Just a Girl

CW: References to sexual violence, physical violence and gore

“Bludgeon them. To death.”

Clarrisa, the sorority president, tosses her cascade of blonde waves over her shoulders.

I never imagined chasing my dreams would be so violent.

I grip a baseball bat between my clammy fingers. Sweat drips from my armpits, staining my white linen dress. Looking down at the bat’s smooth surface, I wonder why she’s chosen such rudimentary objects as our weapons. As students of Hellsbriar University, the magic in our veins is surely a more polite weapon, and better fit for a Rose.

Our query lay at her back, draped in the shadow of the sorority house’s basement, bound in rope and gagged. They squirm and beg against their bindings.

I never imagined chasing my dreams would be so violent.

The overhead light flickers, interrupting my thoughts. I look up and can’t help admiring the precision application of Clarissa’s contour, the way it chisels her face. Her face is perfectly symmetrical and deliciously sun-kissed. When she speaks to you, it’s hard to not get lost in the depths of her large doe eyes. She looks like the supermodels in the magazines I bought in high school. Clarissa is everything I aspired to be. I very much want to crawl into her skin and wear it like a costume.

She is envied by every woman on campus. And all the men, including the professors, want to slot themselves between her beautiful long legs. I’m certain the nectar of the gods live in that warm place, granting powers of attraction and eternal beauty. Men cling to her glorious beauty like leeches. As if by proximity, they might be so lucky to steal some for themselves. I am no different. I want that power for myself.

“I see the look on your faces,” Clarrisa continues, putting a hand on her bony hip. “A rose is not known only for its beauty, but for its thorns.” She is poised in front of all the pledges, dressed in black designer heels, sheer white thigh-highs, and a black bodycon dress.

The pledge ceremony is the next necessary step in becoming an official Rose—so pretty and perfect—like Clarrisa. I would do anything to join the Roses, the most popular sorority on campus.

But at what price?

My bones ache with dread. I’ve never been well liked, not at school or at home. As the middle child, I’ve always been invisible in my parents' gaze, unworthy of their love. By going away to college, I thought I could re-invent myself—making myself into someone who is wanted and desired.

“All these men are guilty of assaulting women on campus. Their animals.” Clarissa waves a well-manicured hand, complete with red-painted fingernails, to the three captives. “They’re abusers and rapists. Do not give them your pity.”

“They’ve committed crimes, and we are here to collect our justice,” Rachel says for emphasis. She’s second in command at the sorority house, and like Clarissa, she’s undeniably beautiful. Her long brown hair is slicked back into a tight topknot.

But I’m just a girl, just a college student, with a questionable grasp on pentagram theorems and limited alchemic knowledge. I am not a judge, nor executioner. I’ve never been called to jury duty! My scrambled eggs always come out burned. It was only a month ago, I learned pickles are made from cucumbers. I totally thought pickles were their own vegetable. The lives of others shouldn’t be placed on my shoulders because that’s a dangerous thing indeed.

I’ve dreamed of being a student at Hellsbriar University, one of the top ten magical universities, and joining the Roses since I was a freshman in high school. I busted my ass off, tireless nights studying, perfecting my makeup and my wardrobe, to make it here. I deserve this.

The moral quandary twists like a knife in my gut. I gulp down my unease.

“Come on, you twats, on with it,” Rachel yips.

One woman, another recruiter with shoulder length copper hair and a small frame, steps out from the line of ten pledges. She wears the same white gown as the rest of us, and even though she grips her bat tightly, I can see her trembling.

“That’s a good girl,” Clarissa coos.

Clarissa and Rachel step aside, forming a gap and opening up the view to our victims. My eyes scan their faces, and hitch on the one. Even in the dim, his blue eyes cut through all the fibers of my being. His thick brows and wide shoulders are unmistakable. My heart careens against my ribcage like a wild animal.

Images of rush week flit by in a kaleidoscope of sound and color. I’d just finished interviewing with three different sororities. Back at my dorm room, I was elated to find a glossy red envelope on the floor—an invitation to the Roses house party that weekend. I jumped up and down, squealing like a small child. The Roses were my first choice sorority. Everything was falling into place for me.

He was at the party with his rockstar smile and perfectly mussed hair. The interaction was harmless. I was flattered by the attention. We had a drink together, laughing and flirting. I couldn’t believe out of a sea of options, he’d chosen me. This was a sign from the gods—I was going to be a Rose.

When my drink ran out, he happily flitted away and returned with a refill.

Then, everything blurred. Each moment spilled into the next, unraveling at my feet. I couldn’t stop it, but I felt it all, being dragged into a bedroom. His beer breath was hot against my skin, the smell turning over in my stomach. And his hands were parasites—insatiable things—eating, eating, eating, something that was never his.

I was just a girl.

A knit forms in my brow at the uncomfortable memory. I should have told someone after the party, but couldn’t stomach someone not believing the theft against my body. Or worse, blaming me for a crime I did not commit. I am not the villain.

Two more recruits break rank—one short with curly dark hair, the other tall with a blond pixie cut. The red-head woman leads the small group, taking a tentative step forward.

I suck down a steady breath. My eyes linger on my assaulter, sweat pooling in my palms. I wipe them against my gown, and tighten my grip on the bat. I do not look away. His eyes are pleading, begging even, to spare him. I’m surprised by the warm shiver of satisfaction running down my back. The fear in his eyes is so palpable I can taste it on my tongue, sweet and delicate.

The approaches the first man who cowers beneath her small frame. She lifts her weapon and pauses. The wooden bat hangs in the air, shaking, with unanswered questions.

Who am I? What price am I willing to pay?

“Do it,” Rachel growls, becoming feral. In the warm, sickly light, her eyes shine bright with wild abandon.

Clarissa stalks toward me, her teeth bared. She pokes a pointy red fingernail into my chest. “What about you?”

I open my mouth to speak, floundering for words. “But I’m just a girl.”

Clarissa clicks her tongue. “Do you want to be a Rose or not?”

My eyes glance to my attacker, and a darkness stirs within me.

Clarissa rolls her eyes, frustrated with my nonresponse. She talks down the line of pledges. “What about the rest of you skanks?”

Nobody in the line of pledges responds, not a breath whispered between us. Then, the silence is pierced, cut open wide, by a savage scream. The red-head brings the bat down for the first strike. The proceeding crack, wood meeting bone, is deafening. It crawls underneath my skin and rattles my bones. The man’s body spasms before falling to the floor with a satisfying thud. A warm, pleasant sensation wraps around me. Watching the brutal act only confirms the feeling blooming in my belly—an aching hunger, the missing piece of myself.

The space is filled with the red-head woman’s high-pitched laughter. “Oh my gods,” she yells whirling on the other two recruits. “You’re going to love it!”

Before anyone can take my meal from me, I break from the line and lift my bat. The cold concrete kisses my bare feet. My eyes are daggers, aimed at my query. I do not look away from his trembling form. The fear radiates off him in waves, wetting my appetite.

Clarissa whistles. “That’s my girl, Maven. Get you some.”

As I approach, moving with determination, the small group of recruits shuffle out of the way. I stand in front of my abuser, my back erect, and look down at him not as human, but as something small and unimportant. The same way he looked at me when he spit in my mouth, and wrapped his hand around my throat. He cowers and pleads around his gag, the sound is a delicious song, pulsing in my veins. I feel no sympathy for him. He stole something from me.

And I’m going to get it back.

My hands are above my head, the bat heavy in my hands. When I swing it downward, a beastly yell rips through my chest. Crack. The bat reverberates, sending a violent song thrumming down my arms, as it meets its target. His body crumples. Blood pours from the side of his head and puddles around my toes, the liquid warm. I wiggle my toes in the red substance, relishing the small offering. The sight of him lying there brings me a vision of unclouded clarity—a Rose is not polite, it bites back.

“Thank you,” I whisper to his prone form.

Somewhere behind me, Clarissa and Rachel whoop their congratulations. The other recruits push in front of me, their bats raised in supplication.

My shoulders sag with the weight of a question answered.

I’m just a girl, and I am a Rose.