Hell is empty, and all the devils are here.
—William Shakespeare (The Tempest)
Sloane Kingston
So, while I wait for someone to show up—and they will, eventually, once Logan realizes I'm unprotected—I practice my blank stare in the cracked, dusty mirror across the room. The reflection staring back at me is ghostly pale, with wide, unblinking eyes that seem to absorb every flicker of light. I keep holding the knife, fingers curling around the handle with a white-knuckle grip, the edges biting into my palm. It's not just the pain that grounds me but the certainty that a girl in shock would do just the same, clutching onto the only thing that feels real in a world that's gone violently wrong.
