<stringlang="en"><fontstyle="italics">You are dead when the bucket falls - crushes your skull - caves you open - drenches you and drenches you, drowns you, fells you and kills, kills, kills you.</font></string>
<stringlang="en"><fontstyle="italics">You are dead when the bucket falls - crushes your skull - caves you open - drenches you and drenches you, drowns you, fells you and kills, <fontstyle="regular">kills</font>, kills you.</font></string>
</text>
<text>
@ -35,684 +35,6 @@
<stringlang="en"><fontstyle="italics">Is their eyes.</font></string>
</text>
<text>
<stringlang="en">I wake.</string>
</text>
<text>
<stringlang="en">I gasp. I close my eyes - I'm fine, I'm <fontstyle="italics">fine.</font> I'm still here. Breathing.</string>
</text>
<!-- CURRENT -->
<text>
<stringlang="en">That bucket was a dream. My death was a dream. I'm not dead.</string>
</text>
<text>
<stringlang="en">(Am I?)</string>
</text>
<text>
<stringlang="en">(...)</string>
</text>
<text>
<stringlang="en">(Aren't I?)</string>
</text>
<text>
<stringlang="en">Of course I'm not.</string>
</text>
<text>
<stringlang="en">I exhale. My feet fall to the edges of my bed. Slowly, I raise myself to stand.</string>
</text>
<text>
<stringlang="en">My fingers tremble by the edges of my leg: I curl my hand in. My nails catch on my skin. They're sharp, pastel pink. Done for Prom Day today.</string>
</text>
<text>
<stringlang="en">The dream didn't happen. How could it have? Prom Day hasn't happened yet.</string>
<stringlang="en">I tidy the bed sheets. Pull the corners over the bed's edges, fluff up the pillows, pat away the sweat and the residue of a scream: my parents want it pretty.</string>
</text>
<text>
<stringlang="en">It wasn't real. I only had a visceral dream, sunken into my brain as an anchor to a sea, as a stone angel's crumbling visage, as a bird's descent off Devil Cradle's cliffs. That wasn't real.</string>
</text>
<text>
<stringlang="en">No, of course not.</string>
</text>
<text>
<stringlang="en">My calendar says May 29th. I've got to prepare for Prom.</string>
</text>
<text>
<stringlang="en">After all, if there is anything I will be, it is Prom Queen.</string>
</text>
<text>
<stringlang="en">I've been chasing this moment since the beginning of time. Today is the finale.</string>
</text>
<text>
<stringlang="en">And I am nothing if not ready.</string>
</text>
<text>
<stringlang="en">I open the windows of my mansion.</string>
</text>
<text>
<stringlang="en">Angelwood glimmers back at me. The mist curdles the morning; leaving dew drops and spiderweb crystals upon the forests.</string>
</text>
<text>
<stringlang="en">This is the namesake of my town. The urban myth goes that angels had descended into the town to be's heartlands, hauling humans upon their backs, and when no one needed them anymore, immortalised themselves in stone.</string>
</text>
<text>
<stringlang="en">They are everywhere: stone angel after stone angel claims residence in the town's square, among the fountains, upon the two-storey high walls.</string>
</text>
<text>
<stringlang="en">They are visible even from here.</string>
</text>
<text>
<stringlang="en">I exhale. The town is stirring awake.</string>
</text>
<text>
<stringlang="en">I get dressed.</string>
</text>
<choiceskey="dress">
<title>
<stringlang="en">I get dressed.</string>
</title>
<choicevalue="pink">
<stringlang="en">A pink tulle, a kind of prettier dress.</string>
</choice>
</choices>
<text>
<stringlang="en">On the morning of May 29th, my mother is proud of me. She had been Angelwood's Queen in her eighteens. I am carrying her legacy on my shoulders, and today she finally believes I will be victorious.</string>
</text>
<text>
<stringlang="en">"I wouldn't expect any less from our daughter," Mother says. She smiles at me: it creases her mouth in an unnatural way. "Doesn't Ethereality look like Angelwood's Queen already?"</string>
</text>
<text>
<stringlang="en">My father nods his agreement. "Yes," he tells me, "An Estridge in her finest."</string>
</text>
<text>
<stringlang="en">(I've done this before. I've had this talk before, on May 29th, oh I remember it so clearly.)</string>
</text>
<text>
<stringlang="en">(Father, he'll look over my dress.)</string>
</text>
<text>
<stringlang="en">Father looks over my dress. He is not glinting with as much pride as Mother. But he approves.</string>
</text>
<text>
<stringlang="en">(Mother, she'll squeeze my fingers.)</string>
</text>
<text>
<stringlang="en">Mother squeezes my fingers, as delicate as a dove. Her smile is no less unnatural. But it fits her.</string>
</text>
<text>
<stringlang="en">(And I, I'll pay gratitude.)</string>
</text>
<text>
<stringlang="en">"Thank you," I say. "I'm really happy you think that."</string>
</text>
<text>
<stringlang="en">(They'll gaze at me with so much love and pride and feeling.)</string>
</text>
<text>
<stringlang="en">I smile. I leave.</string>
</text>
<!-- Angelwood High -->
<markername="angelwood"/>
<text>
<stringlang="en">This is my world.</string>
</text>
<text>
<stringlang="en">I stroll through the corridors and they worship me. Starry-eyed whispers; flushed faces as I pass; gazes sloshing with so much awe. They love me.</string>
</text>
<!--
Choice:
You love them.
"Oh my gosh, hi!"
Choice:
Smile back. - My mouth tugs in a smile. The student looks like she'll faint. That's funny.
Don't. - She'll be just as obsessed with me. If not more.
"I love your dress!"
Choice:
"Thank you, it's designer." - The girl's eyes widen to extraordinary proportions. "Whoa," she whispers.
"I love yours too." - It's cute... to an extent. Not as cute as mine, but let's be honest, here: nobody can reach my level.
"Ethereality! Can I interview you for the school newspaper? Final edition, we're sure this one's gonna be the bomb!"
Choice:
Help her out. Can't hurt to have a few extra votes. - "Of course," I tell Newspaper Girl. "I'd love to be interviewed. This is about my Prom campaign, right?"
"Oh, yes!" Newspaper Girl grins. "You're the star, Ethereality. What else will it be about?"
Don't. Why waste your time? - "Sorry," I say, offering a slight smile. It'll feel consolatory enough. "It's Prom Day."
"Oh, yes!" Newspaper Girl says. "I'm so sorry, of course you're busy. You're going to shine, Eth!"
-->
<text>
<stringlang="en">They would die for me if I called for it.</string>
</text>
<text>
<stringlang="en">(They didn't, though, when a bucket tethered above my head. They watched the thunk. They gasped when I hit the stage, when guts made a laurel around my neck, when the blood pulsated and drip, drip, dripped...)</string>
</text>
<text>
<stringlang="en">
No.
They would die.
For me.
If I called for it.
</string>
</text>
<!--
<text>
<stringlang="en"></string>
</text>
No.
They would die.
For me.
If I called for it.
It's my day. Today is Prom Day. (Wasn't yesterday?) I am pristine and they know it. They have seen my face on my campaign posters, seen what I would look like with a crown on my head.
When Prom Night begins the ballot, they will vote for me.
Thank god for that.
...
Homeroom.
Ave Beaufort is staring at me and she will not look elsewhere. Ave wants to talk to me: her shoe is tapping away at the floor, rhythmic as a chorus, and she will not stop until I respond.
No doubt she is glaring. (And seething. And feeling. I don't wish to know what she is feeling.)
Her Prom Queen campaign's overflowing through the school now. She's taken it up a notch since Monday. VOTE AVE BEAUFORT. Stickers. Cupcakes and cookies. Her face in pastel. She needs to catch up to my votes, influence the student body, whatever.
Ave calls it making memories. I know it for what it is: a goad.
I will not talk to her.
I look ahead. The bell hasn't rung yet: I have time.
I'm not staying here.
Choice:
Go to the sports field. [Sports Field -> then play Locker sequence]
Go to the toilets. [Locker sequence -> then play Sports Field]
...
Sports Field.
Craig is my boyfriend. He's throwing down for his football tournament happening in June. He loves me like a King loves his Queen- with worship, reverence, and the stars. He's beyond the golden boy: he glistens.
"Ethy!" Craig calls. He waves me down as I enter the field.
The whistle screeches; Craig whips his head back to the field. He dashes to the football and scores. His teammates' cheers ring in my ears.
Craig winks as he jogs back. "That was for you."
[Despite myself, I chuckle.]
"So," he says, "you look beautiful."
Choices:
- "Thanks." - As if I don't know that.
-"So do you." - No harm in a little lie. Especially when it brightens him up like sun-dusk.
- "Duh." - He says what all of Angelwood says. Per usual.
Craig smiles wide. He holds me close to him and laughs. "My tournament's soon. You'll be there, yeah?"
He's been talking about his tournament since the school year started. He thinks it's his one ticket out of Angelwood.
"As if I won't, Craig."
He throws an arm around my shoulders. He kisses my cheek. He holds me tight, squeezes me into his sweat-stained, disgusting body. Laughs, nods to his teammates towering high and hulking, their shoulder pads like soldiers in another life.
They throw the football at Craig's head. He catches it. I nearly flinch.
It's fine. Fine. You're okay.
He doesn't notice.
"See you tonight, Ethy," he says. "I can't wait to see your dress."
Craig kisses me in full view of his teammates. They roar, clap Craig on the shoulder and drag him back.
He wipes his mouth clean and grins. Then he throws the football. And all the boys begin to sprint.
...
Lockers.
He's by the lockers. If SPORTS FIELD was chosen first: On my return, I pass him by the lockers.
Ronin Beaufort. That's his name. I haven't seen him much around Angelwood: he was homeschooled throughout middle school. Came back again for his final years in Angelwood High.
Boys pass by Ronin, entering the toilets and out again. Ronin looks at me and only me.
...
He doesn't need to watch me.
I don't need to look at him.
But he calls.
"Stranger."
And I stop.
"And you are?"
[He smiles thinly.]
"Ronin. Beaufort. But you knew that, Ther."
Jesus.
[I roll my eyes.]
I stroll towards Ronin. Head high, back straight. I'm goddess of this school and he's- an a-hole of nothing.
"I don't know who you are."
It's a lie. Of course I know who he is.
Ave Beaufort's brother, in all of his edgy glory.
Of course I know.
The boys go in and out of the toilets, like a cycle of flies. Going in, buzzing out. Hovering: mildly intrigued by whatever this confrontation is. They tend to want to know what Ethereality Estridge is doing.
"Sure you don't," Ronin says. "I don't know who you are, either."
Ugh.
"Somethin' wrong, Ther?"
Asshole.
Choice:
You.
[He laughs.] "Direct," Ronin says. "I like it."
Nothing.
"Nothing, nothing," Ronin says. "That goes knockin'." He raps his fist against his skull and grins.
"Get out of my sight."
Ronin gets out of my sight. He strolls into the boys' toilets. His boots clack with him, echoing through the floorboards. Each crack is as sharp as a bullet.
I exhale.
Thank Christ. I wouldn't know how to deal with him, otherwise.
If TOILETS were chosen first: I need to get out of here. I need to find Craig.
...
The bell rings. School begins for the very last time in Angelwood High.
...
Biology.
I can't concentrate.
"Homosapiens. Our origins were not so far away-"
My teacher prattles on. I'm thinking too much again.
(Like usual.)
"- and we'll be discussing the way the world began."
I remember this class. I remember the words that will leave Mr. Holden's lips.
"We were born like this."
"A female of the species is born with XX chromosomes-"
"XY chromosomes denote a male of the species-"
Why am I doing this again?
I died last night.
I died.
I'm only shocked that I don't feel the wound pounded in my brain. Where's the pain that murdered me? Why is it that when I raise my fingers to my head I feel nothing?
(But a phantom of pain whispers by my head. Stays; hisses; peels; breaks me, further and further down. Until my head is good as caved open.)
(Pain isn't here; and pain wants me to drown.)
I wasn't dreaming. I died. That's the only explanation for how I know exactly how today will unfold.
"Such markers are indicators of gender-"
No. Not unfold. I don't want to die again.
(I won't die again.)
"- categories which all humans fall into."
Why am I back?
To win again? I won't complain. I'll win Prom Queen a thousand times if I had to, and I'd do it gladly.
To try again?
I don't want to die again.
"Ethereality? Are you with us?"
I snap to attention. Mr. Holden looks at me expectantly, though not with malice. He knows I'm an Estridge and I'm the kindest girl on earth- supposedly. I wouldn't ignore his class.
"Yes," I say. "I'm here."
"Will you answer my question?" He asks. "What makes a female of the species?"
Mr. Holden smiles, encouraging, as he awaits my answer.
I think about this. I've done this before. Don't I remember my answer?
"A female of the species is..."
Nurturing.
Emotional.
Sweet.
Empathetic.
Beautiful.
Mr. Holden nods. His smile widens. "Ethereality's right," he says, and turns to the class again. "The ability to [TRAIT CHOICE] is crucial to femininity..."
Even if I don't remember, this has been drilled into me since the beginning of time. It's easy. Angelwood maintains its same elegy for women.
Choice:
(And the elegy is you.)
...
The bell rings. Everyone leaves Biology. In the corridors, they tell me how well I've done in class (as if); ask me about tonight, because Prom is all that's on everyone's minds and I am the star (blood-streaked.)
I manage to return their hellos and smiles without feeling- too - faint.
Finally the questioning abates and their bodies rush off to their next class. I need to go, too. I can't miss English, they'll wonder where I am. But my heart rams in my throat; my chest is sick with heave. I feel like hurling.
(My death keeps coming back. My grace keeps cracking. My body keeps falling. Is it because my descent was always the prettiest of them all?)
I breathe in the corridors.
Who murdered me?
All of Angelwood High adores me. I've made sure of the fact. It's been true since the beginning of time.
Or as close to the beginning of time as it could be. When I turned into a teen and shot up the ranks, with my saunter and my beauty and my smile.
(When I stopped hanging with the wrong people. When I began to be beautiful and lived up to the best ideals.)
...
(When I started to become perfect.)
There are only a few possibilities. There are only a few that hate me.
Is it...
Ave?
Ronin?
Craig?
...
[Ave?]
My eyes wander to the posters flowing through the corridors. "VOTE AVE BEAUFORT FOR PROM QUEEN." There is nothing subtle about it.
Ave wants Prom Queen. She wants Prom Queen like I do. Worse than that: she's doing it out of spite.
It's only reasonable that Ave wants to kill me too. Maybe she's the type. Kill for the crown, watch your best nemesis fall, win victory posthumously.
God, Ave was always so desperate, but this is a new low. I'd be impressed if she weren't so, ugh, destructive with it. I'd tell her to her face what I think about her audacity if I wasn't avoiding her.
...
(Talk to her. Clear up where you stand. Don't let the past come into play again. You need to...)
No, I don't.
Return to Choice Menu (with Ave omitted)
...
[Ronin?]
Ronin...
My eyes find the boys' toilets again.
Ronin's a messed-up asshole. He would hate me on principle. He's the gothic funeral percussion from hell, here in Angelwood High to knock us dead before he saunters back into his graves again. I'm the person he's coming back for.
Why else would he dare talk to me like that?
Of course Ronin hates me: I'm on top of the social chain and he's a bottom-feeder. Licking the salt in his wounds. Brooding for the sake of it. Hating for the sake of it.
I'm everything he's not. I stand for everything he's against. If he's the devil, then I'm Angelwood- his canvas to ruin. Put it this way: why wouldn't he kill me?
That's all I need to know. That's all the reason there is, really.
(Really.)
Return to Choice Menu (with Ronin omitted)
...
[Craig?]
Craig does not hate me.
Our relationship's that kind of relationship. We're together for the school's sake. The golden boy and the prettiest girl. The jock and the queen bee. Oh god, have you seen them? Their love's to die for.
I get Prom Queen. Craig gets the prettiest girl of Angelwood. He gets out of this town to his tournament, then nationals, and eventually to the world's stage. I get to be by Craig's side as he soars close to something that resembles stars.
Out of everyone, Craig's the least likely one to do it. But a little press wouldn't hurt to push him into the purview of the places beyond Angelwood. High school sweetheart dead! Star player needs your help!
Maybe he'll use my body like that. It wouldn't be the first time.
Return to Choice Menu (with Craig omitted)
...
After all choices:
God. They all have reasons to kill me. One of their hands will be stained with my awfully red blood. One of them will have the audacity to ruin my dress.
Or maybe I just had the most vivid dream in Angelwood history.
...
Who knows if I'll die.
Maybe I won't die.
Choice:
Sure. You won't die.
...
The bell rings on Angelwood's last day.
On the 29th of May, Angelwood High closes for the school year. There is only Prom Night left.
...
Estridge Mansion.
I return home. I enter my room. I open my closet. I pick my dress.
Choice:
A snowy Prom dress, prettier than the rest.
My dress has been in the making for years, now. My mother told me to pick out my Prom dress when I was twelve, and I've never looked back since.
Today's the day of the ages. It's what my life has been leading up to.
It fits me perfectly.
I glance at myself in the mirror: I'm more than mortal. I'm an Angelwood girl in her pristine finery. I'm like the angels of our town, impossible and immortal. I'm beautiful.
Everything I've done was worth it.
Choice:
You might die.
It's going to take way more than that to stop me.
...
Craig picks me up.
For a night so dear as Prom Night, he's wearing his jersey in all Angelwood Boars glory. He already has a prop trophy stuck on his head, a half-made crown that's maybe funny. I wonder if his teammates made it for him.
He grins as I approach him, licks his lips, whispers, "Who gave you the right?"
[I laugh.]
"I gave myself the right, Doughton."
"You're the prettiest," Craig says. He kisses me right there and then. Craig's not a good kisser; he forces all of himself on my mouth and tastes like mouthwash and slop doing it. I don't even get a chance to react before he breaks away.
"Excited for Prom?"
I resist the urge to wipe my lips.
"Yes, Craig, I'm excited."
What else did he expect?
"Sweet, which part? The Prom Queen part or the afterparty part?"
He finishes off with a wink. It's practically an aggressive whisper: I'm the only one invited to his "afterparty".
God.
Choice:
- "Prom Queen."
- "The afterparty." - I lie. It's the Prom Queen part.
I've lived my life anticipating this day: nothing will be able to beat that. Not a boyfriend. Not a death. Not even the best kisser in the world.
My parents wave to Craig. They whisper between each other, too. No doubt they're talking about our prospects. How they were high school sweethearts. How they got married only a year after their Prom victories. How I and Craig will be like them, too.
Craig squeezes my hand. "I love you."
Choice:
- "Love you too." - Craig gives me his winning grin. It's the same smile he makes for his football victories.
- "..." - I don't speak. These confessions weigh heavy. I'm not prepared to make them yet.
I smile on. He squeezes my hand tighter, so strong it almost suffocates.
...
May 29th. Prom Night.
I am perfect when I stroll into the night. I am only fashionably late, and only all of their heads turn when I enter the gymnasium.
They love me. They chatter as they watch me saunter in. My tulle kisses my ankles and they are obsessed with my sway.
Craig is on my arm. He leads me through the night. He is Prom King to be, and he knows it. I am Prom Queen to be, and I know it all too well.
"Look at her go..."
"She's beautiful..."
"I'm obsessed with her dress..."
"Craig and Eth, they're absolute goals, oh my god..."
I breathe. I feel alive here. I'll stay alive, too.
This is everything I have ever wanted. The fruits of my labour come to sow. I am grand- I'm Ethereality Estridge, in her best dress. I deserve my name. I'll be Prom Queen soon enough.
...
An Angelwood News Reporter is there to greet us. Her sparkle-fest of a dress screams youthful desperation. She's trying to recreate her high school days and it's not working. Today she's at Prom, because this is Angelwood's favourite event. Our only important one.
News Reporter shoves a mic at Craig, first.
"How does it feel? To have your girlfriend vie for Prom Queen?"
Her tiny camera crew watch us. I do my best to relax.
(You'll be fine. Your parents are watching. You'll be fine.)
(Everything will be fine.)
"It feels amazing," Craig says. He grins at News Reporter. "I mean, have you seen her? Ethereality's a shoe-in. Angelwood's blind not to vote her."
It's all fluff. The News Reporter recites everything off her script and it's fluff too. Everyone in Angelwood knows my victory's a given. It's written in my name: I'm an Estridge. We're eternal Prom Queens.
"I love Ethereality so, so much. She's perfect."
I am that, aren't I?
I smile. Craig squeezes my shoulder, like he lays claim to me.
"And Ethereality, how do you feel?"
Choice:
- "Like an Angelwood girl."
- "Like a Prom Queen."
- "Like an immortal."
"Breathtaking," the News Reporter whispers, awe in her mouth. She nods to my every word. Every syllable's worth. "Good luck winning the crown! Ethereality Estridge, everyone!"
Their cheers are deafening. Their claps are heartrending.
Their love is everything.
...
From the side, Ronin watches me. He's smiling, coy. I ignore him. This is my night, and he won't ruin anything tonight.
...
Craig dances with me.
He swirls me around, dips me down. He grins by my ear, presses a kiss to the side of my head. I'm in his arms and I feel...
Something.
...
Will he kill me?
I don't know. It's possible.
He loves me, though. Lovers don't kill each other. Especially not on a night like Prom Day.
(How much does love mean in Angelwood, anyway?)
...
Craig's still kissing me.
Choices:
1) How's practice going?
"Oh, it's turning like shit," Craig laughs. He nuzzles his face into the nook of my shoulder. "Ethy. We've been killing it. If we don't go nationals, I'm gonna..."
He mimes strangling me. That does not comfort me.
a) "What happens if you don't?"
"Please, Ethy, we're going," Craig says. "We're so good they can't look away. It's like you and Prom Queen."
a1) He's not wrong about that.
"I'm never wrong," Craig proclaims. The music's faint. He grabs my arms and grins. "And you're gonna get me that fame. To nationals and beyond, baby, forever."
My heart jumps. I'll get him that fame?
aa1) Sure. Forever.
b) "You're gonna...?"
"You know," Craig says. He raises his hands again at my neck and repeats his strangulation attempt. And looks at me like I'm dumb.
If he could strangle, could he do a bucket...?
2) Can you please... stop?
Craig doesn't hear me. He trails kisses down my forehead, my neck, my collarbones, until finally I wrench away. I give him a look.
Not here.
"Ethy," Craig whines. He's faux-sheepish. "Sorry, sorry. Not my fault I can't wait."
Ugh.
"Please don't make me wait, Ethy," Craig says. "We don't have much time left..."
What in the world does he mean by that?
I pretend I don't hear it. He keeps going.
"We're going nationals, baby," Craig says. He isn't even here: he's half in daydream. Puffing up with pride. Self-obsessed, now that I'm not letting him be obsessed with me. "I'm going nationals, baby."
I'm looking anywhere but him and that's when I see her.
Ave approaches me. She looks at me, up and down, and snorts.
There's a crowd gathering. They sense a catfight and they're pouncing.
"Excuse me," I say. I break away from Craig. "I have something to... deal with."
...
I'll give this to her: Ave's in her prettiest dress. She didn't pull any stops for Prom Night, and for a latecomer, she's making a not-so-tragic effort.
Will she kill me?
I stiffen. Ave would have the audacity.
Ave crosses her arms with every last drip of audacity. "This is the fifth time. Seriously?"
"Fifth?"
"Fifth time you've tried avoiding me today."
The crowd's watching.
[I cross my arms.]
"And?"
"And?"
Ave snorts.
"Should I start or do you want to?"
We've had this conversation before. I remember having it, last time we were here. Theoretically, that means I should begin.
I shake my head. "No. You start."
"Five fucking times Eth," Ave laughs. "When are we going to talk?"
Choice:
1) "We're talking now."
My words mean nothing and Ave knows it.
"Jesus," Ave exhales. "Yeah, Eth, we're totally talking. Should I go on about how fucking gorgeous you are? It's insane. Your Versace bleeds from your feet."
"Or I can talk about the goddamn weather. Forecast: Golden Boy has you sweating. High chance of rain. Up to you."
a) "Go on."
"I can go forever," Ave says. Her gaunt jaw tries to back up that threat, but she fails. Miserably.
Ave isn't that kind of person. She hates to ramble when no one's listening. She hates being ignored. Lucky for her, I'm good at that game.
b) "Sure, let's talk weather. You're more than a little worse for wear."
Ave blinks. She's taken aback, for a moment- until she snorts. "Yeah. No fault of your own, ‘course."
My fault?
...
This is why we're not talking.
2) "Look... I honestly don't know what you want from me, Beaufort."
That's a lie. I know exactly what she wants from me.
"I want an answer from you, Eth," Ave says. She's razor-sharp. "It costs you nothing."
"What do you want me to say?"
The crowd's watching. I'm well aware of that fact. Ave is, too, because her mouth's about to burst with the weight of everything she's been bottling for the past week.
But there are eyes. And, like me, Ave would never compromise her public image for this.
[Ave rolls her eyes.]
"You're impossible. Ugh, I give up."
"It's been lovely," I say, "But Craig's waiting for me."
"Oh, yeah," Ave snorts. "Better not keep Craig waiting."
"Best of luck with Prom, Eth. I hope the crown's worth every last drop."
Ave saunters off.
I let her go.
...
The ballot box stands in the centre of the stage. Under the strobe lights, it pulses red; blues; pinks; all the colours again. They stay pink, mostly.
It's a good omen. Pink's my colour.
Students line up to drop their ballots in. Prom Queen yields the highest voter turnout in Angelwood, with Iced Huxley's flavour changes and public elections trailing long behind.
Our Prom posters are plastered upon the board, like horses to the racetracks. May Blanchet; Lily Acherlay; Willow Salstone. They aren't really contenders.
(Ave's there, too. She looks infuriatingly perfect.)
I'm in the centre with that bold number #1. My poster is flanked by two of Angelwood's burliest men. Brett and Jacob: Craig's best friends.
I approach them. They salute when I come, grinning like kids in a candy store.
"You're doing your jobs?"
"Yes, indeed!" Jacob says. "Your poster's not seein' a blemish, not a scratch today, Ethy."
"Not a scratch, not a blemish!"
Here's the deal: they're security. Angelwood is dog-eat-dog. Everyone is vicious on Prom. Nobody wants to lose. Everyone wants the coveted title of Angelwood's Queen, and they'll try anything to smear the names of the other nominees.
Because only good things happen to the Queens. We become Angelwood's sweethearts. Adored by the town. Beloved by the angels of our square. We become a little larger-than-life itself.
That's why some save their campaigns until they last day. They don't usually win, of course, but it's an admirable strategy. It racks up the tension by a tenfold. Nobody knows if there might be a plot twist.
Or the reverse. Those who can't handle the nerves can drop out even on the last day. If I wanted to, I could take my campaign down right now.
But why would I ever want to do that?
Death, for one.
I smile. I'm going to win, anyway. If my past life didn't prove that already.
(And then I'll die.)
I'll win.
...
He's on the committee. He's sitting at the table of the ballots, guarding the ballot box with his lacklustre flair, sprawled out on his chair and legs lounging out on the table. His gothic bullshit spills all over.
What even? How did I not notice this last time?
He grins wider when he sees me. "Stranger."
"Ronin."
Choices:
1) What are you doing here?
"I'm collecting votes. It's a side hustle, if you aren't aware."
a) "They're not paying you."
"Not cash, no. But I get paid alright," Ronin grins. He raises out a cascade of votes; they splatter on the table. Ethereality, Eth, Estridge, Ethereal.
a1) "What are you doing?"
"I'm not doing anything," Ronin shrugs. He plops the votes into the ballot box. One by one. "Jus' helping manufacture a Prom Queen, that's all."
a2) Snatch the votes from him. You can't trust him with anything.
I grab the votes and stuff them into the ballot box. Ronin watches me with coy glee like he's in the front-row seat to a freakshow. I hate him.
b) "Why do you think I care?"
"I don't. Think you care. You've proven that jus' about right, Ther," Ronin says. He smiles like he doesn't care.
Go to a: "Stop calling me that."
2) What is wrong with you?
He laughs. "What's wrong with me? Nothing's wrong with me, Ther."
a) "Stop calling me that."
"Right, what should I call you instead? D'you like Eth? Ethy, even."
a1) "Ethereality." - "Ethereality," Ronin pronounces every syllable. Exaggerates it, between the thin of his teeth. His grin is a gleam. "Sure, I'll get behind that."
a2) "Everyone calls me Eth". - "Eth," Ronin tests my name on his tongue, curls it long, pops it. "Nice to meet you, Eth."
He holds out a hand. I don't take it.
a3) "Fuck off."
Ronin's eyes widen. He likes that. "Oh," he chuckles, "I got Eth to say a bad, bad word." He plays out a fake pout on his lips. "Whatever will your parents say."
b) Don't let him goad you. That's what he wants.
There's no point in this. I won't get through him, and I don't care enough to try. This is the state of affairs: edgy trashfire mans the ballot for my title. Ugh.
There's no point in staying here. But as I go-
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I turn back.
Ronin taps on the ballot box. He's cradled the box close to his chest. He raises up a vote between his fingers. "I wrote your name down for you."
He has. Scrawled in an excessive cursive. ETH ESTRIDGE. E. THE. REAL.
Ronin drops it into the ballot box before I can do a thing. I only hope there's nothing on my face. He deserves not a drop of satisfaction.
He smiles. "Best of luck with Prom, Ethereality. Don't let your dress trip you on your way out."
[If a2 was chosen: "Best of luck with Prom, Ther [...]"
"It's Eth."
"No. You said everyone calls you Eth. But I'm not everyone."]
I despise him so much.
...
"10 minutes until we announce Angelwood's Prom Queen and King!"
Everyone is buzzing. Everyone's whispering among themselves, exchanging predictions and secrets; they murmur my name most of all. Who's surprised?
Not I.
...
I'm on stage. I'm breathing with the rest of the girls, staring out at the audience that has determined our fates, as if I don't know exactly how this will go.
The Principal stands ahead. She clears her throat, pats her mic with a smile, relishes the breathless silence of our anguish. Behind her, the camera crew blinks on.
"The votes are in, Angelwood High!"
The cheers are unreal.
"First, we shall crown Angelwood's King. Please... welcome... Craig Doughton to the stage!"
Roars explode through the audience. Half of it is from his football team. They chant like hooligans as Craig ascends to the stage, with a jog and a twist and a grin. He snatches the mic from the Principal-
"THANK YOU, ANGELWOOD!"
- and tosses it back. He stops short of coming to my side, opting for a wink instead.
Now's the question.
Is it me?
"And Angelwood's Queen is..."
They're all looking at me.
I hold my breath.
"Ethereality Estridge!"
The roars are a fantastic thunder-crack. The claps are a storm's symphonies. I'm Angelwood's best girl, better than anything in this town.
The Principal crowns me. The cool metal eats my skin -
(- and I don't think about the bucket.)
On stage, Craig meets my mouth. Under the red light, I can only see his jaw, and his lips gleam with too much red.
The Principal descends from the stage. The losers follow her. Craig goes, too, for my speech -
I am alone.
"Thank you so much for making me Angelwood's Queen," I say. "Out of everyone, I'm so glad you chose me."
Like I expected anything else.
Like you were going to choose anyone else.
"You made a great choice." The right choice.
In the audience, Ave won't meet my eyes. Ave refuses to look anywhere near me.
"I can't tell you how much it means. My whole life has led up to this moment, and I am grateful beyond belief that it's been worth it."
In the audience, Ronin meets my eyes. He watches from the side, quiet, waiting and waiting and waiting. Why can't I unsee him?
"This is everything to me."
They watch me.
They wait and watch me.
My eyes are riveted on them. Their eyes are wanting, breathless as they take me in; me, Ethereality Estridge. A moment ago, they adored me with their screams; now they love me with their silence.
I smile. This is everything. I feel divine. I feel close to a god. I feel so immortal.
Immortal.
(Look up.)
Their eyes glint with so much awe.
(Look up.)
Their love is overwhelming.
(Look up.)
I can't help but look -
Up!
It's there.
The bucket.
So it's true. I am meant to die today.
(I am meant to die.)
(They're meant to kill me.)
And the cord snaps and the bucket's sloshing drenching me in red so much red, grotesque and stinking, gag-worthy gore and so grotesque of it all, ruining my dress, slick intestines that's fucking sick, smearing my insides with blood, oh god, blood. It's a pig's stench, dirt-stench, suitable for the pits, pigsties and dirt-rot warehouses, get it out of me, get it out it doesn't belong here I don't belong here-
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