Alister

As soon as we step out of the store, Clara snaps her head towards me with a glare. "Why are you like this!? What, do you just go around killing everyone now?"

I start the car and watch her slide into the back seat. "It wasn't me," I mutter, trying to keep my tone level. "I remember seeing that guy on the news two days ago. A dead body was found with a gun wound to the chest."

"Another muderer, huh?" She mumbles to herself, staring out the window, but I hear her. "Honestly, what good does killing do?" She exhales a heavy sigh, running a hand through her hair. "Anyways, at least we got the plate number of the other car. I'll get someone to track down the location soon."

We sit in silence for a while. Outside, the world is drenched in the warm, amber glow of late afternoon. It's nearing six, that golden hour where everything-no matter how ordinary-starts to look like a memory.

Suddenly, I hear her breath hitch slightly. She presses her palms against the window.

The once-desolate stretches of dry earth are now replaced by something far more vibrant. Rolling fields of wheat ripple like liquid gold under the setting sun, while the dull greens of the grasslands have given way to bursts of color-wildflowers scattered in every direction like spilled pigment on a painter's palette.

"Are we going another way?" she asks, her voice quiet but filled with awe. "I don't remember seeing all this when we were leaving."

"It's the same way," I reply, keeping my eyes on the road. "You were too busy talking about movies."

I hear the subtle shift of her body and then the soft clatter of the sunroof sliding open.

"What are you doing!?" I snap. "Sit back down."

But she doesn't listen. She rises from her seat slowly, bracing herself with both feet planted firmly on the floor. Half of her disappears through the sunroof, and for a moment, all I can see is her black floppy hat and the way the wind immediately seizes her long hair, turning it into a banner of silk behind her.

Tilting her head back, one hand grips her hat tight, while the other lifts into the open air-palm up, fingers stretched wide-as though she's trying to catch the air itself.

The wind tugs at her, playful and wild, carrying the scent of blooming flowers and warm earth into the car. The fading sun bathes her in a soft golden light, setting her silhouette aglow like she's made of sunlight and wind and all the things that don't stay.

"The A/C is on, you know," I remark, forcing myself to look ahead.

"Ugh, shut up, will you!" She yells out, her voice nearly swallowed by the wind.

She opens her eyes slowly, just enough to take in the endless sea of wildflowers racing past us. There's a wide smile on her lips. It's the second time I've ever seen her this unguarded. Like she's happy to be alive to witness this. Like there's nothing complicated about her life.

...Have I ever felt that way?

I follow her gaze and wonder if this is one of those moments we all secretly live for. The kind we wish could last forever.

No cursed gems. No weight of family sins. No pasts filled with ghosts or futures built on shattered glass. Just a window of peace. A stolen breath between storms. Not wanting to drive back into the complicated parts of our lives. To deal with the mess. To deal with the mundane.

My heart skips a beat as I divert my attention back to the road, and my eyes widen in alarm, seeing someone standing in the middle. I slam on the brakes. The car screeches to a sudden halt, the tires skidding on the road as I struggle to avoid a collision.

Clara screams as the car lurches, her body jolting forward with the force. She scrambles to hold on, fingers clinging to the rim of the sunroof.

Once the car stops, she stares down at me, wide-eyed. Her chest heaves. I see the shock flash across her expression like a lightning strike.

"You did that on purpose, didn't you?!" She yells, her voice shrill with anger and fear.

However, right now, all I could think about was the person on the road. Or lack thereof. Because now that it's all coming back to me. I realize who or what I saw.

I would recognize that red tie anywhere.

He had stood there, drenched in blood with the sun shining on his bald head. The empty eye sockets and slices on his face made it look like the skin would fall off any moment now. His fingers were literal skeletons, with no skin or meat, poking out of his palms that had three metal nails lodged in them. Blood poured from his ears, his nose, and his mouth. Which I know has no tongue even if it wasn't opened. The copious amounts of blood poured from his abdomen and three gunshot wounds on his chest.

I try to calm down as I grip the steering wheel tightly. Like it'll helps anchor me or keep me grounded.

"Alister!"

Clara's voice slices through my spiraling thoughts like a whip. I jump, my pulse thundering in my ears.

Her narrowed eyes burn into me. Her hat is gone-probably taken by the wind. Her hair's a tangled mess, her cheeks flushed with adrenaline and fury.

"Why did you do it?" she demands.

I blink. "Didn't you see?...There was someone standing there." My voice sounds off. Distant. Like it belongs to someone else.

She raises a brow, looks around the area, and then back at me with that skeptical expression she wears a little too well. "There was no one. You suddenly stopped the car."

I turn around, eyes scanning the stretch of road again. Nothing. No blood. No body. No lingering trace of the thing I saw.

Why would there be? He died long ago. What am I thinking?

My throat tightens. It's not just the horror of what I saw-it's the shame that comes from memories being dug out.

"Did you see something again?" Clara asks curiously.

I don't answer. I quickly get out of the car to take a breather.

It's not real. It's not real. It's not real.

"Another hallucination I see." Helena appears in front of me with a concerned look.

"Stop it." I mumble as I run a hand through my head. I'd rather see anyone than that bald man and those spawns of Satan.

"It's not me. Haven't you noticed? Whenever you're with Clara, it seems the effects of the gem worsen. The hallucinations intensify. The lines between memory and manifestation blur." She deduces, looking deep in thought.

"Hey!" Clara calls again, her voice sharper this time. "What did you see?"

"...Where's your hat?" I ask.

The question catches her off guard. Her brows furrow, and she glances around, as if only just remembering. "It, um... flew over there." She points somewhere behind me, into the sea of flowers.

I nod, say nothing, and walk around the car. The flower field stretches endlessly around me. I look around as the flowers brush against my legs.

And then... my vision flickers.

Just a small stutter at first. Like a skipped frame in a film reel. But then it tears, like reality itself hiccupped. And suddenly-

I'm not in the field anymore.

I'm in a classroom.

My old classroom.

My tiny hands grip the edge of a desk, heart pounding. The walls are covered in colorful posters. Everyone is staring at me.

"Murderer," a girl in pigtails says, her finger jabbing in my direction.

"I knew it was him," someone mutters behind her.

"I don't want to be in the same class as him."

"Should we make a complaint or something?"

"Didn't you see the photos? He strangled it," another whispers, their voice full of horror. "With his own hands."

My mouth goes dry. "...that's not true." I gasp.

But they don't hear me. Their faces blur into sneers and disgust.

"Snap out of it!" I hear Helena's voice. And just like that-I'm back. Back in the field. Back under the sun. Back to my older self.

What just happened? Was it a hallucination... or something more?
I feel like I've been shaken to my core, like my whole sense of reality has been turned upside down.

"I don't think there's any other way. You know what to do." She says again. She looks really out of place among the flowers with her trench coat and glowing orbs.

My eyes scan the field again, forcing my mind to focus. Then I spot it. Behind a patch of bluebonnets, half-buried by petals, a shadow of black against the colors.

I quicken my pace. My fingers close around the soft fabric, and I pull the hat free. Clara's laughter from earlier plays in my head. I crush the memory and pull a knife from my pocket.

I can deal with the consequences later. It will be hard, but nothing I can't handle. These visions, though. Each one digs deeper than the last, clawing up pieces of me I thought I buried years ago. The more I see, the more I remember. The more I remember, the more I break.

I should nip this in the bud.

If one of us dies, the curse might break.

The sentence keeps replaying in my mind. Louder and louder. It's the only way to break the chain and be the one who survives.

If I kill her...I could be free. No more voices. No more hallucinations. No more past dragging me backward like chains wrapped around my throat.

My thumb brushes the edge of the knife.

Just one flick. And it would all be over.

Time seems to slow down as I raise the knife and turn around. But then-Crack!

A gunshot splits the air like thunder.

Pain jolts up my arm as the knife is ripped from my grasp by some invisible force. It spins through the air, a blur of silver, before vanishing into the sea of flowers.

I freeze, staring at my empty hand, ears ringing. My body is still here, but my mind's trying to catch up.

I turn slowly, my gaze dragged to the source like a magnet.

Clara is still leaning halfway out of the sunroof, both arms resting on the roof like she's lounging at a picnic. Smoke curls up from the barrel of the gun in her hand.

My gun. From my glove compartment.

She flashes a satisfied little smirk. Blows the smoke from the barrel like this is all some casual stunt. "Nice try," she calls out, leaning forward and resting her chin on her hand. The gun doesn't lower.

My stomach twists. Don't tell me she figured out the way to break the curse too.

"To answer your past question," she goes on. "Yes, I do know how to shoot. I'm actually a great shot." She shrugs. "Just because I don't hunt for sport doesn't mean I won't shoot anyone who raises a weapon at me."

My own words come back to haunt me-the ones I spat at her back in the cabin.

You've never shot anything. Either you're a terrible marksman... Or you don't have the guts to take a life.

This pretty little liar.

She let me say it. Didn't argue. Didn't correct me. She just let me sit with that smug belief that I had her all figured out. But I didn't. Not even close. Turns out we were both pretending. I just wasn't as good at it. I wasn't the only one holding cards close to the chest.

"I may not always know what's going on in your head," she continues, "but there are times when I can read you like an open book."

And I just stand there. Staring at her like I'm seeing this girl for the first time. Because I never knew she was that skilled with a gun. That she could hit a knife mid-motion without grazing my hand. That she was watching me that closely. That she knew.

That she saw this coming.

And because...I now understand that the gap between our strengths is much wider than I expected. She doesn't just have power and status to her advantage. But also a gun. And she is good with it.

"It seems she's more of a threat than we thought." I hear Helena's voice beside me, her steely red eyes narrowed onto Clara as her hands are buried in her pockets.

The wind stirs, rustling through the flowers and sending the tall grasses swaying gently in the breeze. Clara's hair blows back in the wind, the strands dancing around her face like flames that refuse to be tamed.

"Now here's what we're going to do," Clara calls out, her voice commanding, laced with the same unbearable elegance that coats everything she says. "You're going to be a good little boy, be on your best behavior, and drive me to the central library, where my driver will pick me up. Don't think for a second I'll be letting my guard down."

She lowers the gun slowly, as if it were nothing more than a wine glass at some lavish garden party.

I hate her.

I hate the way she smirks like she knows everything. I hate the way she holds my gun like it's just an accessory. I hate that she shot the knife from my hand and how effortlessly she pulls off that mix of innocent and lethal. I hate the way she acts like she's the only one with control.

But I also know the truth.

That gun only had one bullet. I never keep it loaded. Never needed to. She fired it once. Which means the chamber might be empty.

She might be bluffing.

I could still hurl another knife. There's one strapped to my jacket, easily within reach. I could go for it. Lunge, throw, and end this.

But...

I don't know how fast she was. I don't know if she had time to reload when she ducked into the car to grab the gun.

Then-just as the silence between us begins to stretch too long-my vision stutters again.

And just like that, the field blurs, the colors dull, like paint rinsed in water, and everything begins to fall away.