Unraveled
Auteur
Cosmic Chaos
Lezers
15,2K
Hoofdstukken
17
Chapter 1
VERIDIAN
The sound of metal crunching, glass shattering, and screaming—it’s everywhere. My head slams into something hard, but the pain doesn’t even register.
Warm blood trickles down my forehead, slipping into my eye. Everything spins, my body tossed around until, suddenly, it all just stops. The noise, the movement—gone.
I try to focus, but my left eye is blurry from the blood. When my right eye finally clears, I freeze. I’m staring straight into the cold, empty eyes of the body next to me. That’s the moment my life ends.
I feel cold. Empty. After the last three months, I honestly don’t know how I’m still here—still breathing.
Just getting out of bed every morning feels impossible, but today is even worse than all the days before. Every day, I wake up in a house that isn’t mine. Today, I have to go back to school.
I barely try. My chestnut hair is thrown into a messy bun, no makeup, just ripped black skinny jeans, a faded band tee, and my old black Converse. That’s my first day of school look.
I swear, I’m the runt of the family—five foot four, while Aunt Sara, the shortest of her siblings, is five eleven.
“Veri? Are you almost ready?” Aunt Sara’s voice floats down the hall. She’s been my anchor through all of this, one of the only people who really understands what I lost.
She tries so hard to help, but I’m not sure anyone can.
“Yeah, be out in a minute.” I know she wants to say more, but she lets it go.
I hear her footsteps fade away. I toss my phone and house key into my backpack and head out.
Aunt Sara insists on walking me to school, even though it’s only half a mile. I don’t mind. At least she doesn’t make me get in the car.
It’s been thirteen weeks since the accident, and except for the ambulance, I’ve only been in a car twice. Both times, I had to be sedated, so yeah, I’m a mess.
“You should eat before we go, Veri,” Aunt Sara says.
She’s so gentle, so patient. I wish she’d just give up on me. I already have.
“I’m fine, Auntie. Not hungry.”
She sighs but doesn’t push.
The walk to school is quiet, but not in a bad way. It’s just the kind of quiet my life has become.
When we reach the crosswalk, she hugs me tight and kisses my forehead, then nudges me forward.
I cross the street, walking fast toward the big double doors. It feels like everyone is staring.
I grab my schedule from the office, along with a map that has all my classrooms circled. The door to my first class is already open, even though I’m fifteen minutes early.
I slip into the back corner, put my headphones in, and blast Alleviate by Imminence. My sketchbook comes out, and I start drawing, trying to work out some of the tension.
Time slips away from me, like it always does now. The only reason I know how long I’ve been out of it is because “Casual Sabotage” by Yungblud is playing. That’s four songs in.
I look up and realize the classroom is almost full. Just as my eyes find the door, an older man walks in and heads to the front.
I pull out one earbud, leaving the other in. The music is the only thing keeping me grounded.
“Good morning, class! Welcome to another year—can you believe it? Looks like we’ve only got one new face today. Everyone, this is Veridian Marceles. Let’s make sure she feels at home, okay?”
The teacher’s voice is way too chipper for this early in the morning.
“Now, I’m handing out the syllabus. It’s got everything you need to know—projects, assignments, reading lists. Heads up, there are two big assignments, each worth twenty-five percent of your grade.”
Groans ripple throughout the class.
“One’s solo, due at the end of the semester. The other’s a group project,” the teacher continues, ignoring the disgruntled looks on his students’ faces. “For that one, you’ll be paired up. Rows one and three, come up and draw a name from the jar. Whoever you get is your partner—no switching, no trading.”
I watch as everyone in the first and third rows stands up, shuffling to the front. They each reach into the glass jar, pull out a slip of paper, and hand it to the teacher.
He gives them each a packet and tells them to sit with their partner and start talking about what topic they want to pick. I tune out, letting my attention drift back to the sketch I started when I first sat down.
I’m just getting into the details when a packet lands right on my hand, covering my drawing.
“You pick.”
The voice is deep and rough, and it makes my stomach twist up in knots. I don’t even look up. I grab the packet and flip through it, circling the first topic that jumps out at me. Then I hold it out to him, still not meeting his eyes.
“Favorite historical literary quote?” he asks.
I nod, eyes glued to my sketch.
“So, do you not talk because you can’t talk, or is it because you just don’t want to?”
I set my pencil down, close my sketchbook, and finally let my eyes wander over to the seat next to me.
He’s…wow. Even sitting, he looks like he’s at least six foot four. His black hair is messy in a way that looks like he just rolled out of bed, and it falls over his forehead.
But it’s his eyes that get me—deep blue, like the sky right before it turns to night. His body is all muscle, wrapped up in faded jeans and a black T-shirt that fits him way too well. But those eyes—God—they’re impossible to look away from.
“I can speak just fine. I just don’t until I have something worth saying.”
The corners of his mouth lift into a smile that could melt my heart.
“All right, fair enough. Got a quote in mind?” he asks.
I nod, leaning back in my chair. “Actually, I have two that come to mind. The first is from Oscar Wilde: ‘Every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future.’ The second is by Edgar Allan Poe: ‘Tell me every terrible thing you ever did and let me love you anyway.’ My favorites.”
His eyes go wide for a second, and he rubs his jaw, his fingers brushing over the stubble there.
“Those are…pretty deep. We have to write about the person who wrote the quote, and then each do our own interpretation. I don’t know much about either of them, but I guess that’s the point, right?”
“I did reports on both of them at my old school. We can use my notes—might make things easier.” I slide my sketchbook into my backpack.
He nods and starts talking, but his words fade out.
Suddenly, the sound of tires screeching outside rips through my thoughts. My mind goes wild—flashes of memory hit me, sharp and fast, like a broken movie skipping scenes. My vision starts to blur at the edges, my chest tightens, and the room spins.
I try to stand, but my legs won’t work. I end up back in my chair, feeling like something heavy is pressing down on my shoulders. Hands—real or not—hold me in place, and that deep, rough voice cuts through the fog.
“Whoa, whoa, just breathe, okay? Watch me. Do what I do.”
I force my eyes to focus on him—this dark-haired guy crouched in front of me. I watch his chest rise and fall, and after a few breaths, my body starts to copy him.
I know everyone in the class is probably staring, but I’m focused on him.
“How are you feeling?” His voice is soft, steady—like he’s the only thing keeping me from falling apart.
Maybe I’ll be okay. Maybe.
“I’m all right. I’m fine.” The words come out shaky, but I force a smile anyway.
My whole body goes stiff when I hear laughter—quiet, but not quietly enough. I glance up and, of course, half the class is watching me. Some look sorry for me, but most of them are just entertained.
I honestly can’t decide which is worse.
I grab my backpack and stand up so fast I almost knock over my project partner, who’s still kneeling by my chair.
Great. Just add that to the list of embarrassing moments today.
I hurry out of the classroom, heart pounding, turning down the wrong hallway twice before finally finding the exit.
The second the warm air hits my face, I can breathe again. It’s like the world outside is telling me it’s okay to let go.
I spot a tree near the courtyard and drop down onto the grass underneath it. I shove my other headphone in and crank up the music, desperate to drown out the noise in my head.
Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it.
But the memories sneak in anyway—flashes of the crash, flashes of the people I lost. They twist together until I can’t tell one from the other.
