Page 12 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You
“It isn’t public knowledge,” she says after a long silence. Her voice is low. “But a boy was found dead at that party. Killed.”
The words cut through me. My vision pitches, black creeping at the edges as a sharp pain detonates behind my eyes.
I grip the table to steady myself, but the world tilts regardless, threatening to give way beneath me.
Chapter 4
Ophelia
I lie still, eyes on the ceiling, tracing the ornate plasterwork as I wait for a respectable hour to rise.
Term begins today, and I have already made an entrance. Not the kind anyone might envy, the kind where you return to the academy bleeding from a cut across your forehead and then proceed to collapse in the middle of the dining hall.
With a groan, I reach for my phone on the nightstand.
Seven a.m. at last.
I had been awake since five, that part is nothing new. What is new is waking with nowhere to go, no way to burn through the restless energy coiled beneath my skin.
Most mornings, Bellamy anchors me. A few quiet hours in the stables before the rest of the academy stirs.
But not today. Father has delayed his arrival, a transport issue, he called it. I know better. Punishment always comes in subtle forms.
My chest tightens,no ride, and less peace.
I check my messages, though I already know the answer. Nothing from Eleanor. My heart sinks further.
I flick to Instagram instead. Notifications flood in, messages, comments, some admiring, some cruel. The usual chorus.
I scroll absently, tapping likes without thought, until one post stops me cold.
It’s a photograph of me and Octavia leaving the infirmary yesterday. I look worn, hunted, and as I study my sister’s face, so does she. My hair is caught by the wind, pulling back to expose the neat line of stitches at my temple.
The caption reads:The Bellanti sisters are back. Ophelia stitched up and looking guilty, Octavia smashing phones like the psycho she is.
My stomach knots. Gossip spreads faster than wildfire here, and that account, the so called academy gossip feed, ensures it reaches everyone. By now, I wouldn’t be surprised if the photo’s already been lifted onto news pages.
With a snap of irritation, I toss my phone onto the bed. I should know better. I usually post and leave, block anything tied to my name. But sometimes even that isn’t enough.
Carefully, I sit up. My head swims, and an ache unfurls beneath my ribs as I straighten. The moment my feet touch the floor, they throb with every shift of weight. A low groan slips out. I feel as though I’ve been struck head on. Perhaps I have.
How would I know?
Trying to summon the night only worsens the pounding behind my eyes, so I’ve stopped.
Yet the need to know what happened gnaws at me, and the knowledge that a boy was found dead leaves a heavier dread in its place.
I exhale, refusing to dwell on it as I rise and make my way to the bathroom.
After a shower, I brush my teeth, smooth on moisturiser, and swallow the tablets the doctor prescribed.
Then, I step into my closet. I don’t feel inclined to wear anything polished today. Truthfully, I’d rather crawl back into bed and wallow in self-pity.
I feel hollow. Not merely tired or sore, but depleted, as though a vital part of me has been taken and may never return.
I don’t even notice the tears until their warmth slides down my cheeks.
The pain in my head flares again, a dull throb gathering behind my eyes.
