The Fourth Wheel!

Emerging from the washroom, I found myself beside Mary, our steps in uneasy synchrony. A glance towards the door, where Shawn loomed, sparked a ripple of frustration within me. "Shawn," I murmured, a hint of accusation lacing my voice, "that was rather harsh, don't you think?"

Mary, trembling beside me, her complexion ghostly under the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights, seemed a stark contrast to her usual brash confidence. It was a sight I hadn't anticipated—her spirit shattered by fear, reduced to a shadow of her vibrant self.

Observing Shawn's handiwork—a specter so convincingly crafted it could chill the bones—I couldn't help but muse. Should a genuine spirit wander into our midst tonight, would it pause, recognizing a kindred illusion in Shawn's creation? Such thoughts were folly, of course, spurred by my own peculiar condition. Carrying a life that tethered me closer to the ethereal than ever, I found my fears replaced by an odd sense of anticipation.

Snapped back to the present by Shawn's callous jest about the vulnerable state of our friend, a surge of disdain washed over me. "Really, Shawn?" I chided, barely masking my reproach. "A bit of decorum, please. You're better than this."

As I reached out to comfort Mary, my hand instinctively brushed against the slight swell of my belly, a silent reminder of my current limitations. Yet, despite my own circumstances, I found strength to support her, even as I silently cursed Shawn's insensitivity.

The dawn of a new day did nothing to erase the shadows of the night before. With feigned normalcy, Shawn and I approached Susan's ward, our smiles betraying nothing of the turmoil that lingered. Yet, the facade shattered the moment Mary's gaze met Shawn's, her desperation palpable as she clung to him, her plea for salvation a heartrending echo in the sterile hospital corridor.

In that instant, my heart ached for Mary, her terror a tangible force. As Shawn gently but firmly disentangled himself, his expression a mix of concern and confusion, I found myself enveloped in the complexities of our entwined lives.

"We've got you, Mary," I whispered, offering solace as we led her away from her fears, my mind racing with questions about the mysterious "she" that haunted her. In that moment, bound by shared fears and the promise of protection, we stood together—a testament to the enduring power of human connection amidst the shadows of the unknown.

As Shawn's question lingered in the air, a veil of confusion momentarily cloaked Mary's features, her emotions teetering on the edge of turmoil. With great effort, she steadied her voice, a delicate balance between vulnerability and resolve. "It's Zoya," she whispered, the name escaping her lips like a secret long held. "While the three of us share a bond forged in childhood, Zoya... Zoya is the fourth wheel always following us."

Shawn's inquiry seemed to unravel a hidden layer of complexity within their camaraderie. "But why 'the fourth wheel?" The question, simple in its asking, hinted at an intricate web of relationships, where Zoya, seemingly peripheral, was yet integral to their story.

I, too, felt a twinge of curiosity. It was unusual, this delineation of Zoya as an outsider within their inner circle, suggesting a connection that was, perhaps, as enigmatic as it was profound.

Mary's next words painted a picture of a friendship that was, in essence, exclusive yet inclusive of Zoya. "We met in high school," she began, her narrative tinged with the residue of fear yet striving for clarity. It was evident that the shadows of her ordeal lingered, muddling her thoughts like scattered pieces of a puzzle yearning for order.

Despite the urgency of the moment, a wave of compassion surged within me. Understanding the fragile thread of courage Mary clung to, I offered silent support, hoping to weave a semblance of comfort through the tension that enveloped us.

Grasping the olive branch of my empathy, Mary continued, her gaze flickering with a fleeting gratitude. "The three of us were like royalty among our peers, basking in the inherited glow of our families' fortunes. With Youthful ignorance, and popularity, we ruled the school as our kingdom." Her voice, a blend of nostalgia and regret, hinted at the allure such status held, attracting many who wished to bask in their reflected light.

In the intricate dance of their youth, Zoya emerged as the most determined of all the girls who sought the warmth of their exclusive circle, her ambition a flame that refused to be extinguished.

"I returned yesterday," Mary's voice broke the silence, heavy with a revelation that seemed to pull the very air taut around us. "Seeing Susan... it was as if the shadows themselves whispered Zoya's return. But I could never have envisioned the depth of her resentment, a vendetta that goes so far that it sought to reach beyond the grave."

Shawn's murmur, "A grudge wearing red, now it makes sense" threaded through the tension, his words painting the air with the color of vengeance. My glance towards him was sharp, a silent plea for silence, allowing Mary's narrative the reverence it demanded.

Zoya's story, as Mary unfolded it, was tinged with the hues of envy and determination. Despite her modest background, Zoya draped herself in the trappings of luxury, her aspirations clashing starkly with the effortless grace of her peers. To the trio, Zoya's efforts were but feeble attempts at mimicry, her presence an echo rather than a voice.

Yet, Zoya's resolve was unyielding. A pivotal moment came, a test of loyalty and revenge, when she defended Cristina against a supposed betrayal, her actions a tempest of fury against Laura, Zoya's once confidante. This act of vengeance, misguided as it may have been, served as her rite of passage into their enclave, transforming their trio into a quartet where Zoya, despite her efforts, remained on the periphery.

Mary's recollections painted a vivid picture of that time—a tableau of young souls navigating the complex hierarchy of their microcosm, where Zoya, adorned in the cast-offs of those she sought to emulate, smiled through the disdain, her ambition undimmed by their scorn.

Time, however, is a relentless force, weaving change into the fabric of relationships with threads unseen. The disdain once cloaked in the guise of friendship began to ferment into something darker, something that lurked in the shadows of their shared past.

As Mary continued, her words hinted at a saga that defied the innocence of their youth, revealing a chapter of their lives marked by decisions that would forever alter the course of their destinies. The tale she wove was a testament to the unpredictable nature of human hearts, especially those underestimated and pushed into the darkness.