Have Mercy

15 with a heavy heart i'll guide this dagger

          "Some nights," Kavinsky is all snapping teeth and hedonistic eyes, "you just take it. Consent is overrated."

          "You're a monster," Mercy says. She spits at Kavinsky's feet

          "All the best people are," Kavinsky replies.

          "You don't have to do this,' Ronan tries.

Kavinsky stretches out his hands, spinning the same way that Mercy did before. An echo of each other. "There isn't anything else, man."

          "There's reality."

Kavinsky laughs. "Reality! Reality's what other people dream for you."

          "Reality's where other people are," Ronan replies. He stretches out his own arms. "What's here, K? Nothing! No one!"

Mercy looks at Illusion beneath hooded eyes, biting her lip. There's something, and it's all consuming.

          "Just us," Kavinsky says. "Just us and the world." He looks at Mercy. "Like it always used to be."

Mercy sneers. "It was never us, Kavinsky. I played with you for the summer and you did nothing but kill the only person I had."

          "That's not enough." Ronan cuts in. "Us isn't enough."

          "Don't say Dick Gansey, man. Do not say it. He is never going to be with you. And don't tell me you don't swing that way, man. I'm in your head."

Mercy's skin crawls, Kavinsky's obsession with Ronan has never been so spelt out, so blatantly admitted. She crowds next to Ronan, vines twining up her fingers as she lets them open to the ground. Kavinsky's jealousy is a fickle thing—all consuming and visceral. It has leaked into every part of his body like black ichor. There is no killing it, only him.

          "That's not what Gansey is to me," Ronan says.

          "You didn't say you don't swing that way."

Thunder rumbles overhead. Ronan is silent, looking at Kavinsky with narrowed eyes. "No, I didn't."

          "That makes it worse, man. You really are just his lapdog."

          "You, of all people, have no right to judge other people's friendships." Mercy snaps. She steps forward, leaning down Kavinsky's nose an inch away from her own. With every word, she prods his chest, causing him to stumble backwards on his feet. "You destroy your own, wonder why you're alone and then create your own people to be friends with you because you've managed to drive everybody real away." She laughs. "No wonder reality isn't for you, it fucking hates you. Face it, Kavinsky: life isn't just sex and drugs and cars."

Kavinsky catches himself, regaining balance. He sneers, thorns sinking through the fabric of his cargo pants and into his skin. His eyes hold Mercy's, mouth widening into a grin made of sharpness and bone. It's terrifying and exhilarating all at once—the very thing that made her fall into his Mitsubishi last summer. Kavinsky's face is void of everything but cruelty and danger.

The smile quirks. "Mine is."

Reaching out a hand, Kavinsky snaps his fingers, and the forest screams. Like a bullet, it rips through Mercy, dropping her to her knees at Kavinsky's feet. It holds her at gunpoint: the sound that rips from her throat, tearing at her oesophagus and the soft tissues, is more guttural than the night Mallory died. She folds in on herself, nails sinking into her arms. Tywyll is heavy against her skin, dripping from her ears and nose, sliding down her cheeks and chin like a black river. It hurts too much to wipe away. Mercy's torso is a battleground, stomach folding in on itself and her chest aching like a dying heartbeat. It is everything and nothing at once, a familiar concoction of ills and agony.