. There was no thrill. No lingering satisfaction, no cruel enjoyment from the kill. It felt… surgical. Clinical. She didn't linger, didn't savor it. She left him there, curled like a broken doll, the bruises already forming on his pale skin. And as she stepped into the dusk, the shadow of the Beast within her retreated, momentarily satisfied.
The next morning, the whispers started.
Jason had been found near the skate park. Someone had attacked him. Badly. His friends were talking about mugging, about some anonymous group of thugs that had stolen his wallet and left him in the alley. Clara, though, she knew. Her eyes met Leah's across the crowded hallway, and without a word, she came to her side, her arms wrapping around Leah's shoulders in a quiet embrace.
"Someone got Jason," Clara whispered, her voice soft but heavy. "He was hurt bad. They think it was a mugging."
Leah didn't say anything. She just stood there, stiff in Clara's arms, her face blank, her heart beating like it was made of stone.
Inside her, the Beast purred.
But there was something else now. Something new. Something that felt warm. A flicker of something that wasn't just from the kill. Not just from the satisfaction of seeing Jason lying there, broken.
It was from Clara's arms around her. From the softness of her voice, the way she held on for just a moment longer than necessary. From the way she said Leah's name like it meant something, like Leah mattered. It felt real. Too real.
Leah stepped back, feeling the warmth of the hug fade, replaced by a strange emptiness that had no name. She couldn't let it in. She couldn't let Clara see it. She couldn't let anyone see the Beast clawing its way through her skin.
That night, after Clara had gone home, Leah didn't write in her notebook. She didn't draw. She didn't light a single match. She simply sat in front of the mirror, staring at her own reflection.
For the first time in a long time, she wasn't sure who she was talking to when she whispered, "I'm still here."
Because the truth was, she wasn't sure anymore. And that terrified her.