Clara

  I stare at his face.

  Smooth, pale skin. Soft black hair. The faint, briny whisper of sea salt I remember all too well. Those hypnotic deep-brown eyes that could look right through you.

  And then I squeeze the trigger.

  The bullet screams through the air and punches a neat hole right into his left eye, joining the constellation of perforations already disfiguring his perfect face.

  As satisfying as target practice on paper is, the real thing would be better. It's sure to quench my thirst for revenge. Would burning down Alister's car work? Getting him expelled? Or framing him for a fake crime that is so poorly done that it messes with his ego at the same time?

  So many options. So many ways to bleed a man without spilling a drop.

  "Ugh, I can't decide!" My voice bounces around the warehouse, coming back to me like a mocking chorus.

  This place is where I usually sneak off to practice. Tucked between a few small industrial buildings, just far enough from the main road to be discreet, but close enough to be accessible for those who needed it.

  It's easy to get it. It's the digital locks that are the trickiest. Ordinary locks like that don't even require me to use a lockpicking kit. Just a bobby pin.

  Zach's home has a digital lock on it. Not to mention a camera that faces the street. But if you find the right blind spot and the perfect position on the willow tree outside the house, you can get a clear view of his room from a window.

  I know it sounds like I'm stalking him, or like I want to break into his house, but that's not it. It was pure coincidence. I happened to be passing by on Tuesday, saw him through the window, and just wanted a closer look. And about my skill at lockpicking, well, I have my hunger and my mother to thank for that, as her favorite hobby is locking me up without food for hours.

  I fire the last bullet, letting it thud against his forehead. The echo bounces off the empty room. Well... empty, if you don't count the unconscious men in the corner, knocked out with sedative darts.

  It wasn't because of any ill intention. They were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, drowning their lives in cheap beer and wife complaints.

  Men. Ungrateful pigs.

  I throw the empty pistol at the poster, aiming for Alister's face. It misses the concrete piller completely, as if to mock me that he's better at this than me.

  It lands on top of a dusty flyer on the ground. Advertising about a camping trip in the woods.

  I try to ignore the memories that flood into my mind upon seeing the pine trees, the mountain background and the starry night sky.

  I was eleven when my father finally allowed me to come along on a hunting trip, thanks to my uncle taking my side.

  I remember the rabbit.

  How I raised my rifle at it as its ear twitched and the others watched. My father stood behind me, arms crossed, waiting. It was my moment. But I hesitated, and the bullet missed.

  "Useless," he muttered under his breath, turning away.

  The shame was unbearable, but I refused to let him see me cry.

  I sneaked off deeper into the forest then, determined to find another bigger animal.

  There was a fox. My hands shook as I lifted the rifle, remembering the things my father had taught someone. But a small baby fox trotting into view nuzzled the larger one. My heart dropped, and I couldn't do it. I turned back, ready to return to my father and admit failure. But the trees all looked the same. The trail I had followed was gone.

  I was lost. I screamed for my father, over and over, until my throat burned. But he never came. The sky darkened. And then, finally, I heard footsteps.

  It was my uncle. I threw myself into his arms, sobbing and asking for my dad.

  "He drove back hours ago," he said, the words that are forever embedded in me "Told me to find you before it gets too dark."

  Being lost had been terrifying. But realizing that my father had left me behind had hurt even more.

  I jump as soon as I hear the shrill sound of my phone ringing slice through the silence. I quickly walk over and dig my phone out of my bag.

  Alister.

  I glance at my arm, where now two prominent burn marks stain my skin underneath the sleeve.

  "What do you want?" I answer.

  There's a beat of silence on the other end.

  "...Hey." His voice is unexpectedly soft. "I was hoping you'd pick up."

  My jaw tightens. As if he has ever answered my calls or replied to my texts. As if he didn't-

  "Look, after what we saw today, it's clear the curse is getting worse. Way worse. And I've been thinking, maybe it's time we stop fighting. Actually set our differences aside and work together. I mean it this time."

  Something in me snaps like a dry twig.

  I pace, phone clutched tight. He always does this. Strikes where it hurts, mocks me when I think of retaliation, and remind me of the bigger problems, making my thoughts of petty revenge feel foolish.

  "You mean it this time?" I laugh bitterly. "This time?"

  He stays silent for a second. "Clara-"

  "Shut up!" The word cuts sharper than I intend, but I don't care. It doesn't matter he said my name. It doesn't matter how much I wanted to hear it from him. I'm so angry, I wish he was in infront of me right now. I'd have shot his legs.

  "I held you." I insist, my voice already trembling with restrained fury, making him recall it, making him realize no matter how much he tries to ignore it, him being vulnerable in front of me, it happened. "I didn't walk away. I didn't mock you. I was there. If it ever happened again I would have done the same. But apparently it wasn't enough to make you hate me any less."

  I pause. "You knew what they'd do to me. You knew. And you still sent it."

  "Listen to me, will you?" He begins but I don't want to hear anything from him.

  "I thought we could be friends." I hiss. "But I was an idiot. Kindness is wasted on people like you."

  "I know how you might be feeling right now-"

  "Don't you dare act like you know me!" I don't let him finish. Tears sting at the corners of my eyes, and I force them back, swallowing the lump in my throat, but they slip through.

  "Don't you, for a second, think you understand me or what I've been through. I don't care why you isolate yourself from those around you, even your own loving family! I don't care why you do what you do, and frankly, I don't care the least bit about your problems or how you want to waste your life."

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  My grip tightens around the phone so hard I swear it's going to break. "But if you try to interfere in mine..." my voice is shaking, but I press on, forcing the words out. "I'm not just going to sit back and let you ruin everything. It might just be some sick hobby for you, but this is my life. I've been unwanted from the moment I was born, and now that I'm finally surrounded by people who tolerate me, feed me, and let me live with them, I'm NOT going to let you take that away from me. Broken as it is, It's MY home."

  I hear him sigh, and something in his voice tells me he's not even hearing me anymore.

  "Clara," he says my name again, his voice far too calm. "Where are you? I'll be right-"

  I hang up before he can say anything else. I close my eyes and breathe. I can't let myself fall apart again, not like this. This won't solve anything. Not while I'm this worked up. I can't let him make me lose control.

  As my mind tries to gather itself, piece by piece. My eyes fall on a broken mirror nearby. At first, it seems unimportant. But then I stop. Something feels... off.

  I step closer. It's subtle at first, like my mind is playing tricks on me. But then it hits me as soon as I grab one big shard and stare at it.

  I have no reflection.

  A chill spreading down my spine. The reflection of the ceiling is there, the vast rows of industrial shelves stacked with crates and machinery, and the faded yellow lines on the floor that guides workers during the day.

  But I am not in it. And that's not all.

  My fingernails are glowing. A white luminescence like moonlight, concentrated at my fingertips.

  Is this... my ability? Not being seen? Being invisible?

  How ironic. I almost laugh, but it doesn't come out. Of all things, invisibility. For someone who spends their life screaming just to be seen.

  It's not funny. Not to me.

  I step out of the cafe, the warm scent of coffee wrapping around me like a flimsy excuse for comfort. Maybe I should've grabbed more caffeine pills. The pharmacy was right there, and I had the taxi driver drop me off in front of it.

  I want the bitterness to scrub away any sour feelings. I can't believe I let him talk me out of it. His words, smooth like poison, slipped into my mind and made me think that he might mean it. I hate myself for it. For believing in the possibility of peace when all I should be thinking about is how to tear everything apart.

  Well...If things get worse between us, I'm not helpless. I've got power. Wealth. A father with a taste for handling problems the old-fashioned way. If that bastard crosses a line again, I won't even have to ask. I'll hear about it in news reports.

  A low, off-key melody breaks through my thoughts. A street guitarist slouched outside a shuttered bookstore. No one's stopped to listen. It's almost 11pm, and even on the busiest avenue in the city, people at this hour are out with purpose. Meetings. Lovers. Secrets. No one has time for a misplaced tune.

  I drop thirty dollars into the open case and smile at him. His face lights up like I gave him more than money.

  My braid swings past my waist, draping over my shoulder and brushing my pockets as I walk

  Sometimes I think I deserve every punishment I've ever gotten.

  If I think about it, they weren't wrong to punish me for smoking. I think every parent would be upset over it, naturally. Mine are just a bit stricter. Trying to scrape the chaos out of me and try to replace it with discipline and obedience. If they knew I snuck out like this, they'd chain me to the bed. Forever.

  I don't do it often. I've done it 4 times so far in my life, when the walls close in too tightly. A short walk in the park down the block. A snack from the cafe on the main street. A glimpse of freedom. Just to remember what it feels like to move without being watched. To breathe without having to earn it.

  I'm supposed to be the good daughter. The well-behaved one. But no matter what I do, I could never be that.

  So I lie. Again and again and again. And every time I'm caught, there's no one else to blame but me. Still... for a little while, in this sliver of night, I want to let myself believe I'm free. Even if it's a lie too.

  I start walking toward where the street thickens with people. Restaurants that haven't closed yet, late buses emptying out groggy passengers, and scattered clusters of strangers loitering near lit windows. Away from the path I was taking to get home.

  Not because I don't want to return. But because I know. Even with my mind spinning, I haven't failed to notice.

  I'm not alone.

  Two pairs of footsteps. The way they adjust when I pause. The way they linger just far enough to seem casual, yet never stray.

  I keep my head down, thankful for the mask covering most of my face, but I still tug the hood a little lower. I keep my pace steady as I toss the half-empty cup in a trashcan before digging my hands inside my pocket.

  Do they know who I am? Have they seen my face? Or are they just tracking a lonely girl? That's enough of a reason sometimes.

  My gaze flits between shop windows and alley mouths, always aware of where the exits are and where the people are.

  I risk a glance back over my shoulder.

  The man has his hands buried in the pockets of his long coat. His salt and pepper hair, styled neatly. Next to him, the woman stands out even more. She's in a tailored suit like she just stepped out of a boardroom, every line on her face pulled tight into an expression that could cut glass. She doesn't even try to fake it, her gaze is razor-sharp, her jaw set like she's already annoyed by how long this is taking.

  I snap my head forward again, pulse thudding in my ears.

  They seem older. Slower, maybe. I could outrun them. If I wanted to risk everything on a straight sprint. But the moment I break into a run, this game of pretend ends.

  No. There's only one shot I have.

  Using my ability.

  I don't know how I did it. I don't even know if I can do it again. It lasted only a few minutes in the warehouse. I haven't even gotten a chance to practice it.

  But I have to try.

  I feel their pace shift. A sound behind the shuffle of the crowd. They're coming.

  I spot the alley. A narrow break between two closed shops, half-drowned in shadows. I veer toward it, trying to keep my movements casual.

  The moment I'm in the alley, I quicken my pace, my fingers twitching at my side as if trying to will the power into motion.

  I can't do what Alister does. Lure people in, drop them quietly, and leave no trace. He's silence and precision.

  I'm noise. Flash. Gunfire.

  And right now, the last thing I need is attention. I can't use the gun in my bag. Even if it'll only take 5 seconds.

  I break into a run the moment I'm further in the alley, my sneakers slamming against the pavement as I weave between trash bins and broken crates. I don't look back but I hear them.

  Their footsteps echo behind me. Farther away than I expected, but not far enough. They're running too.

  I glance down at my hands mid-stride, hoping, praying for something. For the power to spark like it did before. For that white glow in my nails.

  Come on. Come on.

  Another turn. Another alley. And then, finally, I see it. A silver shimmer on my nails.

  I press a hand over my mouth to muffle my breathing and sink into the shadows lining the brick wall, moving silently toward the corner up ahead.

  But when I round it, my legs go numb.

  It's a dead end. A locked metal gate blocks the path ahead.

  I spin around, aiming to go back and take another way, but it's too late. They're here. They stop at the entrance to the alleyway. The man moves further in while the woman stays there, breathing heavily.

  I stay glued to the wall, invisible, and silent. They are blocking my only escape route, and I don't know how long I can stay invisible.

  "Empty." The man calls, stepping forward to peer around the corner. He spots the gate. "It's a dead end past here."

  The woman groans in frustration. "Damn it. Kid must've used her powers."

  The man nonchalantly shrugs, hands still tucked into the deep pockets of his coat. "Well, there's nothing we can do about it now."

  The woman narrows her eyes at him. "Are you seriously going to let this slide?"

  I don't think they know who I am. Meaning, they don't know where I live either. Good.

  He sighs. "You really shouldn't be using your monocle in public like that. What if someone saw you?" He leans back against the alley wall. "I'm tired after today. I just want to go home."

  I press my back tighter to the wall, the shadows hugging me like a second skin. My breath trembles against my palm. Every second that passes feels like a countdown.

  I start inching forward. Step by step.

  Then suddenly, a door nearby swings open, and a middle-aged drunken man stumbles out, hitting the pavement. He groans, muttering curses as he staggers to his feet.

  The moment he spots the woman, a sloppy grin spreads across his face. "Well, hello there," he slurs, wobbling toward her.

  She frowns at him, lips twisting in disgust.

  He grabs her arm. "Whatcha doin' out here all alone, gorgeous?"

  The man with the salt-and-pepper hair frowns and casually pulls out an old smoking pipe from his coat along with a lighter.

  The woman smirks. "Let go," she warns. "Or you'll regret it."

  A small flame flares from the lighter. I pause, halfway down the wall, watching wide-eyed as the pipe man lights the rounded opening, mumbling something before bringing it to his lips.

  When he exhales, the smoke isn't grey-it's pale green, swirling unnaturally in the air. It shoots straight toward the drunken man's nostrils.

  His body stills. For a heartbeat, everything is quiet. Then, he drops to his knees, coughing violently before falling to the ground. Unconscious, or worse.

  I press forward, keeping to the darkest part of the wall.

  Closer. Just a few more steps.

  The woman clicks her tongue and adjusts her blazer. "You could've done that sooner."

  The pipe man smirks while extinguishing the pipe. "And you could have ended him in seconds. Yet you love playing the damsel in distress. Bet your husband loves that."

  I move right past them. After slipping out of the alley and into the wider street, I look at my hands.

  My nails... no longer glowing. My body's visible again, I suppose.

  I run despite the tightness in my chest, distancing myself from those two and ducking into another side street. I press my back to the wall, dragging in shaky breaths.

  I need to get home. Fast.