Page 6 of Roses & Ruin

I gasp awake, sweat-soaked hair plastered to my skull. I kick at the tangle of sheets, feeling the slick layer of perspiration at the back of my neck and knees, my forehead, upper lip, just—ugh, everywhere. Jolting awake covered in sweat isn’t a novelty, but my sleep shirt is extra damp today.

It takes me several blinks to realize two things: It’s far too bright in the room, and Remy’s covers are thrown back, her bed empty.

It’s the first day of classes, and I’ve slept in.

“Crap,” I yelp, leaping out of bed.

I scrub angrily at my wet cheeks as I half sprint, half march across campus, hunching hard into an unforgiving wind. I pull my thin hoodie, the same one I’ve been wearing for three days straight, tighter around me.

The wind picks up, harsh and biting enough that I have to shut my eyes. I duck into a brick breezeway between two buildings for some respite. It’s a longer path to the arts building, but I’m already so late, is ten more minutes gonna matter?

The crowd of students has thinned out, everyone now in their classrooms, in their seats, perfect and on time. There’s no one around.

Crunch. The loud sound of gravel footsteps right behind me.

“Rose,” someone whispers behind me. The voice is familiar. Why is it familiar?

“Rose,” the voice says again, closer this time, so I turn around.

The first thing I see is a dagger coming at my left eye. I blink: This is my mistake. When the sharp tip pushes through the delicate skin of my eyelid, I scream. The blade keeps pushing, and the thick, sharp metal is very cold and very painful. I scream and scream as the knife plunges deeper, the wide blade filling my eye socket.

And then whoever is holding the dagger twists it.

I’m still screaming as I sit up in bed. I clap my hands over my mouth. Gasping for air, I register my sweaty sheets, the clean dorm room, my twenty-twenty vision.

My god. I was dreaming this whole time.

But my left eye is throbbing, aching. I still feel every inch of that cold metal inside my skull. So much so that I very, very slowly raise a hand to the left side of my face. When the tips of my trembling fingers brush against the unscathed lid of my eye, I slump forward on a huge exhale.

It’s still there. Thank god, it’s still there.

Then I realize: Remy.

I leap to my feet, rounding the partition to see if I’ve woken her up with my screaming. But she’s already gone.

“Oh, thank god.” I double over, wheezing a laugh, shaking my head. But then I actually get a good look at her bed. The mattress is bare. No fitted sheet, no pillow, no goose-down comforter with climate-sensor technology. Her charging cables are gone. All ten pairs of shoes.

Even her monogrammed taffy-pink AirPod case is gone. I rush to her desk and open the drawers. Empty.

There’s a loud knock on my door.

I’m still shaking my head and blinking madly when I answer it.

There’s a girl leaning against the jamb, arms folded. She tilts her head at me.

“Is someone being murdered in here?” Her voice is husky, like a jazz crooner off Turner Classic Movies. “Is that why your old roommate is moving out? Are you a secret serial killer?”

“My…um…”

The girl’s mouth crooks, her smile somehow both ironic and fond. Or maybe it’s her mouth that’s ironic and her eyes are fond? They’re huge and dark, and they make a very compelling argument that the color brown can totally be just as arresting—if not more so in her case—as blue or green. Tall and slim with a high, sleek ponytail the same shade of white-gold as my parents’ wedding bands, she’s sort of dazzling.

Not that I’m hard to dazzle this morning, given that I slept terribly, I can still feel the ghost of a knife in my left eye, and I’ve got no clue where Remy went. I notice the matching set of chic luggage in the hallway, and what this girl just said fully registers.

“Sorry.” I shake my head. “Did you say my old roommate?”

“Ah.” Her face loses all irony, gentling into understanding. “I’m gonna guess you haven’t checked your email yet?”

“Ha, no, definitely not. Yet.” I pull my phone from my pocket, and sure enough, I’ve got one new email from the registrar’s office.