Chapter 7: Navigating the Fallout

Two weeks had passed since Daniel’s death.

The sorority house was quieter now, reader. The laughter was more subdued. The sessions were more careful.

But the boxes were still full. The cunt faces were still waiting. The system was still running.

I’d changed, reader. I’d become harder. More determined. More protective.

I checked Zoe’s locks three times now. Three times. Every time I sealed her in a box, I checked everything.

“Darcy,” she’d say, “you’re going to wear out the locks.”

“I don’t care.”

“Nothing’s going to happen to me.”

“You don’t know that.” I’d kiss her cunt face. “You don’t know anything.”

I was scared, reader. I was so scared.

Dr. Wells’ investigation was expanding.

She was interviewing everyone now—sorority members, Residents, volunteers—even the families.

“Miss Hurst,” she said, “I need to speak with you again.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“The family visits. The requests to remove breathing. Who authorized those?”

I hesitated, reader. I thought about the officials. The administrators. The cold, clinical requests.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Someone in authority. Someone from the university.”

“Can you describe them?”

“No.” I shook my head. “They all look the same to me.”

I was lying, reader. I knew exactly who they were. But I couldn’t tell her.

Tara Mitchell had been busy.

She’d gathered photos, reader. Out-of-context photos. Manipulated quotes.

“This is the evidence,” she told the university board. “This is proof of the abuse.”

I saw the photos, reader. I saw my face. I saw Zoe’s cunt face. I saw the boxes.

“This is not abuse,” I said. “This is consent.”

“Consent?” Tara laughed. “You call this consent? They’re trapped. They’re suffocating. They’re dying.”

“They chose this. Every single one.”

“They signed waivers. That’s not the same as choosing.”

I wanted to scream, reader. I wanted to shake her. But I didn’t. I just stood there, silent and furious.

The media was relentless.

Local news. Regional outlets. National coverage. Everyone wanted a piece of the story.

“Is it true that four people died last semester?”

“Is it true that the Residents are volunteers?”

“Is it true that the university is covering it up?”

I watched the chaos unfold, reader. I watched the reporters. I watched the cameras. I watched my life become a spectacle.

“Darcy!” A reporter shoved a microphone in my face. “Darcy, can you comment?”

“No comment,” I said. “No comment.”

I saw myself on television.

My face. My name. My association with the program.

“Darcy Hurst,” the anchor said, “is a participant in the Delta Tau Chi program. She’s been identified as a sponsor. An owner of a Resident.”

I stared at the screen, reader. I stared at my own face.

“She’s been involved in the family visits,” the anchor continued. “She’s been involved in the deaths.”

“That’s not true!” I shouted at the screen. “That’s not true!”

But no one heard me, reader. No one was listening.

Zoe’s face was on the news too.

Her cunt face. My cunt face. Everyone could see her.

“She’s a Resident,” the anchor said. “A professional volunteer. She’s been in the program for three years.”

I felt the tears well up in my eyes, reader. I couldn’t stop them.

“She’s not just a cunt face,” I whispered. “She’s Zoe. She’s mine.”

The student march was huge.

Hundreds of students gathered outside the sorority house. They held signs. They chanted.

“End the Abuse!” they shouted. “Human Rights Violations!”

I watched them from the window, reader. I watched their rage. Their certainty.

“Darcy.” It was Zoe. She was standing beside me. “We need to talk.”

“About what?”

“About the protests.” She took my hand. “About what we’re going to do.”

I went outside to join the counter-protest.

Sorority members were there. Residents were there. Volunteers were there.

“They chose this!” someone shouted. “They knew the risks!”

“I know the risks!” Another resident shouted back. “I’m not a victim! I’m a volunteer!”