The Surge

A low groan rattled out of me as the alarm clock shrieked beside my ear, each beep stabbing into my brain like it had a personal vendetta. I swung an arm, hoping to end its reign of terror, and instead demolished the leaning tower of water bottles on my nightstand. They collapsed in a magnificent crash, splashing just enough stale water to baptize me in my own bad decisions.

After an embarrassing wrestling match with my phone, I finally killed the alarm. Sweet silence—except for the high-pitched ringing in my ears, which I guess had decided to hang around rent-free.

I sat up, swung my legs over the bed, and immediately stepped onto a minefield of crushed plastic. Lovely. Just what I wanted: foot acupuncture courtesy of Dasani. Grabbing the closest bottle, I twisted the cap and downed the warm, slightly suspicious water like it was a five-star vintage. Spoiler: it wasn’t.

“Saige? Are you awake? You’re going to be late!” my stepfather bellowed up the stairs, his voice somehow louder than the alarm I’d just silenced. Perfect. Nothing says “rise and shine” like being nagged into consciousness by someone who thinks punctuality is a personality trait.

I ignored him, snatching up my phone and squinting at the glowing numbers: 7:15 AM. Seven fifteen? Seriously? What kind of time warp nonsense was that? I launched myself out of bed like a woman possessed—only for the world to tilt, spin, and promptly throw me onto the floor in a glorious heap of sheets and dignity.

“Fantastic,” I muttered into the carpet. “Just fantastic. Ten out of ten start to the day.”

Untangling myself like some deranged moth from a cocoon, I staggered toward the bathroom, my skull pounding in perfect sync with my heartbeat. Toothpaste in hand, I went at my teeth like they’d personally wronged me.

The mirror did me no favors. A pale, sweaty wreck stared back, hair plastered to my face like I’d just survived a wind tunnel and lost. The pièce de résistance? A yellow-brown bruise blossoming across my cheek, making me look like I’d tried contouring with mustard.

I splashed cold water on my face—bad move. The bruise lit up like a fire alarm, and I hissed like a cat in a bathtub. Exhaustion was still carved into every line of my face. No time for concealer, no time for anything but a messy braid to wrangle the disaster on my head.

I considered covering the bruise for all of half a second. Then shrugged. Let them stare. Maybe it’d distract from everything else going catastrophically wrong.

Back in my room, I pulled on my trusty jeans and hoodie—the holy armor of the chronically exhausted. The fabric was soft, familiar, a small mercy in the middle of the morning chaos. My feet slid into my battered Vans, the once-white canvas now a depressing shade of crime-scene beige, the laces frayed from years of abuse. The mirror on my wall caught me in passing: hoodie half-zipped, hair in a crooked braid, bruise blooming across my cheek like a neon sign flashing disaster. I looked exactly how I felt.

Downstairs, the kitchen smelled faintly of burnt toast and the lingering bite of last night’s coffee. Crumbs dusted the counter like confetti from a party I hadn’t been invited to.

“Ah, Sleeping Beauty finally decided to grace us with her presence.” Jay’s voice drifted across the room, dripping with sarcasm thick enough to drown in. He leaned against the counter like he owned the place, arms crossed, his smirk curling like smoke.

I grabbed a piece of toast—cold, slightly burnt, probably made sometime last century—and shoved it into my mouth, muffling the retort I wanted to fling at him. My books dug into my arm as I scooped them off the table.

“Mom and your sister already left, so you’re stuck with me.” His smile stretched wider, too sharp, too practiced. All teeth. A predator’s grin. The kitchen light caught in his eyes, and something in me tightened.

“Stepsister,” I muttered, my back to him as I stalked toward the garage door. The word felt bitter on my tongue, like chewing glass.

“Heard that,” he said, closer now, his voice low and amused. It was almost worse than his usual temper. He used to snap at my corrections, bark back, make it a fight. Now he just… enjoyed it. Savored it. Like my defiance was entertainment. And if there’s one thing worse than someone hating you, it’s someone turning you into their favorite joke.

I reached for the doorknob, already imagining the sweet freedom of car fumes and cold air, when his hand clamped down on my arm. Hard. He spun me around before I could react, his grip hot and unyielding against my skin.

“What happened to you?” His finger jabbed at my cheek, pressing just close enough to make the bruise scream. I hissed, yanking back, but the pain wasn’t what made my stomach twist.

It was his eyes. The way they lingered. Too intent. Too dark. Like he wasn’t just looking at the bruise but peeling back layers, searching for something underneath. And the glint there—sharp, curious, almost hungry—was worse than the bruise itself.

“Like you care,” I spat, wrenching my arm free. I practically dove into the car, slamming the door hard enough to make the frame shudder. The last thing I wanted was to have some heart-to-heart with Jay. Please. He’d only twist my words into knives, then smile while he reminded me how lucky I was, how ungrateful I was, how I didn’t deserve any of this. Yeah, Hallmark wasn’t exactly calling him anytime soon.

The satisfying click of the lock gave me a shred of control. My hand shot to my pocket on instinct. Earbuds—sweet, merciful earbuds. I popped open the case, the magnets snapping shut like a secret handshake, and slid them into my ears with the ease of someone who’d been training her whole life for the noble sport of selective hearing.

Jay slipped into the driver’s seat, the air shifting with him, but I didn’t care. The moment I hit play, the first chords of my playlist surged into my ears. My invisible forcefield was up, muffling his presence, shrinking the whole world down to just me and the music.

Outside, the rain began to fall, first a sprinkle, then a steady drumming that blended with the bass line. The wipers screeched to life as we backed out of the garage, their rhythm clumsy compared to the beat in my head. I leaned my temple against the cold glass, the chill biting into my skin, and let the noise wash over me. For a few blissful minutes, I could almost pretend Jay didn’t exist.

Another day in Salem. Another day closer to sprouting moss out of my ears. Seriously, if I didn’t get out of this town soon, I was going to lose it. I’d been six when we first moved here—small, scrawny, and apparently an all-you-can-eat buffet in my own imagination. I’d watched Twilight way too much as a kid and was convinced vampires and werewolves were going to chow down on me any second.

And honestly? Parts of Salem didn’t do much to prove me wrong. Mrs. Henderson, for example—the neighbor who wore floor-length black dresses year-round, owned the creepiest cat known to mankind, and had a knack for showing up just when you were talking about her. If she wasn’t secretly brewing potions in her kitchen, then I was a vegan yoga enthusiast.

I used to lie awake at night, convinced Mrs. Henderson was going to lure me in with promises of candy and then—well, let’s just say my imagination filled in the blanks with every horror movie trope known to man. Kidnapping, ritual sacrifices, the whole nine yards.

Now, though, what really terrified me wasn’t witches in black dresses or her demon-cat staring into my soul. It was the idea of becoming her—trapped in Salem forever, shriveling away like an old, forgotten apple in the back of a pantry. The thought made my stomach twist. I had to get out. I didn’t care how.

My phone buzzed against my thigh, rattling against the denim like a jackhammer trying to escape. I fished it out and winced at the name flashing across the screen. Zach. Because of course it was Zach.

He’d been blowing up my phone all weekend, ever since showing up at the house Saturday night, reeking of desperation and bad choices. His eyes had been bloodshot, his words slurred with half-baked apologies I didn’t want to hear. Alex had practically shoved him out the door, her disgust rolling off her in waves, but his neediness clung to me afterward like cigarette smoke you couldn’t wash out.

I should’ve blocked him. Any sane person would’ve. But some stubborn, masochistic part of me still held onto the memory of him before—before the night that rewrote everything, before his apologies curdled into background noise.

A tap on my arm cut through the music, light but insistent. My sigh escaped before I could trap it. I turned my head just enough to catch Jay watching me, his expression irritatingly familiar: lips pursed, eyes dancing with a cocktail of disapproval and amusement. Like he was silently grading my life choices and giving me a C-minus, tops.

I tugged out an earbud and met his gaze with a frown sharp enough to cut glass. If he wanted to launch into another lecture about my “attitude,” fine—he could add it to his Greatest Hits album later. Right now, all I wanted was to be anywhere but trapped in this car, breathing the same air as him. Honestly, facing the storm outside sounded like a spa day in comparison.

“Oh, and your mom wanted me to remind you—” Jay’s tone turned syrupy sweet, a dead giveaway he was winding up for something, “—she’s got those meetings this afternoon. Won’t be able to pick you up.” He paused, smirk already curling at the edges of his mouth. “Alex has her basketball tournament tonight. Big game. I promised to record it. She’s a natural, that girl. Going pro, I bet.”

The way he said it—like Alex was the golden child and I was the discount knockoff—made my teeth clench. My hand gripped the door handle, aching to shove it open and throw myself into the rain just to get away.

“Get to the point, Jay.”

He leaned closer, the stale scent of his aftershave curling into my nose, his eyes flicking to my bruise with deliberate slowness. “You’ll need a ride. Your mom doesn’t want you walking. Storm’s supposed to get nasty around four. Maybe your boyfriend can give you a lift?”

“Don’t worry,” I snapped, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a flinch. “I’ll figure it out.”

The glint in his eyes said it all. Fake concern. Real malice. He knew exactly what he was doing, pressing every button he’d cataloged over the years like a professional pianist. And lately—ever since my eighteenth birthday last Friday—he’d been playing the keys harder, sharper, like he’d been waiting for that number to give him permission. Even in front of Mom, his little digs had gotten bolder.

I wrenched the door open, the storm immediately slapping me in the face with sheets of wind and rain. Cold drops plastered my braid to my neck as thunder rumbled overhead. I didn’t bother slamming the door shut behind me. Let him deal with the downpour. It suited him.

The rain hit me like a wall of water the second I stepped out of the car, instantly plastering my hoodie and jeans to my skin. It was icy, each drop a tiny needle stabbing into me, but weirdly, the shock of it dulled the burn of the fight in the car. Cold misery was better than hot rage, I guess. I sprinted for the school steps, the concrete slick and treacherous beneath my Vans, and finally ducked under the awning that jutted out over the entrance.

The roar of the storm softened into a steady drumming above me. Water streamed off the edge of the roof in glistening sheets, puddling around my ankles. I shoved my dripping braid back over my shoulder, shivering as icy rivulets slid down the back of my neck.