Fiery Little Thing: A Dark Academy Romance

Who the fuck thought group therapy was a good idea? None of these pretentious assholes are going to spill family secrets in front of ten other people. And I sure as hell don’t want any of these people knowing shit about me—especially Kohen, who’s sitting directly across from me in our circle.

We’ve been glaring at each other since we sat down, and I can feel myself becoming increasingly amped by his presence. Even though I felt like I had the upper hand before, I now think I’ve lost it. He could tell them about the church as retaliation for what I moaned last night. He could open his mouth and say that Elijah is giving me drugs, and I’m whoring myself out for them. What if he catches me stealing and reports me? I don’t want to lose my privileges. I’ve been too careful for him to throw it away, and I’ve enjoyed having a pillow and a blanket.

I don’t trust him one bit, not after he said all that shit about how much he apparently knows me and now, can access my room whenever he wants.

But he was wrong. I don’t want or need people to listen to me. I’m perfectly content on my own. Here, no one is letting me down or pissing me off. No one is calling me a liar or belittling me to the point I start to question my own sanity.

Alone is where it’s good.

Alone is where it’s safe.

Drishti, one of the counsellors, has her “active listening” face on as Liam regales the group about the time he was so high, he broke into a mom-and-pop store to beat up a mannequin because he thought it was an alien.

Aaron speaks next, talking faster than I can comprehend and answering more than Drishti was asking him.Text content © NôvelDrama.Org.

Their voices echo through the room, bouncing against the vaulted ceiling, making each word sound ominous and foreboding. Centuries-old paintings hang on the walls between posters of bumper-sticker-type quotes like “Be the person you want to be.” The heating has been cranked up to full blast to stave off the perpetual chill of the stone structure, but it does nothing to warm my frozen bones and chattering teeth.

Kohen shifts in his seat and I glare at him. Seriously, what the fuck is Kohen doing in this school?

There are two fancy reform schools in this country where all the rich people send their kids: Seraphic Hills and Westwood Grove, a couple states away. Word on the street is desperate parents and the state sends the real crazies to Seraphic, and the students at Westwood get hand massages instead of a slap on the wrist. I hear they also have this wild concept that isn’t practiced here. It’s called free time. The pretentious kids at Westwood don’t have to attend group therapy sessions or wake up at five in the morning to do military drills either—which went wonderfully yesterday morning when I “accidentally” threw up on Sarah’s $4,000 backpack. Such a shame, really, because I hear stomach acid doesn’t mix well with dyed leather.

Fuck Face keeps crashing these group sessions. I’m really not sure which part of Kohen screamed “I’m an addict” to Drishti. They never said as much, but this is the addicts’ group. Every person who frequents the back of the church is here, either feeling as hungover as I did yesterday or keyed up like I do now. Ergo, Kohen doesn’t belong here since the only thing he is addicted to is being a prick and lighting things on fire—and for the love of God, why would I talk about my problems when the reason I’m in this place is sitting right in front of me?

“Blaze.” Drishti, the only semifriendly staff member in this entire school, drags my attention away from Kohen.

At the same time I look at her, Charlie starts sputtering on a cough from beside me, choking on her hair. I reach over, yank her hair out of her mouth, grab her single-use drink bottle, and shove it in her hand. Might as well empty it now before she turns it into a bong later. The simple movement makes me wince as my muscles scream in protest like they do after every comedown.

Kohen is right about one thing; I’m turning more and more into my mother, and I hate it. No wonder my grandfather couldn’t care less if I live or die. He’s probably rubbing his hands together, cackling menacingly, waiting for the day Mom and I eventually kill ourselves off so he can stop bleeding money for us. That’s why he refused to pay to fix anything around our house.

I bet my cousins know what his smile looks like and what my grandma’s baking tastes like—if she even bakes. They all hate my mother because of what she does. They hate me because I’m my mother’s daughter.

“Blaze,” Drishti repeats, setting her scrupulous attention on me. “Why don’t you tell us how your week has gone?”

“Not interested.”

She purses her lips. “There was a lot on your mind last week, and your answer was the same. These sessions enable open discussion and mediation, free of judgment. It benefits you and the rest of your peers so that they can better understand you. If you feel this sort of structure is not suited to you, I and Dr. Van der Merwe can look into how we might be able to support you in being the best young woman you can be.”

Translation: You used your get out of jail card last week, and you’re going to start talking or else you’re in with the doc doing whatever treatment he recommends.

Aka, they’re either shoving CDC-approved drugs down my throat while forcing me to talk to old bones Van der Merwe for an hour, or they’ll give me a lobotomy. I’m doubtful about the last option, but you hear rumors. Who knows what happens in the basement near Dr. Van der Merwe’s room—or, as the students call it, the Dungeons.

“Good to know,” I gripe.

Charlie chokes again. I whip my attention to her and roll my eyes. Drishti runs over to pat her back like it might do something.

Honestly, it’s probably a hairball. She’ll cough it up eventually.

Come to think of it, maybe if Charlie starts choking for real, I’ll suggest she requires the Heimlich maneuver, and then we can all leave on account of being traumatized by her near-death experience.

Unfortunately, she recovers too soon, so I have no choice but to settle back in my seat and cross my arms.

Drishti resumes her position within the circle. “Blaze, how about you tell us how you’ve been feeling lately? I hear you’ve been having more trouble staying focused in class.” Oh great. What’s next? Is she going to start sharing my grades too? “What do you think is the cause of the change?”

“Hmm, I wonder.” This chick is either daft or the biggest snake at this zoo. She’s read my file. “Couldn’t be… oh, I don’t know. How about the fact that the asshole who burned my house down is sitting right there?” I point to Kohen and raise my voice at the last sentence.

He just watches me. He doesn’t flinch or smirk. He doesn’t hold his breath or show even a shred of remorse over what he’s done. Nothing. He looks at me like I’m not worth a single thought in that screwed-up head of his.

“Blaze, please sit down and lower your voice,” Drishti says. I didn’t even realize I was standing. “We’ve been over this; Kohen had no part in what happened that night.”

“I’m not making it up!” I scream.

It doesn’t matter how often I tell them what Kohen said; not a single person believes me. He’s as guilty as they come, and doesn’t have the decency to say it to my face.

“That motherfucker right there destroyed my childhood home, and you’re asking me why I’m distracted in class? Are you kidding me? He took everything from me.” All I had was the uniform I was wearing, my coat, and my backpack. Everything else perished in the flames because of him.

Nothing is waiting for me once I’m out of here. My mother hasn’t checked on me once, and my father probably doesn’t even know that I’m alive. Grandpa will be glad that he doesn’t need to try to keep me alive. I have no money for food, let alone college. Nowhere to sleep that isn’t a shelter in the bad part of town. No job prospects. I have nothing going for me, and it’s too late to do anything about it.

At least before, I felt comfortable knowing I had a house to sleep in. I could have gotten a dead-end job in town with St. Augustine written on my CV. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

“Your inappropriate language will not be tolerated,” Drishti snaps. “Sit down, Blaze.”

I ignore her, my focus solely on the man in front of me—the man who had the audacity to dangle his money in my face just to mock how screwed up my life is.

“Why the fuck aren’t you saying anything? I trashed your house. I destroyed your precious artwork and your entire room—your clothes, collections, trophies, everything that mattered to you.” I want him to scream at me, accuse me of being a liar, say that he’s above my lunacy, anything. Instead, his gaze drops to my neck, then to his ring around my thumb. “You ruined my life—you took everything from me, all my memories, any kind of cash I had, all of it—and now you want to fuck up even more by showing up here too?”

I can lie to myself all I want and say I won the battle by calling out Kiervan’s name, but it’s nothing in the grand scheme of things. I can win as many battles as I want; there will never be a war that I can win against Kohen.

He’s the one with money. He’s the one with power. He may be the family’s black sheep, but people still look at him with respect. When he opens his mouth, people listen. When he does something, people watch with interest. They don’t look at him because they’re scared of him. They don’t look at me because they don’t want to.

“Miss Whitlock, that’s enough—”

I move without realizing, shoving my face in front of his. “You haven’t even denied it! Look me in the eyes and tell me you didn’t do it. Tell me that I’m a piece of shit whore whose brain is so fried that I burned my own house down.” My eyes burn with unshed tears. I haven’t cried about that night, and I refuse to do it in front of him. “Look me in the eyes and tell me you were hoping you’d kill me that night.”

Finally, he flinches. It’s so small that I would have missed it if I hadn’t been watching him for any reaction. He doesn’t give me more than that.

“Say something!” A single tear rolls down my cheek, and he watches as it descends down the column of my throat.

Silence. That’s all I get from him.

“Blaze, I’m going to tell you one more time—”

His head whips to the side from the force of my slap. I do it again. And again. And again. And he lets me. “Tell me, you fucking coward! Tell me!”

I’m ripped away from him before my palm collides with his face once more, and I scream. I cry out like I haven’t had the chance to let it out since that day. I scream because I mourn for all the things I had, want, and never will have.

Before I get the chance to utter another word or throw the guards off me, a sharp pain radiates through my neck.

Everything goes black.

Hazy white light assaults my retina when I blink, causing me to squeeze my eyes closed. Somewhere around me, I hear murmurs. I can’t tell if it’s right beside me or in the distance. Then everything fades out again.

A jolt knocks me awake, but I don’t open my eyes. One by one, different aspects register. A rhythmic rattling, the sway of my body, the hard surface beneath me, a tightening around my body, and hushed conversation.

I open my eyes. The room is still empty except for a man in a white coat standing with his back to me. My eyelids droop closed when they become too weighted to keep open, and the next time I wake up, the room is empty, and my skin feels too heavy and tight. I notice the machines this time as an overpowering sterile scent hits my system.

When I close my eyes, I don’t wake up again until I hear beeping, and pressure builds around my arm to the point that it’s almost painful.

Wincing, I peel my eyes open just in time to see a woman write something down on a clipboard. I try turning my head to see what’s around my arm, but I can’t.

The fog in my head makes it impossible to comprehend anything happening. I can make out shapes and people, but not what, who, or, most importantly, why I’m here. And where here is.

I groan, trying to move my head up or down or side to side, but it doesn’t budge an inch. The same goes for my arms and legs. Try as I might, my shoulders and hips are also stuck in place. Panic sinks its teeth into my bones, and my attempts grow more frantic. What is happening to me?

“Oh. You’re awake. That’s poor timing.”

I blink, trying to register who the old man in front of me is. I know him from somewhere… Dr. Van der Merwe?

Slowly, I take stock of the room. White walls; plastic, blue countertops; white cupboards; blinding white machines; a blacked-out, reflective window. My nose wrinkles from the medicinal scent of the room as I try to take in steadying breaths.

I swallow to clear away the sandpaper in my throat. “Where am I?” At least, that’s what I try to say. The words come out too garbled to make sense of.

The panic kicks into hyperdrive as the fog clears away and the bindings seem to tighten, suffocating me. Anxiety hits me with full force, growing claws and wings, turning my stomach inside out as I thrash as hard as my body will allow. But God, I’m so tired. Every one of my muscles is fatigued to the point of failure. The adrenaline rushing through my system isn’t enough to do more than jar the bed, but I keep going, fighting off the need to close my eyes and let darkness take hold.

Various wires connect to stickers all over my chest, ankles, wrists, and head. I manage to get the monitor on my pointer finger off, but the blood pressure monitor remains firmly around my bicep.

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

“What are you doing to me?” I cry out, pulling at the bindings around me.

I’m distantly aware of the beeping growing faster, but I can’t figure out what it is except that I need to get out. I need to get these buckles off me.

“Undergoing a treatment plan,” Dr. Van der Merwe says simply like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. I’m in the medical wing, and it’s clear they have every intention of restraining me for whatever fucked-up procedure they have planned. What isn’t clear is the why?

“No, let me go.” My attempts at sounding strong are out the window. I can barely breathe, and I’m pretty sure the tears stinging my eyes have something to do with whatever they injected me with.

He sighs and folds his hands in front of a clipboard, highlighting the scrubs he’s wearing underneath his lab coat. “That decision is not up to me.”

“You’re a fucking doctor. I have the right to refuse medical treatment!”

This can’t be happening. I didn’t agree to any of this! They were meant to give me pills or get me to attend more therapy sessions, not this—whatever this is.

Despite knowing it’s useless, I still pull at my restraints.

“Unfortunately, I cannot let you out, nor can I listen to your refusal of treatment.” Dr. Van der Merwe says with an air of disinterest as if this is all a waste of his time. He places the file on my legs, a silent mockery of my inability to kick it off me.

“Yes, you fucking can,” I growl, fighting back the tears that are so eager to spill. “I’m eighteen!”

“None of that matters, Miss Whitlock.” My heart shatters hearing what I know. I yank at the ties as he pulls out a bundle of paperwork from the file, holding it right in front of me. “Tell me what you see.”

I narrow my eyes to the scrawling swirls at the bottom of the paper. Bile rises up my throat as I choke out, “My signature.”

The shrink pulls the paper away and gives it a quick glance like he’s double-checking its contents. “That’s correct. I’m assuming you did not read the contents of the documents before waiving your rights to make decisions during your stay at Seraphic Hills.”

“Cut to the chase, old man.” Neither he nor the nurse writing away in the clipboard react to the venom in my voice. Why be scared of the snake locked in a glass box?

He gives me a half smile like this is all friendly conversation and not at all like he’s explaining my death sentence to me. “Your appointed power of attorney has the right to make all decisions on your behalf concerning your health, welfare, and finances. In other words—in case that was too complicated for you—your grandfather requested an alternative course of treatment, and he believes that it is worth trialing.”

“Then I revoke my waiver. I’ll sign it right now.” Simple. We can end this right now.

My faux confidence doesn’t even fool me.

“That’s not how this works.”

Famous last words. If it were that easy, I wouldn’t be in this school. If I could dictate the terms of my life, I would have left a long time ago, not beg my grandfather for food and money just because he didn’t let me get a job.

From the corner of my eye, the nurse starts playing with one of the machines, causing it to flicker and beep. “Stop it.” I jerk against the restraints, slowly fighting off the pull of sleep. The line into my arm swings with the movement. “What are you doing?”

“Finally, Miss Whitlock,” Dr. Van der Merwe says with sickening excitement, “you’re asking the right questions. Do you know what ECT stands for? No? I didn’t think so. Electroconvulsive therapy.”

My heart claws up my throat, and I feel like I’m choking on it. I have no idea what that is, and I don’t think I want to know.

“It’s a delivery of a pulsed electric current to the brain to induce a seizure while you are under general anesthesia for therapeutic purposes. Despite the high levels of stigma, it’s proven highly effective in assisting some abnormalities in brain functionality.” He adds quietly, “Although it’s been years since I’ve delivered this treatment regimen, and technology has advanced since.”

I’m going to be sick. “You’re not going to knock me out. You’re not going to do any of that. I refuse.” None of this can be legal, right? Even if it isn’t, I can’t afford a lawyer—especially not one that would go up against my grandfather.

“That’s correct. We will not be administering anesthesia today even though it is an ethical requirement of the treatment.” He gives me a sickening half smile, causing all the color to disappear from my skin. “It’s an added expense that your grandfather does not want to finance, seeing as this is not covered under your insurance. However, your grandfather was kind enough to provide you with muscle relaxants.”

“Let me go, or I’ll report you to the medical board the second I’m out of here.” There’s no keeping the desperation out of my tone. It comes pouring out, fast and pathetic, as if my life depended on it.

“There’s another issue you have that is not included in any psychology manual.” He watches me hopelessly. “No one ever believes you—consider it a formal diagnosis, Miss Whitlock. Evidence is everything, and the evidence we have against you is… it’s damning, to say the least.”

“Get fucked, you disgusting piece of shit,” I spit, using every bit of power to stop the tears that want to fall. It’s the only minute shred of dignity I have left, and I’ll do anything I can to hold on to that useless power.

Any semblance of warmth falls from his face, replaced with cold calculation. “Insulting me will not change the outcome of the next hour. In fact, I would go as far as to say that it is in your best interest to convince me that you’re an exemplary vision of what is expected of a woman your age.” He takes the binder off my legs and pulls a stool from under the bed to sit on. “Do you know what ECT treats?”

“I don’t give a shit. Let me out of here!” I scream the last part as loud as I can. Surely, someone can hear me. A guard, maybe. Or a teacher. Maybe another student. But what’s the point? None of them will come to my rescue.

“Severe depression, severe psychosis, aggressive tendencies related to dementia, and catatonia,” Dr. Van der Merwe explains.

“I have none of those.”

“I’m aware.”

My lips part. “Then why are you doing this?”

“Because Mr. Whitlock said so, and this is a relatively low-risk procedure.” He shrugs. “This could have all been avoided. You see, ECT is a treatment for patients who have not found adequate success with talking therapy and medication. It’s clear with your aggression, drug use, and compulsive tendencies, further treatment is required. Your grandfather and I agree that the risk of the treatment’s side effects does not outweigh the risk of no treatment. Simply put, you threaten your safety and everyone else’s.”

He meticulously checks the stickers on my temples and forehead, then adds the attached cords. I try to track his movements as much as possible without moving my head, but he goes out of sight too quickly.

“You can’t do this,” I breathe, looking at the nurse, pleading for her to do something. But not once does she look my way. “You have to stop this.”

The nurse stations herself and her clipboard beside the blood pressure and heart rate monitor. Dr. Van der Merwe rolls backward in his chair toward the machine she was playing around with earlier, and adjusts the dials according to the piece of paper beside him. “Consider this your first beneficial contribution to society. If this works on you, it’s further proof that there is no limit to medical advancement.”

My hands shake as I curl my fingers into a fist, thrashing around in a last-ditch effort. “No, no, no. I’ll be good, I swear. Please! I—I’ll stop. I won’t steal anymore. I won’t talk to Kohen anymore. I won’t do anything! Please—I promise.”

“It’s too late for any of that, Blaze.” He gives me an almost solemn look as his finger hovers over an orange button. “This should only hurt for a moment.”

Bright white pain surges through me, and my mouth opens with a silent scream. My muscles contract as electricity rips through my veins.

Then, everything ceases to exist.