Deadly desires: the Donna's obsession.

Scarlett pushed open the heavy metal door leading to the school's backyard. The clang of it shutting behind her echoed faintly in the empty space.

No one was around. Most of the students were in class, but she had no use for those boring lectures. Not today.

The sharp morning sunlight cut through the chill in the air, glinting off the chain-link fence at the edge of the property.

She reached into the pocket of her blazer, pulling out a crumpled pack of cigarettes.

They weren't the expensive kind her guards smoked—those came in sleek cases with gold accents.

These on the other hand were raw, bitter, and cheap, the kind that scratched at her throat and burned her chest. Exactly what she needed.

Sliding one between her lips, she flicked her lighter, the small flame briefly illuminating her features. She lit the cigarette and took a long drag, the acrid smoke filling her lungs.

Tilting her head back, she exhaled, watching the smoke twist and curl into the air.

Her mind was a storm.

Mori's words had stirred something deep, something she hadn't allowed herself to touch in years. Memories she had buried under layers of detachment and cold indifference clawed their way to the surface.

"Justice," She muttered to herself, her voice low and bitter. The word felt foreign, like a language she didn't speak. "That bastard abandoned me years ago."

The cigarette trembled slightly between her fingers as her mind drifted.

---

It always started with the sound of his boots.

Heavy footsteps echoing down the narrow hallway.

The door would creak open, just wide enough to let the dim hallway light spill into her room.

Scarlett, only six years old, would pretend to be asleep, her tiny body curled into a ball under the threadbare blanket.

She would clench her fists so tightly that her nails dug into her palms, leaving little crescent-shaped marks. Her heart would race, her breaths shallow, as the door creaked open.

"Scarlett," her father's voice growled, slurred from too much beer. "Don't pretend to be asleep."

She would shut her eyes tighter, praying he'd leave, but he never did.

His weight sank into the bed beside her, the stale smell of beer and sweat making her stomach churn. His hands were rough, unforgiving, as they yanked the covers away.

She would lie still, biting her lip until it bled.

Her tears soaked the pillow, her small hands clutching the sheets in silent agony.

"Be a good girl," he would whisper, his voice slurred and sickening.

And she was.

She had learned what happened to 'bad girls'.

She had learned that fighting back only made it worse.

So she would lie there, frozen, as he did what he came to do.

Rape her.

Over time, the fear gave way to something colder. Numbness. Detachment. Survival.

Until one day, when Scarlett was eight, her mother walked in.

"What the hell are you doing?!" her mother's scream was like a bolt of lightning in the suffocating darkness.

Her father turned, his face twisting into an ugly sneer. "Get out, woman. This doesn't concern you."

But her mother didn't back down. She immediately lunged at him, her hands clawing at his face.

"You monster! Don't you dare touch her again!"

Her father shoved her hard, sending her sprawling onto the floor.

Scarlett froze, watching in horror as he stood over her mother, his fists raised.

"Shut your mouth!" he bellowed as his fists came down. Again. And again.

Scarlett screamed, the sound ripping from her throat like a wounded animal.

But it wasn't enough to stop him. He kept hitting, his fists raining down on her mother like she was a punching bag.

At that moment, something inside Scarlett snapped.

She didn't think. Didn't plan.

Her small hands wrapped around the kitchen knife she'd hidden under her pillow—a desperate plan she had never intended to use.

Until now.

She ran at him, her vision blurred by tears, but fueled by pure rage.

Without even thinking, she plunged the knife into his side.

"ARGH!" Her father roared in pain, stumbling back, blood soaking through his shirt.

His eyes burned with fury but before he could retaliate, another hand appeared—larger, stronger, and impossibly fast.

A man, dressed in black with piercing eyes, stepped out of the shadows.

Scarlett had never seen him before. He didn't speak, didn't explain. He simply grabbed her hand, the one still clutching the knife, and guided it deeper into her father's body.

Her father gurgled, blood spilling from his mouth, as his eyes widened in disbelief, before crumpling to the floor, choking on his own blood.

Scarlett stared at the mysterious man, her breaths ragged, her fingers still curled around the knife handle. "Who...?"

"Do you regret it?" He simply asked.

She thought about it for a second, but figured out that she didn't feel any remorse, any pain, if anything she felt...free, happy even.

She shook her head. "No."

"Good. Never be afraid to stand up to a bully, and once you decide to do it, never hesitate because even a moment of weakness can lead you to lose your life." The man preached before turning to walk away.

"Mister wait," Scarlett wanted to chase after him but her mother who was on the floor suddenly held her leg.

"Sca..."

"Mum." She quickly knelt down and held her up.

Turning back, she asked, "So mister who...?" she began, but the words died in her throat as he was gone, leaving her alone with the body.

---

After that death, she and her mother moved to a rundown apartment in a quiet neighborhood. They tried to rebuild their lives, but the scars from their past loomed large.

Scarlett's mother worked long hours as a waitress to support them, often leaving Scarlett alone for extended periods.

The loneliness gnawed at her, but the lingering trauma from her father's abuse kept her from forming connections.

She became withdrawn, her nights filled with nightmares of his face, his hands, his laughter. She began avoiding touch entirely, flinching at even the smallest gesture of affection. She felt tainted, as though the abuse had etched itself into her skin.

Her mother noticed the change but didn't know how to help. Instead, she threw herself into work, hoping stability would heal Scarlett. It didn't.

Her inability to connect quickly turned violent. A boy in her class, noticing her quiet demeanor, had decided to tease her during recess. He pulled her pigtails and laughed, calling her "the freak with no friends." Scarlett didn't cry or scream. She didn't even flinch. She just stared at him with those sharp, unblinking eyes.

And then, she snapped.

She lunged at him, her small fists pounding against his face with such force that teachers had to pull her off. The boy was left bloodied and crying, his nose broken. Scarlett was suspended, her mother called to the principal's office.

That night, her mother cried in their tiny kitchen, her head in her hands. "Scarlett, why?" she asked, her voice trembling. "Why would you do that?"

Scarlett stared at her mother, her expression blank. "Because he deserved it."

It was the first time her mother looked at her not with love, but with fear.

One year later.

Scarlett walked home from school, her shirt torn and her face scratched. Another fight. Another boy who thought he could push her around.

Her knuckles ached, bloodied from the punches she had thrown, but she didn't care, her face remained blank.

"Hope mom doesn't kill me for this." she murmured quietly.

Reaching the front door, she kicked off her shoes as she called out, "Mom! I'm home!"

The house remained silent.

She frowned, her steps cautious as she searched through the small house.

Upstairs.

The door to her mother's room was ajar, the faint scent of iron wafting out.

Scarlett pushed it open, her heart pounding.

Her heart immediately stopped.

The room was a massacre.

Blood was everywhere, splattered across the walls, pooling on the floor, soaking the sheets.

Her mother lay on the bed, her body twisted and broken. Her throat had been slit, the gaping wound jagged and deep. One eye was swollen shut, her lips torn, her arms covered in defensive wounds.

Scarlett staggered backward, her hand flying to her mouth as bile rose in her throat.

"Mom?" Her voice trembled.

She fell to her knees, crawling toward the bed, her shaking hands reaching for her mother's cold, lifeless face.

"No, no, no..." she choked, tears streaming down her cheeks. "NO!!!"

For three days, she didn't leave her mother's side. She sat in the blood-soaked room, her small body trembling as she clung to the corpse, her cries echoing through the empty house.

On the fourth day, her hands covered with dirt and her nails cracked, Scarlett stood in the backyard.

The grave was shallow, hastily dug with her bare hands. She had wrapped her mother's body in a tattered sheet, lowering her into the earth with trembling arms.

She stared at the makeshift cross she had hammered together from old scraps of wood. Her tears had dried, her face a mask of cold detachment.

Behind her, their neighbour, Mrs. Callahan approached, her arms wrapping around Scarlett's thin shoulders.

"You're not alone, sweetheart," the older woman whispered, her voice trembling. "I'll take care of you from now on. I promise."

Scarlett didn't resist, but she didn't cry, either. Her tears had run dry.

Mrs. Callahan knelt beside her, smoothing the tangled hair out of her face.

Scarlett didn't say anything. She simply stared at the grave, her eyes hollow and lifeless.

Her little hands clenched so tightly, the nails dug into her palms, drawing blood. "I'll avenge you, mom. I swear I will."

But she didn't, couldn't actually, because that guys, had only been the beginning of her miseries.

---

Back in the present, Scarlett dropped the cigarette to the ground, crushing it under her heel.

Justice.

What a fucking joke.