(AAA…) GREG VEDER

Taylor walked down the halls of Winslow, her steps even but without urgency. Her arms hung limply at her sides—neither clenched in tension nor relaxed in ease—and her shoes squeaked faintly on the linoleum floor, but she barely noticed. 

Students parted around her without thinking, but she didn't notice them. Even Emma and Madison, who normally would have been quick with a cutting remark or a mocking laugh when she walked by, said nothing. Their eyes followed her warily, confusion flickering behind the usual cruelty.

But they barely registered. Her gaze was fixed straight ahead, but it wasn’t focused. There was no spark in her eyes, no awareness in her expression, and no expression in her face to hint at her thoughts or feelings. There was just the hollow stillness of someone who had nothing left to lose. Her posture sagged beneath the weight of everything she had been through, her backpack drooped loosely from one shoulder—barely held on—and it was if she was moving out of habit, not intention. 

She didn’t care about them, or about herself, or about anything.

The world had made its point. It wanted her dead, so let it have her.

She stopped in front of her locker.

The numbers of the combination came to her mind, just like every time. She spun the dial with numb fingers. And the moment her hand brushed the handle, the familiar dread was there, too, curled tight in her chest like something alive. But she didn’t fight it. If anything, she embraced it. 

It was the only emotion she could feel at the moment. 

Then, without ceremony, Taylor opened the locker, shoved her backpack inside first, and then climbed in after it. Gasps echoed behind her, then a shocked silence swept through the hallway behind her. It was filled with the stunned, uncertain breathing of a crowd that didn’t know what they were witnessing, only that it shouldn't be happening. 

Taylor folded herself into the narrow space, limbs pressed to metal, pulled the door shut, and rested her forehead on her knees.

And then, she let herself sleep.

Let the day end, let it reset, and let the next death come.

She no longer cared.

. . . . .

She woke up to the sterile scent of antiseptic, the steady beep of the heart monitor beside her, and the quiet hush of a television playing somewhere just out of view. Her body felt heavy—her limbs sluggish—but it wasn’t due to the locker, the suffocating crush of waste, the bitter sting of whatever black sludge she’d inhaled, or death.

She was on a hospital bed, bright white light spilling down from overhead, and forcing her to squint. Her vision swam before settling, first on the pale curtain drawn partway around her bed, then on the plastic cup with a bendy straw sitting on the side table. She also felt the tug of an IV in her arm, the faint ache of it grounding her in the moment.

She was alive, and she wasn’t in her room.

A soft knock came at the door before it opened, and a nurse stepped in, clipboard tucked under her arm.

“Oh—you’re awake!” the woman said warmly, her face breaking into a bright smile. “How are you feeling, sweetheart?”

Taylor blinked, and tried to speak, but only managed a rasp. Her throat felt like sandpaper, her lips cracked and dry.

The nurse noticed. “Here,” she said, quickly handing her the cup and adjusting the straw so it reached her mouth.

Taylor took a few sips. The cool water was heavenly.

After a moment, she finally managed, “What… happened?”

The nurse pulled up a stool and sat beside her. “You were brought in yesterday afternoon. A student saw you climb into your locker and knew something wasn’t right, so he ran straight to the office. The police were called, and they rescued you before… before anything bad could happen. They said you were asleep in there when they pulled you out, thank goodness.”

Taylor stared at the ceiling, her mouth opening, then closing again in quick succession. Her eyes stung at the edges.

The nurse reached out and patted her arm gently, misreading it. “You’re safe now. That’s what matters.”

“…Who?” Taylor whispered.

“Hmm?”

“The student who reported it?”

“Oh.” The nurse tilted her head, thinking. “Uh, I believe his name was Greg? Greg Veder?”

That did it.

Taylor turned her face away, pressing it into the hospital pillow as the tears broke free. But these weren’t the tears of fear or despair, nor the ones she’d shed when she realized the day would always restart, nor the ones from dying again, and again, and again. These were warm, heavy tears of relief, raw and overwhelming in their release.

She was alive. She hadn’t died. Someone had seen her, and done something.

Her body shook as she let herself cry, and she didn’t try to stop or hide it.

Because for the first time in what felt like forever, the cycle had been broken. And all it had taken was the smallest act of kindness from the last person she ever would have expected.