Hi. It's Vic.
Or what's left of him.
I don't know why I'm doing this. Maybe it's guilt. Maybe it's survival instinct. Maybe it's the part of me that refuses to shut the fuck up, even when everything else is gone.
I know I'm the last person any of you want to hear from. I get it. I'm the monster of Crostwood High. The boy who broke her. The one who made her cry. The one who aimed the gun. The villain. The warning sign. The fuck-up. Whatever title makes it easier to hate me, take it. Use it. Tattoo it on my forehead. Burn it into my skin.
I don't care anymore.
I used to be someone. Not someone good, but someone.
Captain of the team. Top of the food chain. Girls staring, guys envying, teachers smiling like I wasn't already bleeding inside. You know, Vic de la Croix—the golden boy. French. Charming. Dead behind the eyes.
I wore masks so well I forgot what my real face looked like.
And then came Maya. And everything cracked.
She saw through it. Saw me. And I didn't know how to handle it. I didn't know how to be loved for nothing. For silence. For softness. For just existing. That wasn't something I was raised to believe in.
You don't get love for free. You earn it. You fight for it. You manipulate your way into it. That's what my father taught me. You win love the way you win wars: with blood.
So when she pulled back—when she didn't want to sleep with me—I panicked. I didn't see a boundary. I saw rejection. I saw my value crumbling. And instead of respecting her, I resented her. And then I punished her.
I destroyed her.
I fucked Jackie. Didn't even look at her face. Didn't care. I just wanted Maya to hurt. To ache the way I ached.
And it didn't work.
She didn't scream or cry or fall apart.
She left.
And I unraveled.
You want to know the worst part?
I let Eddie talk me into it. That name should burn your tongue. Eddie Thompson. The ghost in the hallway. The one who never raised his voice because he never needed to. He knew how to whisper poison. He made it sound like salvation.
He was my friend. My best friend. Before Maya. Before Jackie. Before everything.
And I was fucking starved for loyalty. So when he came back into my life, I let him in. I trusted him. I thought he was the only one who got me. Who could see past the show.
But Eddie wasn't a friend.
He was a storm with a smile.
He used me. Every secret I gave him about Maya—her fears, her habits, her weaknesses—he filed them away like weapons. He turned me into his mouthpiece, his eyes, his puppet.
And I let him.
Because he told me I could win her back.
He told me I was the hero.
He told me she wanted me.
Lies. All of it.
I told myself I was protecting her. Watching over her. But I was suffocating her. Haunting her. I was the goddamn boogeyman clawing at her peace.
Then came the threats. The blackmail. The betrayal. Jackie took photos. I leaked them. I sold her out for power. For control. For a seat next to Eddie at the fucking table of darkness.
I didn't stop when I should have. I didn't care when I should have.
And then there was her mom.
God.
I helped fake an affair. We set her up. Photos. Money. Disgust. I laughed. I laughed. I thought it was strategy. I thought I was being smart. Being strong.
But I was just being cruel.
And Maya? She kept standing. She kept walking. She kept being her.
Until the night I put a gun in my hand.
Let me be clear:
The school shooting wasn't supposed to happen like that.
I didn't walk in to kill.
I walked in to expose.
I wanted to see what Eddie would do when it wasn't a game anymore. When Maya was standing in front of him and everything was real. I wanted to prove he was dangerous. That he didn't love her.
And maybe a part of me wanted her to finally look at me again.
But I didn't plan to shoot.
I didn't aim.
I didn't mean to pull the trigger.
But I did.
I shot her.
I watched her fall.
And everything went quiet.
I don't even remember pulling the gun on myself. Just cold. Blood. Silence. And then… not death.
I woke up in a hospital. In another country. With metal where my spine used to be. With pity in the nurses' eyes. With silence in every room.
I can't walk.
I can't feel anything below my waist.
But God, I feel everything else.
I feel her blood on my hands every night. I feel her voice echo in my ribs. I feel the screams I caused, the trauma I left behind. I feel the ghost of who I was before Eddie hollowed me out.
And I wish I'd died.
I don't want to be brave.
I don't want to be forgiven.
I just want to not exist.
But I'm still here. Living proof of what happens when love gets twisted into possession. When boys are taught that silence is strength and power is everything. When we don't stop the monsters in our heads until they've burned the world down.
I was Eddie's weapon. His experiment. His first broken toy.
But I take full responsibility.
I chose this.
I let myself become this.
I let her down.
I let myself down.
And now?
Now I sit in a wheelchair staring at walls, hearing a thousand versions of what I could've been, what I could've done differently. I have no future. I have no past worth missing.
All I have is this regret.
And it eats me alive.
Every. Fucking. Day.
If you're reading this, Maya—
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry doesn't even come close, I know.
But I am.
For everything.
You were light. And I was shadows pretending to be something warm. I hope you forget me. I hope you erase me from your history. I hope the version of me that smiled at you in the hallway dies and never comes back.
Because I don't deserve to live in your memories.
I deserve to rot in the silence.
— Vic