Like it was Lester Day

*SEXUAL VIOLENCE*SUICIDE*

The stadium wasn’t as packed as it should’ve been. It was the last game of the season, after all, but the bleachers were only dotted with small clusters of fans. Their cheers felt thin, barely making a dent in the cool evening air. Palmer Duke stood on the mound, his jaw tight as his name stretched across his back like a brand. You know the type—it wasn’t just a name; it was legacy. His brother? Star pitcher in three years ago. His father? Practically a legend at South Ridge High.

But Palmer? Let’s just say the family finesse skipped right past him. He was determined, though—he wanted to leave his mark. Something to make people say, “Yeah, Palmer Duke played here.”

The weight of that expectation—it was heavy. He gripped the ball tighter, feeling his fingers dig into the leather and glancing up at the scoreboard. One more pitch, one last shot to get his team to the playoffs. And in that moment, he wasn’t just throwing a ball. He was throwing every ounce of himself, every hope he had, his entire future into his pitches. He adjusted his waistband absently, feeling the small silk daisy tucked there—a strange choice for a pitcher, sure, but it was his lucky charm.

But when he locked eyes with the batter, something was… off. Sure, the guy had the stance down—feet planted, bat poised—but that grin? It wasn’t just a grin. It was wrong. Too wide. Too sharp. Palmer swore the guy looked like a venus flytrap, just waiting for the unsuspecting victim.

Then, he cranked up the pitch and felt the ball leave his fingertips, sailing toward his nemesis, right up to the crack of the bat. “THWACK!” That sound was louder than anything Palmer had ever heard, like a redwood tree toppling over. He recalled a splotch of white, growing bigger in his line of vision. And just like that, the world went white. 

Everything—stadium, fans, the batter—all of it, even the noise, was swallowed up in the light. Then, as quickly as it came, it turned silently black.

When the world flickered back, it wasn’t the stadium anymore. It was his prom.

The music was loud, the lights were flashing, and the air was thick with cologne and sweat. And there she was—Desiree. She was stunning, no question. Powder blue dress, daisy corsage, her black hair swept up with just a few curls spilling over her shoulder. Her daisy comb caught the light, sparkling faintly as she glided across the floor.

But it wasn’t just her looks that caught his attention—it was her innocence. Her face was open, guileless, like she hadn’t yet learned to guard herself against the world. Her smile was sweet, lighting her champagne-colored eyes, and when she held out her hand to Palmer, there was a vulnerability there, like she was trusting him not to break something fragile.

“I’m glad you came,” she said, her voice soft but lilting, like a melody. “I was afraid I’d be alone tonight.”

Palmer smiled, taking her hand. “I’d never stand you up,” he told her. And for a moment, he meant it. “You’re beautiful!”

But there was something beneath the surface—something unspoken. The way Desiree leaned toward him, the way her smile faltered just a little when he pulled her close on the dance floor, like she was giving a piece of herself away and wasn’t entirely sure she’d get it back. It was almost like she was playing with fire.

Palmer led her to the dance floor while a slow and sexy song played. Her fragrance taunted his senses and he tightened his arms around her back, pulling her to him. Until he felt her straining like a wild horse does when the reigns are too tight. “Is everything okay?” he asked her.

Her sallow complexion revealed what he suspected when she added, “I think I need some air.” And when they stepped outside for air, everything shifted.

Desiree hesitated, glancing around at the other sparsely spaced students walking toward their vehicles and resisted. “Let’s go back inside,” she whispered. “I don’t like it out here.”

Palmer didn’t listen. He just smiled, trying to brush it off. “One kiss,” he murmured, leaning in. “Just one. You’re so sexy, Desiree. You make it hard to be good.”

She didn’t smile back, and they didn’t go inside. Instead, he led her by the hand into the shadows behind the building.

The next Monday, she wasn’t the same. Her friends saw it. Her parents noticed it, too. But they didn’t know what to do or say. And a month later…

Her father, Lester Almasi, found her.

Desiree was hanging in her closet by a scarf wrapped so tightly around her neck that her purplish-gray skin bulged around it. Her prom dress swayed beside her like a sparkling ghost, and below her—God, this part was the worst—there was a pregnancy test. In the window, it displayed a little blue cross. Positive.

Lester collapsed, helplessly miserable and unable to speak. All he seemed to do was mutter through the onslaught of uncontrollable tears. Desiree had been his only child. He’d brought her to this country, changed his name to fit in better, but kept their last name for their heritage. He wanted them to find a balance, to blend in with the American Dream without losing themselves. He’d saved for years to afford her the life she deserved—a fresh start.

But now? All of it—his dreams, his family, her—everything was gone. It disappeared the fraction of an instant that the Gucci belt jerked unrelentingly taught. Vengeance racked at his heart. If he wasn’t such a religious man, he’d swear on revenge.

Lester’s sobs tore through the room, and somehow, Palmer heard them. He woke with a start, gasping, the anguished scream of Lester’s grief echoing through his head.

A teen was standing over him, blond hair glowing in the dim light. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” the boy incredulously sneered, his voice sharp and cutting, his breath reeking of alcohol and cigarettes.

Palmer’s vision swam, his head pounding in sync with the dull ache that radiated from his knees, up his inner thighs, and up throughout his body. His insides nearly seemed alive on their own as they writhed in pain. He wanted to look away, but something about the boy’s face anchored him there. Then it hit him—a memory like an unforgiving pinch to his nipple. That grin. Crooked, too wide, and disturbingly familiar. His heart sank, dread clawing its way up his throat.

It was him. The batter.

Palmer’s breath caught as his stomach violently contorted. “You…” The word came out as a coughing rasp, his voice barely his own as it scorched his throat. “It was you…”

The boy chuckled low, his smirk curling into something sharper, more sinister. “Damn right, it was me,” he said, taking his time, as if savoring the moment. He straightened up, adjusting his jeans with an infuriating nonchalance. “And you should see your face. It. Is. Priceless. Desiree.” The blond slugged his buddy’s arm and pointed toward a parking lot at the other side of the dimly lit park. They both took their time sauntering toward it. Desiree…

Palmer froze. The name hit him harder than a ruthless punch to his solar plexus. Fighting to catch his breath, he squeaked out, “Wait!” He stammered, his voice catching in his throat, “Why?” His body ached, every nerve aflame, but it was the voice escaping his throat that sent ice through his veins. It wasn’t his voice. It was high, soft, mellifluously feminine.

Desperate, he glanced down at himself. That’s when he noticed that there was something more accompanying the pain and inadequacy he felt. Part of his soul felt as if it had been ripped from his body. Amputated.

Clothing wadded up to the side in a torn up conglomeration of muddled colors. Blood pooled from between the small and smooth thighs. And these legs… they weren’t his. They were undeniably feminine, ending in delicate feet with rose-colored toenails.

“Wait!” he shrieked, his voice cracking into a high-pitched scream that wasn’t his own. “There’s been a mistake! This is all wrong!”

The boys stopped in their tracks, their shoulders turning inward like swinging saloon doors. The blond boy cocked his head, his smirk now a full-blown leer. “What’s that, Desiree?” he asked, his voice dripping with mockery. “You know you wanted it. You got exactly what you asked for when you flaunted yourself. Are you satisfied, baby?” He gave his junk another tug with an added chuckle.

Not understanding what he could do to argue or explain, all Palmer could do is vehemently shake his head. As he did, long and wet wisps of hair stuck to his cheeks. He’d never felt so vulnerable in his life.

The other boy skipped back toward Palmer with unsettling eagerness. “Told ya she wasn’t done,” he said with a grin that made Palmer visibly cringe.

Palmer’s scream tore through the night, high-pitched and shrill, the unmistakable sound of raw fear devouring dignity.