I'd been labelled average too many times. Like it wasn’t the worst thing you could be.

But, damn it, they were right. I was. Average. Average friends, average grades, average life. The type of girl who’d get asked out on a dare, or because the better-looking ones were already taken. Nothing special. Nothing worth remembering. Just... average.

So I tried to be ugly. Mismatched clothes, hair a mess, slouched as if I’d spent too much time bent over a desk. Still, people didn’t care. I wasn’t ugly enough to be memorable. Just slightly off—enough to blend in but still get the occasional pity stare.

Fine. I’d try disgusting. I chewed with my mouth open, told rude jokes, even made up weird facts about worms. People laughed. They laughed like I was some quirky freak. Not disgusting. Just harmless.

So I doubled down. Memorised trivia from a sci-fi show I didn’t give a damn about, carried around a stupid fantasy book, trying too hard to prove I wasn’t like everyone else. But that didn’t work either. I wasn’t a geek. I was ‘interesting.’ People called me ‘cool’ for liking something offbeat. Even when I tried to be weird, it just made me... average.

And then there was Carmine Fair (as if it was fair that he wasn’t mediocre like the rest of us), who, for some reason, stuck with me even though he didn’t need to. He wasn’t average. Not even close. The guy could walk into a room and everyone would notice—without even trying. Messy hair? Stylish. Ripped trainers? Trendy. Even when he tripped over his own feet, people would go, ‘Aw, that’s so him.’ Meanwhile, I could wear my most embarrassing outfit and still get nothing but a polite nod.

I followed him anyway. Maybe because he was the only one who didn’t seem bored with me. Even when I was doing my best to be a disaster.

* * *

We found our spot behind the gym, just like always, hiding from teachers and classmates who still cared about their futures. Carmine lit up, took a drag, and exhaled into the cold air.

So, he said, voice low, like he was thinking it over. You ever think you’re overdoing it?

I frowned. What do you mean?

He exhaled, smoke curling lazily around his words. You’re trying so hard not to be average that you’re making it obvious. It’s like you’re acting, not living. Kind of sad, actually. You know that, right?

My face burned. I’m not trying to be some freak.

Carmine raised an eyebrow. Right. You’re not. But if you were, you’d be doing a better job at that. He cut his eyes at me, deadpan. That slouch? Not even convincing. You want to be different? Stop caring. Like, really stop.

I didn’t know whether he was praising me or making fun of me. So, what am I supposed to do?

He leaned in, voice dropping. Maybe it’s time for something stronger. You ever think about it? Drugs, maybe. My brother tried them—pills and stuff. Changed him. Completely.

What happened to him?

Carmine looked away, his expression unreadable. He locked himself in his room for days. Came out… different. Not the same guy at all. Like a switch flipped. I don’t know. But it was something. He paused, eyes dark and sharp. You want not to be average? Then do it—whatever it is. But really do it. No half-assing.

* * *

I got the drugs. Carmine snuck them out of his brother’s stash. I wasn’t even sure what they were. Just knew they’d help. They had to.

Don’t take the whole pack, Carmine warned, sliding the bag into my pocket. His tone was light, amused. Can’t have you dying before you transcend averageness.

That night, I sat on my bed, clutching the little bag. It rattled softly, a heartbeat.

Would it hurt? Would it change me? Or would it just be another failure?

Carmine’s words echoed: Can’t have you dying before you transcend averageness.

I tipped three pills into my palm before smacking it against my mouth, the pills falling on my tongue. They scratched my throat on the way down. For a moment, I thought about throwing them back up. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

The room stayed the same. The silence pressed in. I waited. Five minutes. Ten. Nothing.

And then it hit.

The edges of my vision blurred, colours bleeding together like a watercolour painting left in the rain. My heartbeat thudded in my ears, loud and uneven. The floor tilted; I had to sit before I tipped over.

Shapes twisted behind my closed eyelids—beautiful and terrible all at once. The world wasn’t dull anymore. It was wrong. Better than average.

Somewhere through the haze, Carmine’s voice floated in my mind, half-mocking, half-reverent: Don’t stop now.

I smiled—or thought I did. The feeling didn’t reach my face.

For the first time, I wasn’t me anymore.

And wasn’t that the point?

* * *

The world hadn't stood still since those first pills. I didn't know whether to love or hate it. Colours just seemed much brighter yet harsher; time teased by dragging and hurrying at the whim of whatever the hell controlled it. I didn't feel like I had walked away from averageness; it felt more like I'd stepped into some other kind of glorified mediocrity, where everything was fractured and messy.

Carmine would be aware, of course; he always was.

You're restless, he said one evening when we sat on the swings in the park. His cigarette was dangling from his lips, and the glowing ember shone in the dark. Still feeling average?

I shrugged. The movement was jerky, unconvinced. It's not enough. The pills. They're, I don't know. Temporary.

He leaned back, stretching his legs out before him, and for a moment, I thought he'd laugh. He didn't. His regard swept over me, sharp and weighing. If temporary's the problem, you'll want something stronger.

My stomach twisted. Like what?

Well, he said, the word hanging in the air like a promise. There's this thing. On the Dark Web. My brother told me about it once. He snuffed out his cigarette against the chain holding the swing. Not like any given dealer. This is next-level shit. Stuff that rewires you completely. Mind, body. Everything.

Rewires me? I echoed, my voice little more than a whisper.

Yeah. He smiled, a slow, almost predatory grin. You want out of this, right? Out of being whatever this is? Then you’ve got to take the plunge. Go all in.

And how would you even find something like that?

Leave that to me. He stood, brushing ash off his jeans, and gave me one last look. But let me remind you, once you do this, there's no going back. It's not just pills anymore. It's real.

It wasn't long before he delivered on that.

It came in the next couple of days, in plain brown paper with tape so tight that it seemed to warn me not to open the package. Inside, it contained a cloudy, yellowish liquid with a vial and a handwritten note that said: Drink it all. Do not think.

Carmine had insisted on being present when I opened it, and he leaned against the wall in my bedroom now, his arms crossed, regarding me with an expression of curiosity mixed with impatience.

Well? he said, his eyebrow cocked. What are you waiting for?

It had a metallic and tangy scent, blood mixed with rust and lemon, making me scrunch my nose. My hands were shaking as I unscrewed the cap; the crackle of the seal breaking was loud in my ears.

You're telling me it's safe, but are you sure? My voice was barely steady.

Carmine smiled. Safe? What's safe about trying to be different? Just drink it. Or don't. Your call.

My stomach did a somersault as I tipped the vial back against my lips. It was much thicker than I had expected; the liquid coating my tongue and throat like oil. It tasted sharp and acrid, it's bite digging into the back of my mouth long after I'd swallowed.

Carmine was still watching, his smirk widened to a grin. Now, he said, as if solemn, we wait. It'll kick in soon.

It wasn't long before it did.

First, it was subtle, that same feeling of distorted colours and sensation, but much sharper and more pronounced. Then the heat began to creep under my skin, crawling, a living thing. My head felt too heavy for my neck; my chest was tight. Something inside me was growing, expanding against my ribs.

I reached the mirror, the edge of the sink welling up to my hands as my vision blurred and roiled. For a single moment, something not quite me stared back. My eyes glittered too bright, my skin too pale, with veins just perceptibly blue beneath the surface, fissures in porcelain.

You’re changing, Carmine said, kneeling beside me, his grin a jagged slash of white in the chaos, his voice giddy.

I stood there staring at him, and in an instant, my head began to whirl; I fell to my knees, heaving the vial from my hands onto the tile floor, where it shattered.

Don't stop now, he whispered, hunkering beside me. The voice was soft, but the undertone wasn't: nagging. It's what you wanted, isn't it? To be something more?

I tried to answer, but my mouth wouldn’t work. My tongue felt too big, my throat too tight. All I could do was nod—or something close to it.

Good, he said, almost to himself. That’s the first step.

I wanted to ask: First step to what? But the question never formed. My thoughts were slippery, sliding away before I could grab hold of them.

I hadn't even realised Carmine was holding my wrists, tightly, eagerly. He let go of them and stood, looking down at me with something like satisfaction.

I told you it would work.

It didn't feel like it worked. I just felt wrong.

You’ll thank me later.

And then he was gone.

* * *

I couldn’t look away. My reflection in the bathroom mirror was... wrong.

My skin, once so pale and untouched, now stretched tight over my bones, as if it had grown too small to contain me. It was a slick, unnatural sheen—greasy, yet somehow brittle—like a layer of wax had melted into my pores. I could see every single vein beneath the surface, blue and pulsing like cold rivers trapped beneath ice. My fingers brushed across my arm, and I recoiled when the skin felt too smooth, too... slick. Like plastic stretched over rot.

The pain was searing. It wasn’t the ache of transformation anymore. It was the gut-twisting feeling of my body rejecting itself, a silent scream in my muscles as they strained and swelled with an unnatural fullness.

My stomach churned, groaning with each violent twist of discomfort. But I couldn’t stop looking, couldn’t pull myself away from the grotesque display of what I’d become. There was something so wrong about it, but it was mine. It had to be mine.

I could feel Carmine’s presence before he even spoke.

He slid up behind me, casually wrapping his cold, phantom arms around my body. He leaned into my ear, his breath a whisper, far too close. His voice was laced with something dangerously close to envy.

Look at you, he murmured, his lips brushing against the side of my neck. So different. So unique. So beautiful. His breath deepened, his chest pressed against my back as his arms squeezed tighter around me. My body—what was left of it—squeezed under his touch like rotting fruit, the pressure making me feel like I might burst. But I didn’t pull away. I couldn’t.

That’s it, he groaned, the words dripping from his mouth, poison. You’re becoming something more than what you were, aren't you? You’re finally breaking free. Just like I said.

I could feel my ribs shift under my skin, the bones grinding against each other. The sick, unnatural stretch in my muscles, a crackling sensation as though my body was coming apart, held together by nothing more than desperation and force. The pain was unbearable, but Carmine—he liked it.

You know this is what you wanted, he said, breath ragged. He nuzzled into my neck, running his lips down the curve of my shoulder, admiring the decay. Everyone wants something more than the ordinary. You wanted it too. Look at you now. You’re not like the rest. You’re more.

I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. But I could feel Carmine’s presence, pressing into every part of me, soaking into the spaces that should have been empty.

He pressed harder, and I gasped, my vision blurring. It hurts, doesn’t it? He purred. I know, I know. But this is the price you must pay, right? Or do you want to be average again? His grip tightened, and I felt the sickening squelch of my body, the fleshy, wrong squeeze of it under his touch. My insides churned again, and I felt like I might rip open from the inside out.

I’m not average, I forced out, my voice barely a rasp.

No, Carmine agreed, his tone suddenly dark, that reverent tone reappearing. You’re not. And everyone will know it. When they look at you, they’ll see you, but they won’t understand what you’ve become. They’ll never know how right this is. And you’ll never be able to tell them. Because they are still too... normal. Too mediocre to understand.

I wanted to scream, wanted to fight, but my voice got stuck somewhere deep in my throat, where something cold and unfeeling had taken over.

But Carmine, he held me. His fingers dug into my skin, nails sharp and hungry, as if he were marking me, as if he were feeding off me. That’s right, he murmured, his voice thick with the venom of obsession. You’re beautiful now. You’ve outgrown everything. You’re not just different. You’re something they could never even imagine. His lips pressed into the back of my neck, his tongue dragging slowly over my skin, rough, callous, greedy, taking some of my skin with it. I’m jealous, he whispered. So jealous.

I should have felt disgusted. I should have screamed, should have run from the reflection, from the dark thing that had taken root inside me. But instead, I stood there, mesmerised by the monstrosity I had become—because in some sick, twisted way, it felt right. It felt like me. And I hated myself for that.

His arms slid lower, the pressure increasing until my body creaked under the weight, like an old house collapsing, ready to snap in half. C... Carmine, I slurred. It hurts, I gasped, the words trembling out. It feels like I’m breaking.

I know, I know. Carmine said, soothing, barely audible. But what’s breaking, huh? You’re just shedding the ordinary. The normal. Just letting go. He pulled me closer, his breath hot against my skin. Who needs that shit? Not you. Not anymore.

* * *

They found me two days later, locked inside my room just like my brother had, curled up in the corner, surrounded by shattered glass and empty pill bottles. My skin—clammy and pale—was already beginning to stiffen. They said it looked like I’d been there for weeks, maybe longer.

Nobody cried.

Nobody even seemed surprised.

She always kept to herself, one teacher said. A little odd, maybe, but nothing alarming.

Quiet, someone else added. I don't even remember seeing her in class.

Average.

That’s what they really meant.

There wasn’t a funeral. Just a short service with a handful of classmates who probably felt obligated to show up. They didn’t know me. Not really.

And when they lowered the coffin into the ground, no one noticed the faint fingerprints, the ragged gashes, that pressed into my skin. The ones I couldn’t explain.

No one noticed how my lips were curled, just slightly, into something that might’ve been a smile.

But Carmine noticed.

I felt him there, even as the dirt hit the lid.

Close. Watching.

Always.

And maybe that’s what I wanted all along. Not to be more. Not even to be something memorable.

Just to be seen.