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Vivienne

The water is everywhere.

It floods Vivienne’s lungs, throat, ears, and mouth. It drags her down into the abyss, as if the pool itself has declared war on her.

Hands hold her shoulders—from firm enough to crush bones to a ghostly brush of fingers—refusing to let go.

Despite the muffled sounds beneath the water, she can still distinguish each of their voices.

Why won’t she? They live in a small town where everyone knows everyone, and your desk mate has a ninety-nine percent chance of being your neighbor.

“Fucking die, you freak!” The distorted threat reaches her through the ripples of raging water.

“No devil’s spawn must live amongst us!”

Even though their weight presses down on her, Vivienne keeps fighting back with kicks and claws. Despite this, water saturates her completely, a heavy, stifling presence. Her chest burns , her limbs growing weaker.

Gasping desperately for air, she fears she may never have another opportunity to breathe. The kids are unwavering in their resolve. They will never let her breathe again.

They will not let her go.

Not until she is still.

Not until she is dead.

But, right as her vision darkens, the last bubble of air escaping her lips, she wakes up.

A sharp inhale rips through her, her eyes wide with horror, face flushed.

With a heaving chest, her fingers curl into the soft sheet as she looks around, barely registering anything.

She can swear she is still seeing the blue of the swimming pool at Paul Sabatier Elementary, the distorted form of her schoolmates over the water’s surface.

They are laughing at her.

They are cheering for her death.

Her body trembles, slick with sweat, head fuzzy, but she can feel it now—something about the air is wrong. The unfamiliar ambiance feels too sterile, the silence too thick.

She blinks, once, twice, and her surroundings finally come into focus.

A hospital?

Her pulse thrums against her ribs. What is she doing here? How did she get here?

She shifts on the bed. And that’s when she feels it—a dull sting along her wrist.

Her gaze drops to her hand, and ice splinters through her veins.

There is an IV strapped to her arm. And just below it is a bandage wrapped tightly around her wrist.

Her throat locks up.

No !

She knows this feeling too well. The slow, numbing ache beneath the gauze, the tightness of freshly closed skin.

What happened?

Blood. White tiles. A blade.

The images slam into her like a freight train. But the moment she tries to grasp them, they scatter like smoke.

Think, think, think.

She told Kenji Sato—her best friend—that she was done. She promised him. And indeed, a year has passed; no relapses, no fresh wounds—at least, none inflicted by her own hands. But now, with a new one blooming like an accusation against her skin, what good was all that dedication?

A tremor runs through her fingers as she traces the wound over the thick bandage.

She attempts to recall the events of last night, as she can vividly remember everything leading up to that point.

She remembers what happened at school in the early hours of yesterday—the event is still as clear as a film.

Fingers had pointed at her as she headed for the Principal, Mrs. Douglas’ office.

There had been laughter, snickers, and whispers when she went to her locker to grab her backpack.

The word slut and whore were whispered repeatedly as she walked down the hallway, out of the school, and into Kenji Sato’s car.

She remembers coming home. At 6pm, she remembers her stepmother’s Ford Fusion charging up the driveway.

And at exactly 6:05pm, the sound of a horse whip had sliced through the tensed air, tearing open the flesh on her back… and the sound didn’t stop until 6:30pm.

She can’t remember what happened after that beating. She tries harder, but all she gets is something intangible; a floor slick with something wet, the scent of iron, a harsh whisper—that sounds a lot like the voice belongs to a man—against her ear. These, and then…nothing.

Her heart keeps hammering against her chest, while cold dread slithers through her spine.

Why can’t she remember? What happened to her last night?

If she did this to herself, why? What happened that pushed her to rock bottom yet again?

Yesterday wasn’t the first time her stepmother would beat her to near-death.

She couldn’t have tried to hurt herself because of something she already made peace with years ago.

“I see you’re back,” a voice suddenly echoes in the room, and anxiety weaves into Vivienne’s ribs, a weight the size of a truck pressing on her lungs.

Her head turns reluctantly, and she sees the owner of the voice—Isadora Rivera, her stepmother.

The forty-five-year-old top detective is perched on a single couch in a shadowed corner of the room, a blind spot that blends well with her tanned skin, her brown suit, and brown pants.

“Are you disappointed?” Vivienne asks, guarded eyes staring across at Isadora. “That I didn’t die?”

As she watches Isadora rise from the chair to cross the room to her, Vivienne can’t help but wonder; Isadora isn’t the most fond of her. Maybe she finally snapped last night and decided to kill her?

“Disappointed?” The side of the bed dips when Isadora sits sideways on it. “Not a chance.”

There is a kind smile on her face as she hovers over Vivienne. Vivienne’s heart pounds; nearly ten years of cohabitation taught her those pearly whites herald malice, not amity.

“Why?” Vivienne eyes Isadora with caution as the woman gently begins to stroke her bandaged wrist—so softly that she can barely feel it. “If I had died, you wouldn’t have to see me again.”

“Darling.” Isadora lifts a hand to touch Vivienne’s hair gently, patting it like a loving mother will. But instead of feeling protected and loved, all Vivienne feels is the cold shiver of fear. A hand stroking your head can turn to snap your neck too, you see.

“If your death would have returned everything your father stole from me, I’d have wrung your neck a long time ago, you know that.”

Confirming that it isn’t her stepmother that tried to slice off her wrist after all, vanquishes the last sliver of hope Vivienne has. Their house inhabits just the two of them. Only one could’ve tried to kill the other. If Isadora didn’t try to kill her, then it only means one thing, right?

She can’t believe she relapsed again. The corners of her eyes burn.

Just twenty-four hours ago, she thought she was stronger now, that her body had become an amour, a fortress of rod and iron.

She believed no reality so harsh could ever penetrate through again.

Maybe she was wrong. Maybe she’s still the same. Weak and pathetic.

Vivienne’s pulse suddenly quickens when Isadora curls her fingers around her bandaged wrist, the pad of her thumb pressing gently over the wound. Then the weight becomes harder, a slow calculated push. Vivienne’s breath catches as fire streaks up her arm, a scream threatening to claw its way out.

“Never...” Isadora’s tone is cold and cynical. “Never in your life pull such a stupid stunt again if you’re not brave enough to cut deeper, got it?”

Trapping the cry of agony in her chest, Vivienne nods rapidly, tears tracking a warm path down her cheeks.

Her voice low and still vividly promising, Isadora grabs Vivienne’s jaw. “Don’t ever make me put important cases on hold to attend to your pathetic, suicidal ass again, do you hear me?”

Vivienne simply nods again in understanding, eager for the moment when Isadora will leave and vanish from this place.

Upon Isadora’s release, Vivienne’s sharp breath fills the room.

“You were playing with the katana your friend got for you,” Isadora instructs, rising off the bed and fixing the silver button on her jacket. “That’s how you got cut. You didn’t know how to use it.”

This is the story she needs her to tell anyone who cares to ask. Because God forbid people come snooping around, wondering why the stepdaughter entrusted into her care was busy slicing off her wrist.

As Isadora heads for the exit, Vivienne can’t help but follow her with her eyes to confirm when she is truly gone. And it’s only when she has pulled open the door and is about to step out that Vivienne spots the bag she has been holding all along.

She recognizes that bag. It strongly resembles Kenji Sato’s last birthday present to her. But she doubts it’s the one. Even if it is, there’s nothing she can do. Because when she was fifteen, the very first time she tried to run away from home, Isadora had found her and brought her back;

“You belong where I belong,” Isadora had said. ‘Your life is mine now, including everything you own. ’

Because Clement Baudin—Vivienne’s convict dad—ruined Isadora Rivera’s life by marrying her to cover up his psycho tendencies, Vivienne, who happens to be his only child, must pay.

The sins of the father, as they say, will be visited on the child.

All the pretty things she owns, or will ever own, belongs to Isadora because her life does.

Vivienne’s gaze falls on her wrist, which is currently throbbing as though it has a heartbeat of its own. She wonders what it was like last night when the blade cut open her skin. Did her heartbeat falter, teetering on the brink of life and death, unsure whether to persist or fade away completely?

But most of all, she wonders why she survived yet again . Is she just lucky? Or has Isadora been right all along?

‘Vivienne Marchand is good for nothing, will never be good enough to be loved by any boy other than for sex. ‘

Maybe Vivienne Marchand is so unworthy that even death keeps rejecting her.

“What?” Vivienne asks before taking a bite into the burger Kenji Sato got for her on his way to the hospital.