Our Love, Our Mutual Destruction

Dahlia POV:

The silence on the other end of the line was short, broken by a low, contemptuous laugh.

"Playing games again, Dahlia?" Brooks's voice was laced with amusement. "It's a bold move, I'll give you that. But a little dramatic, even for you."

"I'm not playing," I said, my voice flat.

"Fine," he said, his tone shifting to one of bored indulgence. "You want to play dead? I'll play along. When the time comes, I'll give you a funeral so grand it'll make the front page. A marble mausoleum, a thousand white roses. Anything you want. Happy now?"

"Yes," I whispered, and hung up.

I walked out of the hospital, blinking against the harsh sunlight. The world felt distant, unreal. I saw the mother and daughter from the hallway getting into their car. On impulse, I walked over.

"You look like you need a ride," I said, my voice hoarse.

The mother hesitated, but the little girl's wide, innocent eyes looked at me with such open concern that she relented. I drove them to their small house in a quiet suburb, the little girl chattering in the back seat about her school play.

"Thank you so much," the mother said as they got out. "God bless you."

I just nodded and drove away. The brief, simple act of kindness felt like a memory from another life.

As I turned onto my street, I saw them. Brooks, Carlo, Grace, and the pack of hyenas, all standing near my parked car, a vintage Mustang my father had restored for me. It was the only thing of value I had left.

"Look what the cat dragged in," one of them sneered as I got out of the car.

Grace stepped forward, her smile as bright and fake as a plastic flower. She was holding a small, ornate jar. "Dahlia, I am so, so sorry about what happened to your mother's memorial. I felt just terrible. Brooks told me how much it meant to you."

"Get out of my way, Grace," I said, my patience worn to a thread.

"No, wait," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I have a surprise for you. When they were cleaning up the... mess... one of the workers found this. He thought it was just trash, but I recognized it from a picture Brooks showed me once."

She held up the jar. My mother's ashes.

My breath caught in my throat. I reached for it, a wave of desperate relief washing over me.

Her hand snapped back. "Oops," she said, her smile turning vicious. She opened the lid. "You know, ashes to ashes, dust to dust."

And she turned the jar upside down.

My mother's ashes, a fine grey powder, drifted down onto the wet pavement, mixing with the grime of the street.

The world went silent. The city noise, the traffic, the jeering laughter of Brooks's friends-it all faded away into a dull roar in my ears.

Grace looked at me, her eyes wide with feigned innocence. "Oh, clumsy me. You're not mad, are you? It was an accident."

I looked from the grey smear on the asphalt to her smug face. She had done it on purpose. She had crossed a line that even Brooks, in all his cruelty, had never dared to cross.

"Great job, Gracie," one of the hyenas cheered. "That'll teach her."

Grace beamed, preening under the praise. She turned and walked toward her own car, a shiny new convertible, a gift from Brooks.

I turned to Carlo, my voice eerily calm. "I have a gift for her too."

He looked at me, his eyes wide with alarm. "Dahlia, no..."

"What can you possibly give her?" one of the others sneered. "A half-eaten sandwich?"

"I'm going to send her on a little trip," I said, my lips pulling back into a grin that felt sharp and wrong. "One way."

I got back into my Mustang. The engine roared to life, a familiar, angry growl. I slammed the gearshift into drive and stomped on the accelerator.

The car leaped forward, tires squealing.

From the rearview mirror, I saw the looks of drunken amusement on their faces curdle into shock, then horror.

"She's bluffing!" someone yelled.

"Is she? She's crazy!"

"Don't just stand there, stop her!"

But I wasn't bluffing. And I wasn't going to stop.

The Mustang, my father's beautiful, angry machine, slammed into the side of Grace's convertible with a deafening crunch of metal and shattering glass. The impact threw me forward against the steering wheel, but I barely felt it.

I hadn't even begun to let off steam.

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