A garden pea flies off my plate as I try to pierce it with my fork. I watch it speed across the table and roll somewhere on the canteen floor.

My gaze rises only to be caught by the grapple hook of Diwa's glare. We each sit alone but the group on the table between us has left and now we face each other. If I knew she were sitting there, I'd've dead well sat somewhere else!

I grant her my fakest smile and look away, brushing off an itch from my forearm.

'Trouble in paradise already?'

I've no need to look to recognise the abrasion of Sakda's voice. He speaks like friction burn. Still, I meet the dry blood brown of his eyes. Not doing so would be surrender.

Holding his tray, Sakda looks between me and Diwa, canines glinting at the corners of his smirk. 'Didn't last very long.'

The itch burrows deeper into my forearm and I shove up the sleeve of my moth-eaten jumper to scratch better.

'Though three days might be a record for you,' Sakda prods. 'How long did it take for your parents to give up on you again?'

I lock my ankles around my chair legs and settle for breaking the blue plastic tray with his face only in my imagination.

Diwa scowls at us. 'We've never been mates. There's nowt to give up on.'

It's true.

It shouldn't sting.

Sakda's focus is like sunlight through a magnifying glass. 'Nowt to say? Did you finally get domesticated?'

We're too well trained in antagonising each other. He'll keep going until I bite back or bow. We both know that.

There are teachers watching. My only choice is the latter.

I drop my stare to my plate, pierce my final potato quarter and eat it. Everyone will see me defanged and declawed. This is how I'll end up in swimming pools again.

I refuse to look but the way Sakda gloats tars onto my skin until he exits the canteen. And even when he does, Diwa's frustration continues to prod.

It's better this way, better she never invests in me. Look at what I did to Elliot. I don't do mates and it's for good reason.

'There were a new Death to Beewolf post last night.'

My only response is a hiss of pain as my forearm pinches. For the first time since the itch started, I look. And nearly jolt off my chair.

I shake my arm, try to sweep them off but the worker termites are too deep in my flesh to lose their footing so easily. They've gnawed right through to my bone, their teeth chipping against radius.

Diwa drops into the seat in front of me. My attention skips to her for only a fractured second before returning to my arm but...

There's nothing there. Save for redness from my scratching. But... No. It was real. I felt it.

I glance at Diwa again. 'Go away.'

Diwa slides her phone over to me, opened to the deathtobeewolf page. 'Thoughts?'

Why've I got to have th–?

She knows.

She knows. She knows she knows she knows she knows. Everybody knows.

She told everybody.

Cobham is on his way to expel me right now. I'll be expelled (LOCKED IN!). And school suspensions and expulsions can lead to a lifetime of depression. Do you remember that?

Fifty percent of people suffering from depression attempt suicide.

People who experience hallucinations are three (three) times more likely to attempt suicide. Do you remember that? People from lower socioeconomic classes or living in depraved areas are more likely–

People who experience intrusive thoughts are ten times more likely–

People in foster care are three times more likely to commit suicide. Remember–?

Remember–?

Fifty percent of suicides (remember?) are associated with alcohol (remember that?) and drug dependence.

Do you remember that?

Hurt. Pain. It'll hurt. What if I do it now? What if I do it now? What if I–?

It'll hurt. (Three.)

I'm sweating. Your heart is beating really fast. My heart is beating fast. I'm probably dying.

I'm probably dying. I'm probably dying. I'm dying. And it'll hurt. Regular smokers are–

Germs. She is really– She's really close. And her body is covered in germs. Her body is made up of germs. My body is made of germs. They'll get into the cuts on my hands from my fall. They're in the cuts on my hand. It'll be infected. I'm (PAIN) infected.

Necrotising fasciitis, also known as the "flesh-eating disease", is a life-threatening infection that can happen if a wound gets infected. Do you remember that?

I'm sweating. My heart (HURT) is beating really fast. I'm (pain) lightheaded. I might have sepsis. I'll die. It'll hurt.

'–move practice.'

Pressure wraps around my skull, tight enough to make my head explode.

'Will that be alright by you?'

My head is going to explode.

Do I even have a head—? A body? I can't feel my toes when I try to move them. Or my legs. What if you cut them off? Or the back of my neck. What if you cut it off?

'You're giving me the silent treatment? Very mature.'

Diwa's eyes bulge. Summat's wrong. Her pupil is bleeding. It's not round anymore. It's an oval. And then... Then there are two.

'It's a yes or no question, Cece.'

'Can't you just fuck off?' I say. 'If I believed in God, I'd swear They created you just to do my head in.'

The second pupil breaks through her iris, forming another iris. Then the whole thing splits. She has two eyeballs in one socket, both watching me.

We would like to keep him under surveillance.

Buzzing manages to rise above the nauseating flow of my own blood. Accumulates. Accumulates until the whispers aren't humming at all, but exclamations so vehement that the walls quake.

'You're wasting our time, Cece!'

I dare a glance. They're all watching. Every single eye in the canteen is watching me. By now, Diwa has so many that her skull can't contain them and they squeeze out of her sockets, splat onto the table, and still manage to spin to stare at me with tails of nerves dragged behind them. We would like to keep him under surveillance.

This can't be real. I'm insane.

I'm possessed. Insane. Possessed. Insane. Possessed. Maybe you were just born evil. Insane. Possessed.

Let us pray.

I lurch to my feet.

'Are you tough yet, Cece?'

Every eye follows me as I stumble between tables, even the ones on the backs of people's heads. I'm halfway to the canteen door when Diwa's voice pickaxes the back of my skull. 'Seriously? Are you fucking serious? I told you, you need to work on the attitude problems–'

'Nobody wants you, Cece!'

The air only thins as I stride through the open doors and down the corridor. I need to get high. Now. Right now.

Fifty percent of–

I don't care. I need to stop thinking. I need to stop thinking right now.

'–if you keep acting like a fucking child. I'm serious!'

I whip around to face Diwa but whatever threat I'm about to make is drowned out by the fire alarm.

'Again?' someone groans as they pass us. 'We just did this.'

'I am not going outside,' their friend says. 'It's bloody pouring out there.'

They've barely turned the corner when one of the younger kids who still has to wear a uniform sprints toward us. Out of breath, he pauses at the open canteen doors for a beat before he bellows, 'It's real! It's a real fire!'

The alarm almost feels like silence in the split second before the screaming starts.

Any attempt by staff to arrange pupils into queues that will exit in an orderly fashion is futile. They run. It's every kid for themself. Diwa and I are shoved to the wall by the barrage.

I take a step, ready to be flushed out with the current, but Beewolf yanks me back. What if you hurt them?

Three. Count.

What if you kill all of them? Germs. What if you like it? A crowd like that? I'll get infected.

One. Two. Three. One. There's nothing to count.

What if you kill Diwa?

My heart is beating really fast. I'm sweating. I feel dizzy.

What if you cut her throat? What if you cut your throat? Nicolás hates you. It's a trap. He's going to send you away. He wants to see you drown.

We would like to keep him under surveillance.

Can't breathe. I have sepsis. The infection is spreading right now. I'll die. It'll hurt. Hurt.

What if you want to hurt them?

Pain.

The fire. It's real. I'm sweating. PAIN. I'm burning to death. My skin is melting off my bones. HURT. I can smell it, mosaic of blistered flesh and fabric. You wish you could drown now, don't you?

Let us pray.

Three seconds. Three times. Each finger has three phalanges.

Public. This is public. Diwa is still here, eyes floating above the rush of the crowd. She'll see. And she'll tell someone. Diwa was born a narc; she'll tell someone. Then I'll be locked in. The doctors, they'll–

'What are you doing?'

Three times. Burn each section of each finger three times. You have to prove that you're not evil.

Prove that I can feel pain. Hurt. Blood.

Red. Red.

I've barely sparked the flame before Diwa snatches the lighter from my hand. 'What are you doing?'

Someone tramples my fingers. When did I end up hunched on the floor?

'We have leave. There's a fire.'

Three. One. Two. Three. Three seconds, three times each.

'Give it back.'

Hurt. Red. If I can't burn, I'll have to bite. The scar tissue on my fingers is thick but my teeth are sharper.

'What the fuck are you doing?'

My feet are moving. Stairs. I stumble. She's holding my hand. No no no no. I'm infected. I'll infect her. She'll get sepsis. She'll die. She'll die. It'll be my fault. I killed her. Diwa pulls me with the current of the crowd to the forecourt.