Obsesion

I am sitting, staring at the board. Finally, I thank all the gods—it’s the last class at Martin Academy. The wonderfully boring class of Professor Callen, who explains photosynthesis as an indispensable process for the environment.

I feel a hand touch my shoulder over my uniform—it’s Allison Weber, my best friend. Her red mane stands out in the entire classroom. Ali is probably the most beautiful woman in all of San Laurent.

“What is it?” I ask her in a low voice, trying to avoid getting the professor’s attention again.

“We’re leaving,” she announces triumphantly.

She stands up from her desk. The professor keeps his back turned to the rest of the students. I quietly put my few belongings into a small bag and follow her red hair all the way to the girls’ bathroom. Once we make sure we’re alone, she pulls the door shut and locks it.

“For god’s sake, I’m so tired of hearing the same story over and over,” Ali says.

“In a few months, we’ll be in college. I’m sure you’ll never hear the word ‘photosynthesis’ again.”

She looks at me as if she’s about to judge me.

“What are you doing for your 18th? It’s coming up soon, Alba.” She smiles, not to be nice, but because she knows how to get whatever she wants with that smile.

“I don’t want to celebrate. Just like last year, just like ten years ago, just like thirteen years ago.”

Losing my parents on my fifth birthday still hurts, even thirteen years later. It’s a pain I carry in my soul, and nothing can change that.

I don’t return her smile. As my best friend, she should know that pain is intrinsic to my birth.

“You can’t blame yourself forever,” Ali says.

“This life and the next,” I reply sadly. I grab my things and leave the bathroom.

I don’t want to talk anymore. I don’t want to think. I walk through the hallways and, unfortunately, run into my enemy—Principal Marie. She has never been my fan, nor remotely a friend of my family.

“Alba Fabre, come with me.”

She speaks firmly, strictly. A young woman so severe should be a contradiction. I obey because the last thing I want is to spend my weekend cleaning the school hallways alone.

I follow her slowly. My classmates are beginning to leave their classrooms one by one. I only look at my feet, but I can feel the stares, the curiosity. Surely, one or two hidden cameras are taking my picture for an Instagram story, wondering,What did Alba do this time?

My reputation is not built on some enigmatic, mysterious beauty—I wish that were the case—but rather on the morbid fascination with my last name: the gruesome, violent death of my parents, the extravagant and luxurious life of my aunt, my legal guardian, Amanda Fabre.

San Laurent is a place of fleeting figures, tragic fates, or destined greatness. My generation has yet to decide which path to take.

The administration office is the gathering place for all the teachers at Martin Academy—a school designed to weed out the useless and instill perfection, but above all, to make you never want to step into an academic institution again.

I follow the principal down the hallways of the office. She stops before opening the door to her elegant office. White walls, black furniture, an extravagant vase on the table. I almost ask if she has finally decided to go out with the math teacher, but I hold my tongue. I look at the flowers again.

“Amanda is on her way,” says Principal Marie.

“Why?”

The principal stares at the vase—the red roses and the water, stained red. I look at them slowly, stepping closer. My body moves in a way that lets me see the water… the red water… the water shouldn’t be this dense… it shouldn’t be this thick… with that deep color… blood red.

“What is this?”

The principal doesn’t answer.

Amanda enters, looking worried. She glances at Marie. They’ve known each other for years—not friends, but not enemies either. My aunt looks at me, searching for a reaction, but I can’t even recognize my own emotions.

“Have you checked the cameras?” Amanda asks. Marie nods.

“No one saw the delivery person. No one saw how they arrived at the door. The janitor brought them into the office, and then… well, you know…”

Amanda takes the card tied to the flowers, my name written on it:Alba Fabre.She opens the small letter and reads it out loud:

“You are beautiful. I’m sending you these red roses, as red as your lips.”

Amanda looks at me. She knows I match my lipstick every day. That day, I had chosen red.

She takes photos. Marie remains silent. I stay quiet, thinking, thinking.

“Not a word to Allison or Eric,” my aunt instructs me. “I’ll send this to Joe. He’s handling the case. Marie, please, not a word. Joe will come after classes are over.”

Marie looks at me with pity, as if she knows the danger and pain about to unfold in my life.

Amanda leaves, and I follow her.

I am not afraid.

I just want to know whose blood kept those roses alive inside that glass vase.