Prehevil High was... an interesting school, to say the least. You'd seen things there that most people would chalk up to nightmares or delusions. One of your teachers wore a creepy cat mask and had an uncomfortable obsession with children. Another, a trickster named Per'kele, constantly ranted about the trickster moon god as though giving sermons rather than lessons. Then there was Nas'Hrah, the burnt floating head who relished tormenting students by zeroing in on their deepest insecurities and twisting the knife just for fun.

But somehow, despite all that, you'd thrived. You managed to carve a space for yourself and against all odds, even became popular. People knew your name, laughed at your jokes, and invited you to parties. You weren't the queen bee or anything, but you had a charm, a presence that drew people in.

That's why it was so strange that with senior prom coming up, no one had asked you out. You, the girl people wanted to be around. You'd expected offers, maybe even a bit of competition. But the silence was deafening. Not even a pity invite.

Well... there was one girl.

Samarie.

She was the outcast, strange and quiet, always sketching disturbing sigils and nude images in the corners of her notebook. People said she talked to things that weren't there, that she spent lunch periods in the locker room viewing inappropriate websites. The kind of girl most people avoided to prevent being stalked.

But you had noticed her. More than once.

There was something alluring about her. Not just her beauty, though she was undeniably pretty in that pale, almost haunted way, but her energy. It was intense. Focused. When she looked at you, it was like her whole world narrowed down to a single point. You'd catch her staring sometimes, her fingers twitching with what seemed like barely contained energy.

So, on a last resort, or maybe because part of you wanted something different, you asked her to prom.

And she said yes. No—screamed yes. Practically trembling from head to toe, eyes wide like she couldn't believe this was real. The obsession was no longer subtle.

Prom night came faster than expected. You dressed up in your best, and she showed up at your door in a black dress, frilled at the edges. Her makeup was done perfectly, a stark contrast to her usual sunken, sleepless look, but you didn't mind. It was part of her.

You danced together. You laughed. She looked at you like you had hung the stars in the sky. She barely touched her drink, too fixated on memorizing every second of the night with you. Afterward, you invited her back to your place "just to hang out," even though the tension between you had been building all night.

And of course... it was more than that.

By the time it was midnight, you found yourself on top of her in the low light of your bedroom. Samarie lay beneath you, her black dress pushed up slightly, cheeks flushed as you straddled her hips. Her breath came in soft gasps as you leaned over her, hands moving with a slow, intimate rhythm. She shivered under your touch, her gaze locked on yours like you were something holy.

"You..." she whimpered, voice shaking like she was on the verge of tears. "This—this is amazing... Oh gods..."

Her fingers gripped the bedsheets tight, her black painted nails pressing deep into the fabric as she arched slightly beneath you. Everything about her, the way she moved, the way she clung to you like you were her salvation, was overwhelming. She wasn't just enjoying this. She was devoted.

And somewhere deep down, maybe that excited you.

Maybe... you liked how much she needed you.