By Cyra Rahman, TIWP Student

It was a normal day. I walked back from science class, my last class of the day, to my room. I live at a boarding school in Wales where they teach magic and how to defend yourself from demons.

“Andromeda!” a high pitched voice belonging to an annoying person calls out.

“What do you want, Chelsey?” I say.

She is only friends with me because she wants to be the sweet girl who tamed a beast, the girl who befriended the social leper. I hate her. She is annoying and makes me want to punch something. She has nothing to boast about, and not really any friends. She is short, very short for our age, and has wavy brown hair reaching the middle of her back. The school uniform is big on her, even in the smallest size. She is short and lean, so the blazer drops down her legs and goes over her hands, and the skirt hangs awkwardly off her hips. Her big round glasses are dirty, and it must be hard to see through them.

“I want some help studying. You always get good grades so can’t you help me study for the math test?” she asks. She has an annoying whining tone when she wants something. It is almost four, and our two night classes start at seven, after dinner, until eight-thirty when we head to bed.

“I guess I could, but not very much. I am meeting a friend at the library at four forty-five, so I can’t stay very long.” I say.

“Come on!” she says, happy I didn’t reject her. She grabs my left wrist and drags me off to her room.

“Stop pulling my arm Chelsey, you’re going to hurt my shoulder and then I can’t write.” I say.

“Sorry!” she calls out but most likely doesn’t mean it. I see Charlotte Greene, and my neutral blank expression turns to one of anger. I hate Charlotte Greene.

She acts like she’s some hero and everyone fawns over her. She always has an adoring helpless crowd of nobodies following her around to “bask in her glory” because they are hapless and can’t do anything by themselves when Greene is within a square mile radius of them. She does little things to show off and get more admirers. I’d swear, half the people in this school or more are gaga over her, have a crush on her or want to be her friend. She likes to help people up, say that she’ll help with studying to a failing student, sit with a kid by themselves even when she could sit with the popular kids, little things to make people like her and think she’s nice. Of course, she kills every little demon who comes in here. I think she’s just an egotistical arrogant jerk who does these things to be liked. She’s extremely annoying. Greene hates 3 things: 1. People who don’t think she’s the best thing in all of England or the world; 2. Teachers who don’t like her; 3. Having a bad reputation or having anyone who hates her and think she’s arrogant and narcissistic, like me.

In short, she hates me for reasons 1 and 3.

Mrs. Dunwood walks past me. She is our science teacher, and was teaching us about how to make a potion to reveal the identity of mimics and a potion to kill dorrents. Dorrents are quite annoying little demons. They hide in dark corners then jump on some poor person. They are shadow-based, but very weak. If they jump on you, they are trying to suck out your magic abilities and energy, but can be peeled off rather easily. Mimics are straightforward, they see an object and turn into it, mimicking it. They are special off splits of malkin. Malkin are little black humanoid figures about six inches tall when not transformed. They can expand to be as big as a house or as small as a little fly if need be. I helped Chelsey study, then head to my room. I sit on my bed reading. I hear my doorknob turn.

“Hello? Chelsey, I said I’m busy!” I call out.

The smell of Chelsey’s rose perfume is strong and pungent, making me wrinkle my nose, she has put on at least five spritz of it.

“Chelsey, for goodness sakes go wash out that horrid perfume!” I call out laughing.

My door opens, Hillary Campbell, sister of Joseph Campbell, sports star of the school.

“What do you want Campbell?” I ask, confused.

“Just this, you b*tch.” she says, then plunges a steak knife into my gut.

Part 2

I heard that Andromeda Liu got murdered. Her best friend, Chelsey Springfield, is heartbroken. I feel bad for Chelsey. I would be miserable if Clara or Joanna died. Andromeda was not very well liked. To put it bluntly, unpopular at best, hated at worst. I don’t know why she was that way, standoffish and defensive, but I have no idea what she may have gone through, so I can’t judge if her behavior is warranted. I also heard that Hillary Campbell did the deed. How absolutely horrible. Andromeda’s death is a true tragedy. The math teacher, Mrs. Fitzgerald, was heartbroken, she thought Andromeda was quite smart and was quite possibly her favorite student. The Campbells must be ashamed. Gerald Campbell, the father, is famous and has a multibillion dollar company. The mother, I believe her name is Linda Frasier, is a scientist. And everyone knows Joseph Campbell is our very own sports star, destined for a career in football or basketball, or whatever new sport he picks up. I heard Hillary was always a black sheep, stuck out like a sore thumb that she wasn’t destined to be great like her family was for generations back. I believe that can’t be true. A person must make their own fate, decide their potential. If she was destined to fail, then she gave up on herself a long time ago. She will be shunned. Aaradhya Patel was sort of close, traded with her, ate lunch together. Everyone knows that sitting by yourself at lunch is A) Letting everyone know no one likes you, like wearing a sign on your back that says “I have no friends! Please sit with me out of pity!”. B) It means you don’t care if you die, cause people who sit alone get eaten by dorrents and no one cares.

Miss Patel walks by me. She looks like she has been crying, poor girl. I see Hillary in close pursuit, running after Patel. “No running in the halls.” I tell her firmly, she growls.

“Shut it, teachers pet,” and keeps running.

I say to her, “I’m going to go hang out with Andromeda. Oh wait, I can’t, cause SOMEONE f*cking shoved a bloody steak knife into her abdomen.” I clenched my teeth. Her head whips around, and she stops in her tracks, a meter or two ahead of me.

“How can you be sure who did away with that nuisance?” she asks defiantly.

“You shoved a bloody knife into her torso, how can I be less sure? I was there, you know.” I say. Her eyes widen, and her mouth drops open. I only thought that happened in cartoons. Well, I guess exaggerations have to be based on some truth.

I am in the doorway of my bedroom. I see Andromeda’s across the hall. I am waiting here for my best friend Clara to show up for us to exchange spells. I smell a pungent flower perfume waft into my room. I bat my hand around my nose. “What a smell!” I exclaim. I see Hillary Campbell saunter, she literally sauntered like a movie star. She carries a big bag, and in front of Andromeda’s room, puts it on the ground and retrieves something. She turns the doorbell. Why would it be unlocked. Andromeda calls that she is busy. Then that Chelsey should wash off the perfume, a good idea for anyone. Andromeda shows up at the door. She groggily asks what Campbell wanted. Then Campbell curses at her and plunges a knife into Andromeda. I gasp quietly. I don’t mean a little butter knife, an entire steak knife whipped out and stabbed into her. The blood rushes. I watch blankly, in shock. The horrible red liquid gushes out disgustingly. I feel faint, I am disgusted by blood. I have what many would call hemophobia. Andromeda’s gaze glasses over, and she pales. She grabs the hilt of the knife to keep it from moving, but fails. Blood flows on her hands, dripping down her uniform skirt, onto her Mary Janes, staining into the hallway carpet. I step back, flailing my arm for support. Andromeda smiles a quick sad smile, and collapses.