The Scholar's Fall
The boy never came back. Not the next day, not the next week. His desk at the far corner of the classroom sat untouched, a grave in plain sight.
At first, the teachers pretended nothing had happened. They whispered when they thought the students weren't listening. Then the official word came:
"He is… unwell. A long-term illness. His parents have taken him away."
But the truth bled through rumors. Everyone knew. Everyone saw. His body had been broken not by sickness, but by cruelty.
And Angelyn was part of it.
She sat at her desk, eyes fixed on the floor, while the voices around her dripped with arrogance.
"Good riddance."
"Pathetic boy."
"Who told him to dream so high?"
Her so-called friends basked in it, like they'd achieved some kind of victory. And Angelyn—behind her mask—felt something tighten in her chest. Not regret. Not guilt. Something stranger, darker.
Power.
It was intoxicating, the way the teachers avoided looking at them, the way the principal gave them a warning wrapped in courtesy.
"We must keep the school's reputation clean. Be mindful. You represent our families."
The message was clear: money could erase blood, tears, lives.
That afternoon, the girls celebrated. They dragged Angelyn with them to the lounge, laughing until their throats were raw.
"Did you see his face that last day?" one of them giggled.
"He looked like a dead fish."
"Angelyn—what did you say again? That he didn't belong?"
They roared with laughter. Angelyn smiled faintly under her mask.
But when she was alone, she couldn't stop replaying the boy's eyes. Clouded. Empty. Almost begging.
She'd crushed that look. And she hated that it made her feel alive.
---
Weeks later, she overheard two janitors talking behind the storage room.
"They said he won't wake up."
"Vegetative. Poor kid."
"I heard his family tried to complain. But you know how it is. The school shut it down."
Angelyn froze. Her breath caught. Vegetative. A word heavier than stone. It clung to her skin like rot.
She pressed her hands to her mask, feeling the fabric against her lips.
So it was true.
For a moment, she almost cried. Almost. But the tears didn't fall. Instead, a bitter laugh escaped her throat.
Because deep inside, she realized something cruel:
No one would blame her. No one could touch her. The world itself had chosen silence.
And if the world was going to be silent… then why should she care?
That night, she stood before her mirror. She stared at her masked reflection, tilted her head, and whispered:
"This face doesn't matter. My eyes don't matter. My heart doesn't matter."
She touched the mask, smiling faintly.
"Only power matters."
And in that moment, the last piece of the girl who once just wanted to be seen was buried.
The mask no longer hid her shame.
It became her crown.
CHAPTER END 🫠