The drama room smelled of sweat sealed in carpet and the sour tang of dry-erase markers. The CD player clicked, then whirred, searching for track one like it had forgotten how to begin. Miss Penrose called it “atmosphere.” I called it static.

Adam sat on the edge of the stage, hoodie up, chewing the drawstring like he was daring it to snap. He had that look again; half-smirk, half-contempt. The same look he wore when he cornered me in the cloakroom after P.E. When he tore my sketchbook, page by page, like he was peeling off skin. God, I hated him.

We were performing The Playground Trial, a play about bullying in a modern-day school. Adam played the quiet kid. I played the bully. Miss Penrose said it was “subversive.” Said it would “challenge assumptions.” All it did was piss me off royally.

Adam didn’t care. He read his lines like they were beneath him. But when he stood on stage, he filled it like smoke, like something that stains.

“You think you’re better than me just ’cause you read books?” I said, voice low.

He looked at me, eyes flat.

“I just want to be safe.”

Safe. That word tasted wrong in his mouth. He’d never wanted safety. He wanted silence. Wanted me small.

I stepped closer. The knife was up my sleeve. Silver-painted rubber, at least that’s what everyone else thought. I held it earlier—it felt heavier than it should. Miss Penrose touched it too, said it must be “weighted for realism.” Dumb bitch.

Last scene. The confrontation.

Adam stood by the fake lockers, arms loose, like he couldn’t be arsed to tense.

“You ruined everything,” I shouted.

“I just wanted to be safe,” he repeated.

His voice was quiet, but not soft. Dumb fuck didn’t know what was coming.

I raised the knife. His chest rose, fell. He didn’t blink. The room held its breath.

I lunged.

The blade met cloth. He dropped fast. Too fast. His arms didn’t catch him. There was a sound; soft, wrong. Not fabric. Not quite.

For a moment, everything paused. Then the shouts came. Applause first. Then cheers. Then something else—sharp voices, rising, breaking. Miss Penrose’s clipboard hitting the floor. Someone called for help. Someone laughed, too loud, too late.

Adam didn’t move. I stood frozen, knife dangling from my fingers like a verdict, falling through the floor in slow motion. It felt heavier now. Or maybe I did. The lights began to fade—not all at once, but in pieces. One flickered, then another. The stage dimmed like dusk falling over a playground. The noise blurred. Screams turned to static. Claps to echoes. My vision narrowed, like someone were drawing curtains inside my head. I couldn’t tell if I was falling out of the moment or deeper into it.

Adam lay still. His face slack, his chest quiet, oozing red. I stepped back. The knife was still in my hand. Someone grabbed my arm. I didn’t feel it. The lights dimmed further. The edges of the room curled inward. Like the play was ending. Or like I was waking up. I looked down at Adam. He stared back, unemotional as always.

Then the lights went out.

The ceiling was a blur; just shadow and plaster, soft in the half-light. My room was quiet, except for the faint hum of the streets outside, lights flickering like they couldn’t decide whether to stay. I lay still. Covers pressed against me like stage curtains drawn tight. My hand ached. I didn’t remember falling asleep. Or waking up.

The knife wasn’t there. Of course it wasn’t. But I could still feel its weight. Not in my palm—somewhere deeper. Like it had left a mark under the skin.

Adam’s face hovered behind my eyes. Not bleeding. Not speaking. Just smirking as always.

The applause had faded. The screams too. Or maybe they hadn’t. Maybe I’d just stopped hearing them.

I turned my head. The clock on the wall said 3:17. Cold. Lifeless. I didn’t move.

Somewhere in the building, a pipe groaned. The kind of sound that could be anything—a footstep, a breath, a memory shifting its weight.

I thought about the lights. How they’d dimmed, one by one. How the edges of the room had curled inward, like dusk folding over a playground. Like the play was ending. Or like I was waking up.

I didn’t know which.

I closed my eyes. The stage was still there. So was Adam. So was the knife.

Tom Turner

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