Page 63 of Bad Bunny
“I don’t,” I whisper.
“You do.”
The dead stay dead. Nothing moves in the circle besides the ragged rise and fall of my chest.
“You were never chosen,” the voice continues. “You inserted yourself. Filled gaps. Patched wounds. Stayed late. Came home. Picked up broken things.”
It laughs gently.
“You thought if you made yourself necessary enough, no one could abandon you.”
My body folds inward. I curl in on myself, as if I can shrink away from the words.
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?”
The air shifts. It grows colder. Heavier.
Images ripple through the space around me like reflections in water.
My classroom. Me staying late to stack chairs while other teachers leave in pairs.
Me on the phone with my mother. She tells me to stay in Colorado. To live my life. I don’t listen.
Sorren bleeding on my classroom floor. Why did I help him? A stranger with an impossible story?
“You need to be needed,” the voice says. “Without it, you are nothing.”
I lower my hands slowly.
Blood streaks my cheeks like war paint.
“I amnotnothing.”
The voice hums. Dismissive.
I hate it, and I hate myself.
Rage grows in me like a living thing. First a bud, then it builds. Blooms.
I stagger to my feet and whirl. “Who are you to judge me? Huh? Where are you? Why don’t you show your face?” My voice cracks as I spin in a circle. “Coward.”
“I am everywhere,” it answers. “Infinite.”
“I would think if you’ve lived this long, you’d have developed a conscience. That you wouldn’t toy with people’s emotions for fun. Or sport.”
I lurch forward and wrench Thornreaper from the ground. I don’t even flinch when the thorns bite deep into my palm. Blood spills freely, but I don’t feel the sting.
I raise the sword.
“You think you know me? That you have the right to look down on me?” My chest heaves. “I do like to be useful, because I’m a good person. I do want to help, because the world needs that. It needs people who show up. Who look out for each other. Who help a stranger, even if he occasionally turns into a rabbit.”
My voice grows steadier. Stronger.
“You want me to feel ashamed for wanting to be loved? Doesn’t everyone want that? Don’t you?”
The blade burns in my grip.
