Warm Up (Villains, #0.5)

by V.E. Schwab

maybe a dozen tiny decisions had added up like letters until they finally made a word, a phrase, a sentence.

A small, conscious effort. The line between accidental and intentional meant everything.

Gotta capture the moment, Jackson had said, snapping a shot. Memories fade. So do pictures, David had thought, but he’d smiled and posed anyways.

Some people forget, he thought. A bad thing happens to them and their mind sweeps in and buries the bad thing deep, and all that’s left is a stretch of white in their heads, like fresh snow. Looking at it—at them—you wouldn’t even know anything was trapped beneath.

It didn’t catch fire. Nothing ever actually caught fire. No, it all simply burned.