Fractured Ascension

The universe convulsed.

Stars tore loose from their constellations, dragged into spiralling arcs of white fire. Entire systems tilted and collapsed as something vast moved through them—unseen, unstoppable.

Planets split open.

Oceans lifted from their basins in glittering sheets before freezing and fracturing in the vacuum. Atmospheres ignited. Continents shattered into drifting continents of stone and flame.

Galaxies twisted.

Their luminous arms warped into violent spirals, drawn toward a single point forming in the dark—a convergence where gravity thickened and time thinned to breaking.

Black holes bloomed across the void.

Dozens. Hundreds.

Space folded inward, collapsing under impossible pressure. Event horizons stretched wide, devouring stars in desperate hunger.

It passed through them.

Singularities trembled. Accretion disks ruptured into brilliant debris. Gravity faltered, destabilized, unable to contain what fell beyond it.

And it was falling.

Not downward.

Not through sky or atmosphere.

Through existence itself.

Everything narrowed toward the convergence ahead—a colossal vortex, churning with the remnants of galaxies. Light bent and snapped. Matter compressed into streaks. The universe funnelled inward.

It did not resist.

Its vastness condensed. Immensity forced into limit. Power coiled inward, contained but not diminished.

Something was absent.

A clean, surgical void at its core.

A name.

The convergence widened, swallowing the last of the light. Galaxies flattened into threads. Black holes imploded in cascading collapse.

A flare streaked across its path—sharp, brilliant.

It reached.

Fingers brushed radiance—

—and missed.

The vortex took it.

Reality compressed to a single, blinding point.

And in the final narrowing—

a word formed, ancient and precise.

Before it could surface—

darkness sealed over everything.

My alarm went off like a gunshot.

I flinched hard enough to knock my phone off the nightstand. It hit the floor with a crack, screen still blaring that awful default tone.

“Jesus—”

I leaned over the edge of the bed, heart pounding, and fumbled for it. My fingers were stiff, cramped. When I grabbed it, I noticed my hands were clenched so tight my nails had left crescent marks in my palms.

7:42 a.m.

“Shit.”

I shot upright, heart spiking. Late. I was officially late.

Morning light cut through the blinds in harsh, unforgiving stripes. My body felt heavy, like I’d slept with stone strapped to my chest. Not exhaustion. Something older. Something deeper.

Three months of this.

Not nightmares. Not dreams.

Just restlessness.

Lying awake for hours, staring at the ceiling. Mind buzzing without thoughts. Body tense for no reason. Like I was bracing for something that never came.

Every morning, I woke up wound tight.

No explanation. No memory. Just that low, electric hum under my skin.

I shook it off and rolled out of bed.

No time to spiral.

I swung my legs out of bed and moved on autopilot, crossing the room to my desk. I took my Antipsychotics with a glass of water and then turned to my laptop, where it sat open. The screen dimmed but still alive. Relief washed through me when I saw the document still there.

My history essay.

Still saved.

I exhaled shakily. I’d fallen asleep at nearly two trying to finish it after Amber stole my homework yesterday—right off my desk—and I’d had to lie straight to Mr. Collins’ face.

Left it in my mum’s car by accident, I’d said.

He’d sighed, given me the look, and nodded. Told me not to make a habit of it. He knew my grades. Knew I didn’t slack.

Didn’t mean Amber and her friends hadn’t smirked from their seats like they’d won something.

I hit print, listening to the printer whir to life, and sagged back into my chair.

At least I hadn’t deleted it.

I grabbed the pages as they finished and shoved them into my bag. As I straightened, my eyes flicked to the mirror in the corner of my room.

For a second, the reflection felt… wrong.

Not my reflection. Not the light.

Something else.

Nope. Don't go there I told myself.

It was just my tired, overactive imagination going into overdrive.

Still, the chill in my spine didn’t get the memo.

Downstairs, the smell of bacon and pancakes dragged me out of my head. Dad stood at the stove, flipping pancakes like it was muscle memory. Grease stains on his shirt, scruffy beard, that usual glint of mischief in his eyes—he looked more at home in the garage than the kitchen, but he always made breakfast.

“Morning, kiddo,” he said, sliding a plate in front of me.

“Morning,” I muttered, grabbing a pancake and taking a bite I barely tasted.

Mom sat across from me, already in uniform, coffee in hand like it was the only thing holding the world together.

She had the kind of face that made teachers reconsider their tone. Sharp. Unbothered. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to.

The news droned on in the background.

“…a recent earthquake in Çatalhöyük, Türkiye, has exposed a sealed burial chamber hidden beneath the ruins of one of the world’s oldest cities…”

My fork froze. Time seemed to slow down as I watched the news presenter say in slow motion, “…among the artefacts is a remarkably preserved limestone goddess statue.”

Something twisted low in my chest. Not fear. Recognition.

An ache.

Çatalhöyük.

The name wasn't new to me. We had gone to Türkiye last summer. Absolutely beautiful country but the strange thing was that whenever I thought about it, it felt like an integral part of my memory was missing. Like a whisper I’d heard in sleep, and then convinced myself I hadn’t.

I felt it then — sound rising from everywhere, and no one else reacting.

Then-

Dust. Stone. Eyes watching from the dark.

Was I still hallucinating?

I swallowed hard. And time seemed to speed up as I pinched my hand.

Mom whistled low. “That’s one hell of a find.”

Dad snorted. “More like one hell of a PR move.”

I barely heard them.

Whatever this was, it wasn’t going away.

Redwood High looked like it had survived purely out of spite. Red brick walls tangled in ivy, flickering fluorescent lights, floors worn smooth by decades of teenage rebellion. The lockers were dented, the classrooms smelled like old books and disinfectant, and the cafeteria was its own kind of battleground.

And Amber Shaw ruled it like she’d been crowned its' very own Queen.

Yesterday replayed itself the moment I walked into class.

Amber leaning back in her chair, smug smile already loaded. Jessica Parker, minion uno. Amber's sidekick and the rest of her orbit leaned in close, whispering, laughing. When Mr. Collins turned his back to write on the board, Amber glanced at me and tapped the edge of my desk where my homework had previously been.

I had met her stare trying not to panic and held it.

Then lifted my hand and flipped her off, slow and deliberate.

Jessica gasped theatrically. Amber’s smile twitched.

A crumpled paper ball smacked into the side of my head.

But Mr. Collins turned at exactly the wrong moment—for her.

“Amber. Detention. Today.”

The room went silent.

Amber’s face darkened as laughter rippled through the class. As she passed my desk, she leaned in close, her voice low.

“Don’t get comfortable,” she whispered. “I’ll get you back.”

I didn’t even look at her.

“Go ahead,” I said. “Try.”

Thank God Mr. Collins had given me an extra day as a favor. I’d helped him get a discount on his run-down car at my dad’s garage last week. Dad's chief mechanic, John had been off ill that week and I had fixed it for half the cost.

Today, though, Amber had decided to go for the jugular and escalate the situation.

I knew something was wrong before I even reached my locker.

The quiet wasn’t empty—it was expectant. People slowing. Watching.

Then I saw it.

FREAK.

LOSER.

Black marker, thick and deliberate, screaming across my locker door.

“What the fuck,” I muttered flatly.

Splatter.

Cold strawberry milkshake hit me like a slap, soaking my hair, my hoodie, sliding down my back in sticky rivulets.

I turned slowly.

Amber Shaw stood behind me, empty cup in hand, smiling like she’d just won a bet.

“You serious?” I asked.

Her friends snickered.

Footsteps echoed—fast. Two teachers came around the corner at once.

Everything froze.

Students vanished instantly, scattering in every direction. Only us remained: me, Amber, her pack, and the teachers. Milkshake dripped onto the floor. The words on my locker were impossible to miss.

Mr. Hargreeve’s, the Vice Principle had arrived and his gaze took it all in. “What happened?”

Amber sighed like she was inconvenienced. “It was an accident. She walked into me.”

I laughed—short and sharp. “Like hell I did.”

Amber rolled her eyes. “Wow. Maybe try watching where you’re going.” She nodded at Jessica, who instantly grabbed her arm. “You hurt my friend. She crashed into me, and I spilled my drink. Not my fault.”

I stepped closer, milk dripping off my sleeve. “You want to try that again without lying?”

Jessica gasped. Amber’s smile tightened.

“That’s enough,” Mr. Hargreeve warned.

Amber leaned in anyway. “You really are unhinged.”

I met her stare without blinking. “Say it louder. Maybe you’ll believe it.”

Her eyes flashed.

I reached for her—not swinging, not flailing. Controlled. Deliberate.

A hand caught my arm mid-motion.

“Cecil.”

I didn’t fight the grip, but I didn’t look away from Amber either.

Amber scoffed. “See? Crazy bitch.”

I smiled. Not friendly. “Keep talking, I'll hand you a shovel. You’re digging your own hole.”

Mr. Hargreeve’s voice cut in. “Amber. Office. Now.”

Her head snapped toward him. “What? She—”

“Now.”

Amber shot me a venomous look as she turned, brushing past me on purpose.

The teacher looked back at me. “Cecil. Go change.”

I glanced down at myself, then back up, unimpressed. “That’s not happening.”

He frowned at me with a look of frustration. “Why not?”

“My spare clothes are soaked. My gym clothes too.” I shrugged. “Milkshake’s thorough.”

There was a beat of silence.

Mr. Hargreeve pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course they are.”

Mr. Hargreeve waited until the hallway cleared before turning back to me. Sighing, then his voice lowered. “You alright?”

I nodded once. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

He studied me for a second, like he was deciding whether to push. Then he shook his head slightly. “That wasn’t an accident.”

“No,” I said. “It wasn’t.”

A corner of his mouth twitched—not a smile, exactly, but something close. “I didn’t think so.”

He gestured down the hall. “Come on. Let’s get you something to change into.”

We walked in silence to the supply office near the gym. He unlocked the door and flipped on the lights, revealing rows of shelves that were mostly empty. A few lost shoes. A cracked water bottle. A single, lonely hoodie hanging on a hook.

He checked anyway. Opened cabinets. Looked in bins.

Nothing.

“Of course,” he muttered. Then he sighed and turned to me. “PTA auction was yesterday. They sold off the last of the spare clothes to raise money for the school.”

I blinked. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “An email went out this morning asking parents to donate old uniforms and P.E. clothes. But that doesn’t help you today.”

I looked down at myself—pink-streaked sleeves, dried sugar stiffening the fabric. “Guess not.”

He nodded once, decision made. “I’ll let your teachers know that you’re going home for the day. There’s no point pretending you can stay, looking like that.”

“Okay,” I said easily.

He paused, then added, “You kept your head longer than most would.”

I huffed quietly. “Not long enough.”

“No,” he said evenly. “But you didn’t start it—at least.” He met my eyes. “That matters.”

Mr. Hargreeve walked me back toward the front office, hands in his pockets, jaw tight like he was rehearsing what he was about to say.

“I’m going to call your dad,” he said. “He’ll need to pick you up.”

“Okay,” I said. No argument there.

The secretary looked up as we entered. One glance at me and she winced. “Oh, honey.”

She reached under the counter and handed me a packet of wipes. “Here. Get the worst of it off your face and hair.”

“Thanks,” I said.

I wiped at my cheeks, my forehead, the sticky strands near my neck. The milkshake smell clung anyway, but at least I didn’t feel like a walking dessert anymore. I tossed the used wipes into the bin beside the desk.

Mr. Hargreeve picked up the phone.

The second it connected, I saw him cringe.

“Hey, Jack,” he said, rubbing his temple. “Yeah. Uh—listen, I’ve got Cecil here.”

There was a pause. Whatever Dad said made Mr. Hargreeve sigh.

“No, she’s not hurt. No—she didn’t start it.” Another pause. “Yes, that Amber.”

I leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching the secretary pretend very hard not to listen.

“She’s covered in milkshake,” he continued. “Locker vandalized. Hallway incident.” He winced again. “Yeah. I know.”

A longer pause. Then, quieter, “I handled it.”

I could practically hear my dad’s voice through the receiver—too calm, which usually meant trouble later.

Mr. Hargreeve nodded even though Dad couldn’t see him. “Yeah. Appreciate it. See you soon.”

He hung up and let out a breath.

“He’s on his way,” he said. “And for what it’s worth—” He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “I know you can take care of yourself. Just… let us handle the rest when we can.”

“I know,” I said. And I meant it.

He gave a small nod, relieved, then stepped away to deal with Amber in the office.

I waited by the counter, sticky, tired, and weirdly calm.

Dad would be here soon.

Thank God it’s Friday.

That alone felt like a win.

Two days off. Fingers crossed no Amber at the café. No halls. No pretending everything was fine.

Sleep. If my brain remembered how.