Chapter 3: The Anatomy of a Spark

A sharp, scream of microphone feedback tore through the summer air, slicing through the cruel laughter like a blade. The teenagers clamped their hands over their ears, wincing in pain as the noise forced everyone into silence over the entire estate.

I stepped up onto the raised wooden platform beside the infinity pool, the sun glaring unforgivingly off the silver ridges of my scarred flesh. I stood tall, refusing to shrink myself ever again.

“‘A monster from a horror film,’” my voice boomed through the massive concert speakers. The voice coming through the speakers hardly sounded like mine. It was deep, resonant, and cold and controlled. “That is incredibly creative, Chloe.”

I raised my free hand and slowly, traced my index finger along the thickest, most jagged burn scar that slashed across my left collarbone. Three hundred pairs of eyes tracked the slow movement, locked in a collective trance of uneasy fascination.