The Grandmother

The party was over, but the poison lingered.

Amara stormed into Marisol's house, slamming the door with such **** that a framed photo near the entry wobbled on the wall. Her face was flushed, her chest heaving. The air was still thick with the aftershock of humiliation.

Lexi and Priya trailed behind her, uneasy, unsure whether to speak or vanish. The silence didn’t last long.

“You think this is funny?” Amara’s voice cracked through the tension like a whip. She spun to face them, eyes wild.

Priya let out a dry chuckle. “I mean… come on. Did you see Lexi’s face? She looked like a panicked snow bunny caught in headlights.”

Lexi blanched, her voice small. “I was trying to help. I didn’t know it would go that far.”

“Help?” Amara repeated, stepping closer, her presence suffocating. “You froze. You just stood there. Useless. Weak. Like always.”

Lexi’s hands trembled. “I didn’t mean to—”

“No. You never mean anything. You just drift through life like a goddamn prop. You think wearing a nose ring and parroting slogans makes you radical?” Amara was shaking now. “You’re not brave. You’re not aware. You’re a convenience. A soft little placeholder for someone who could be dangerous.”

Lexi’s lip quivered. “I loved you.”

“Loved me?” Amara scoffed. “You used me to feel important. To feel edgy. You wanted to be part of the new Regime, but only if it came with vegan brunches and filtered lighting. You were a pet project. An accessory.”

Her voice darkened, bitter with old hope turned venom. “I thought you were different, Lexi. Better. Not like them. Not like Garrett. I let you in because I believed you could fight. That you had a spine. That you believed in something.”

Lexi stood stunned for a moment, then swallowed, trying one last time. “You could come with me. Just for a while. Stay with me. We’ll figure it out. I have a couch. It’s not much, but—"

Amara laughed—a sharp, bitter bark. “In that ghetto you call home? What, so I can get stabbed between bodegas? No thanks. I’d rather sleep in a drainage ditch than in your roach-infested shoebox.”

She stepped closer, her face inches from Lexi’s, her voice trembling with rage. “You think I didn’t see it? The way you hesitated, the way you flinched when things got real. I thought you were different. I thought you were mine. But you’re just like him. Like Garrett. Smiling until it hurts, sweet until it turns, and then—one day—you’ll sell me out to save yourself.”

Her voice dropped to a cold whisper. “Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But one day, you’ll betray me. Just like all the others. For power. For comfort. For whoever has more clout, more status. You’ll crawl toward the next woman of color with more money, a better apartment, a shinier position, and you’ll call it survival. Progress. But really, it’ll just be you doing what you’ve always done—chasing approval, licking boots, waiting for someone else to tell you who you are.”

Lexi's face collapsed. “It's not— I was just trying to—"

“Aww,” Priya cut in with a sneer, arms crossed. “Poor little Lexi. Thought playing revolution would come with artisanal coffee and queer art nights. Now she’s crying 'cause the world isn’t curated for her. Welcome to Calvessia, snowflake.”

Lexi blinked, tears brimming. “I... I...”

Then she turned and bolted, sobs erupting as she stumbled out the door and into the night.

Priya snorted. “Jesus, Mara. That was ice-cold.”

Amara turned to her with fire in her eyes. “Don’t act like you’re any better.”

Priya raised a hand. “Hey, I was with you. I filmed what needed filming.”

“Oh please,” Amara hissed. “You weren’t with me. You were with whatever kept you near power. You were just another spineless yes-bitch cackling over Lexi’s humiliation like it gave you weight. You're a coward, Priya. A fat, parasitic little footstool with no spine of your own.”

Priya’s mouth dropped open. “Excuse me—? I only did that because I admire your mother.”

“Run after her,” Amara snapped. “That’s what you do best. Follow. Laugh. Submit.”

Priya’s face twisted in offended disbelief. She left without another word.

And Amara was finally, fully alone.

The walls of the house seemed to lean in, pressing on her with memories. With shame.

She sank into a chair, rubbed her hands down her face, then reached for her phone.

There was only one person left to call.

Three rings. Then:

"Octavia Thomas."

Her voice was steel.

“Grandma…” Amara’s voice cracked. “I need help.”

There was a pause, sharp and heavy. Then:

“Amara? What happened?” Octavia Thoma´s voice was calm, but the edge beneath it was unmistakable.

“I… I tried to expose him. Garrett. With Marisol. We had a plan. We thought if we could just show them what he really is—what he’s doing—maybe someone would listen.”

Octavia exhaled slowly. “I knew he was dangerous. But not like this.”

Amara wiped her face. “He married Mom. Did you know that? Married her in secret. And she’s on his side now. Completely. She hit me, Grandma. Said I was ungrateful. Called me a threat.”

Silence. Then the clinking of jewelry, the creak of a chair. Octavia’s voice turned cold.

“That man is poison. I knew it. But your mother always was too proud to admit she made a mistake.”

“She didn’t just make a mistake,” Amara snapped. “She chose him. Over me.”

Octavia’s voice lowered. “Where are you now?”

“At Marisol’s. But I’m going back. I have to. I need clothes. And…” Amara hesitated. “Nia. Grandma… Nia betrayed us. She told Mom everything. She’s with them now.”

There was a pause. Then Octavia said with quiet finality:

“Bring her. Bring that girl back with you. We’ll drive it out of her. Whatever he planted.”

Amara swallowed, then nodded, even though her grandmother couldn’t see. “Okay.”

“Be swift. Be quiet. And don’t let your guard down. Not with any of them.”

Then the line went dead.

Outside, the rain had turned to mist. Amara rose. Her jaw clenched.