Ugh… I don't even wanna talk about this one.
But whatever. You're here. I'm here. We're doing this.
Sweet 16. That's what they called it. Like it was cute or whatever.
Let me ask you something. If someone dies at your party, do you still get to make a wish when you blow out the candles?
I didn't even like cake. I liked the attention. The power. The fact that people finally gave a shit.
I mean… yeah, I was famous. You would be too, if someone died and everyone thought you did it but then boom—you walk free.
Ex-convict with a baby face. Who wouldn't wanna invite that girl to their table?
So, yeah. I leaned into it. I planned the biggest party my school had ever seen. Maybe I was trying to prove I was untouchable.
Spoiler alert: I wasn't.
My ***** died that night.
And that's when everything started coming for me.
—And now here I am, confined to this bed, still craving the spotlight even when the lights are out—
Hello, Chicos y Chicas. Yeah, I know—I'm treating this like a blog. But hey, bedridden doesn't mean the ability to have fun is, too.
I'm pretty sure I'd be a hell of an influencer, don't y'all think so?
Okay, cut the shit. School life got instantly better. But damn, I had to sacrifice a lot for that fame. I literally obliterated my morals.
No popular high-schooler is morally upright—let's face it. I was no different, and neither are the shitty high-schoolers of today. Ugh.
I was raised—or at least raised myself—to believe true sex needs some connection or whatever. But think about it: real sex is rarely as fun as what you see on "The Hub." It's just missionary, doggie, maybe a splash of oral—nothing like the athleticism and wild variety that grace those screens on **** sites.
"Brought myself up" is the right phrase, because being a teenager is arguably the hardest stage—for kids and parents alike. So please, parents, stop complaining about how hard it is.
'Cause what we need—what I needed—was simple: love, support, attention. Lots of you are like, "But they give it." No. That's not it. Not even close.
You should walk your way up to that stage where I can come home and tell you about my troubles, my worries—just spill how my day actually went, you know?
So yeah, we're complicated—especially us girls—but big whoop. You all went through the same crap. It might be harder now with technology and all, but honestly, the old-school method works like a charm. I wish my mom had thought of this. But hey, when you're Christian, you believe everything happens for a reason. If she'd done it, I wouldn't be here, stuck narrating my life from a bed. I'd have already told her everything, and she'd have whisked me away from this country I'm… currently stuck in.
Okay, enough! I'm starting to sound like a therapist for parents—and I always get carried away. So… um… back to the point. I'm dialing it down, okay? Good.
Sweet sixteen… sweet little sixteen. Right. My birthday was a week away, and I was—no joke—both terrified and excited. I was "terricited."
I didn't have time for a montage. Fast forward to today: shopping—lots and lots of shopping—while invitation cards flew out. I basically invited the whole bloody school. Because, you know, the Queen was throwing a coronation, so yeah—peasants and nobles alike were welcome.
But my mom never actually told me where she got the money to book a hall that big. I guess I must've had fans, super-secret donors, or maybe my guardian angel was just filthy rich.
Honestly, though, I'm glad the party didn't go as planned—otherwise you wouldn't have a five-foot-somethin' Davina Hetley narrating her own train wreck. Kooky, innit?
And no, I'm not British—I just dig their slang. "Innit, mate." And I'm definitely not Mexican. Wait… is it "Mei-ko" or "Mexico"? So is it "May-hee-kan" or "mek-see-kan"? Ummm… I'll go with Mexican ("May-hee-kan"). Cool. I'm not from a Spanish-speaking country—I'm proudly—okay, not so proudly but distinctively—American. Yeah, American. I learn Spanish because it's cool. French can wait.
Anyway, back to business. There was something off about the invitations. I designed them, but the venue info? That was my mom's addition. It was meant to be a "surprise," I guess—turns out it was more than that.
Oh, and before I fast-forward to D-Day, there was the rodent infestation at home. House needed fumigation, so we decamped to a hotel. No place nearby to crash, so hotel it was.
That morning, I woke up at 5 a.m.—the earliest I've ever risen in my entire pre-adult life. I wanted my skincare routine to be on point for my big day. I brushed my teeth, washed my hair, then showered. Hair done, I came out to dry it when I heard the window creak. Scared the shit out of me. I ducked behind the bathroom door. Then… footsteps. Two of them. Men? Boys? Approaching the door.
Kidnap me like a coward? Or go down swinging? Instinct kicked in—I yanked the hair dryer from its socket and held it like a weapon.
When I felt the footsteps getting louder—closer and closer—I bolted out of the bathroom in my bathrobe, hair dryer spinning overhead. It didn't last long: thwack—smack on Kidnapper 1's forehead. He lost it. But who gives a fuck? Those bitches grabbed me by the arms, hoisted me up, my legs flailing like crazy.
I screamed, sure I'd wake my mom—she's a "deep sleeper," though—so nope. Next thing I knew, they shoved me into a black bag. Being tossed into that thing was dehumanizing as hell.
Word of advice: never book a ground-floor room. They tossed me right out the window, no sweat. Then into their trunk. Thirty minutes of speeding later, the trunk popped open. Blindfold still on, but free. I figured they didn't want me spotting landmarks.
If my life were a Bollywood flick, this is where I'd end up in a warehouse by a train station, engines roaring, so whenever my family was called for a ransom, my ass would've already been saved by my ninja boyfriend, who would've kicked the fuck out of the perpetrators' "asses."
They just guided me—hand in hand—into a building, then just walked away. Just turned and left; no ties, no threats.
Foolishly, for some reason, they didn't tie my hands up.
I chuckled, yanked off the blindfold, and—boom—a massive banner:
> "Happy Birthday, 'D'. We kinda love you 😁"
Then a roar:
> "Happy Birthday, Davina! Woo!"
RESPECTIVELY
It turns out that those boys kidnapped me to bring me to my own party. My suprise party. My God I was loved.
I couldn't even contain how happy I felt and smiled, till it came out immediately with tears of joy. Which, of course, my friends Elsie and Becky rushed to use a hug and hide, 'cause the Queen doesn't falter or show emotions, and definitely not publicly.
Who's Elsie and Becky? Oh, that's a nice question, which I'm going to answer by saying: you get more acquaintances when you get famous. Even if Elsie and Becky might try to always be there for me. But to me, just shopping buddies and gal pals. Necessary for boys' gossip (not on my side though).
They're there for sleepovers, girls' night out—Night Out. Oh, and makeup! And Instagram posts.
To me, they're just like... Iron Man's Jarvis. But... sexier.
So they took— I mean, escorted me — to a room where I would change. I don't even think there was an upstairs; I'm probably mixing things up. Y'all will have to bear with me because I'm a bit demented — I hit my head pretty bad, breathe.
I came out of the dressing room looking all flamboyant and shit, only to find out that my mama was in on it too: scaring the living shit out of me.
I walked up to her with a sarcastic little smile and said, "Hi, mom."
She just stood there, glaring at me for like five business days, and before I could even say another word, she hugged me.
It was the exact definition of a warm embrace, and it made my heart melt, because that hadn't happened in a very long time.
And before you get confused, let me clear this now:
I mean, the last time I hugged her — well, the next time — I was practically being sent away by her. But we ain't talking about that yet, so… yeah.
Anyway, she wished me a happy birthday, kissed me on my forehead, and pointed towards my dad — well, stepdad — who I originally thought paid for all the decorations and stuff, being the man of the house and all. We weren't very close, but I loved him and I still do, because he was more of a dad to me than the bitch that actually fathered me. Ugh. I'm getting emotional again.
I walked over to him, and this time I was the one to deliver a huggie. Yeah, you heard that — a huggie. I think bro was shook because I'd never seen him stay so still and shocked like that. Maybe because it was the first time we've ever done this. We've ever done that.
He said to me all the fatherly stuff he was supposed to say to me, as all dads do, so there wasn't really much to note — except for the eerie statement he made before giving me away to my guardian angel. For the lost puppies.
My Guardian Angel, or GA, is a reference to the policeman that exonerated me from my murder charges then.
My dad said, "Davina, I want you to know that whatever happens to you, or me, or your mom today… that we love you, and I forgive you. It's not your fault. It was never your fault." Then he pecked me on my cheek with a final hug goodbye.
Of course I asked if everything was okay, but as all adults — and teenagers — or at least every human above 16 would put it:
I AM FINE. EVERYTHING IS OKAY.
I was totally weirded out, like, what the actual fuck? And as usual, I lost interest quicker than any sane person should, so I carried on talking with my guests — "the girls" — and occasionally Kai, who was so bloody happy to be acknowledged through me. The name Murderer's Bestie stings a little sometimes, yeah, but it grows on you. It did for Kai, and it did for MURDER. Somehow.
"Hey, Kai," I said, flicking a strand of hair out of my face. "If you're going to follow me around all dramatic like a tragic sidekick, at least learn how to look intimidating."
He crossed his arms, scowling. "I am intimidating!"
"Sure, sure," I said, rolling my eyes. "Like a confused puppy in leather boots chewing on a shoe."
"Confused puppies can bite!"
"Yeah, but not like you. You're more like a squeaky chew toy."
He groaned. I grinned. "Exactly. Keep practicing, buddy."
I was in the middle of a convo with Kai when I saw my GA walk in, so I did the mature thing: I abandoned Kai immediately to go greet him—Normal pleasantries, nothing dramatic.
Oh — did I forget Zach came to the party too? Yeah. He didn't speak to me at all, so I assumed bro came strictly for the food and drinks. Miserable fuck.
"Davina, no!" Kai shouted from across the room. Before I could even process that, he got kicked down and pinned to the floor by some hefty cis white man in a suit.
Then everything snapped.
I heard a glass shatter. Then a heavy body hit the ground. I turned — and lo and behold, it was my stepdad. Man fell flat on his face, and fragments of the shattered glass were embedded in his cheek and anywhere the shards kissed his skin.
People started screaming and running out of the hall like they were next in line. Ugh. Such stupidity.
I looked right: Kai, pinned by a stranger.
Left: my mum struggling against two others holding her down.
Behind me: my stepdad lying in a pool of his own bad decisions. Cos let's be serious willfully taken on a girl to train is just corporal punishment for yourself.
Directly in front of me? Two strangers with guns, standing like they owned the place — with my GA and Zach standing between them.
What a shwdown.
Now look, I'm normally always in control of my emotions — to the point where people swear I'm some kind of sociopath because I don't react the way "normal humans" apparently should.
But this time… this time was different. Very fucking different.
I was having the most dramatic emotional meltdown the universe has ever witnessed.
I dropped to my knees, and my tears followed suit.
The migraines hit harder, like someone was pounding on the inside of my skull, trying to get out. I couldn't understand why, how, when… okay, fine — I knew who. But then something else happened. Something that wasn't entirely… me.
My palms went cold. My feet began trembling. My voice came out coarse, broken, and in this screeching tone I didn't even recognise. And before I could think, before I could breathe, I heard myself scream:
"I'll kill you all! I want all of you DEAD
I remember the shouting. The heat in my chest. The way everything in the room felt too sharp, too loud, too wrong.
I kept telling myself to breathe, calm down, don't make it worse — but my heartbeat was moving mad, like something inside me was trying to claw its way out.
And then…
I don't know.
Everything sort of… cuts.
Like someone yanked the plug on my senses.
I remember the moment I stopped being inside my body.
The world didn't wait for her.
The air folded in on itself, bending around Davina as if the room were trying to escape her. Shadows broke from the corners like living ink, stretching toward her trembling hands.
Her eyes stayed wide open, but she wasn't in them anymore — her consciousness slipping out like a light switched off.
The floorboards shuddered. The lamps flickered. A low hum rolled through the air, vibrating through the walls as if something old had just woken up beneath her skin.
Davina didn't move.
But the shadows around her did — twisting, responding, forming shapes that should not have existed.
The building shook. The windows around the hall shattered. She opened her eyes and glanced at a shard of mirror on the floor. The color of her eyes… black. A deep, unnatural black that felt wrong, like it wasn't entirely hers. For a split second, they flickered—a trace of her own color trying to push through—before the darkness reclaimed them.
She remained frozen, suspended between terror and unconsciousness, while the darkness she'd never met before rose from the ground like it had been waiting for her.
Davina raised her hand, and the air in the hall trembled with unseen force. The hired hooligans, their faces frozen in disbelief, were flung across the room as though tossed by an invisible storm. Bullets screamed through the air, yet none of them found their mark; an unseen shield seemed to cradle her, holding death at bay.
Two men, bolder—or perhaps more foolish—than the rest, aimed directly for her head. The projectiles froze mid-flight, suspended by an unseen will. In the same instant, the bullets reversed course, snapping back toward their owners. When they struck, necks bent unnaturally (they snapped), breaking like brittle twigs beneath the weight of inevitable consequence. One by one, they collapsed.
Right, here's the Zack scene rewritten in third-person, keeping it dramatic and aligned with the awakening tone you already have:
Zack came charging toward her, eyes wide with a mix of fear and determination. For a moment, it seemed as if he might reach her, to calm her, to intervene in the chaos she had just unleashed.
But Davina's anger flared, uncontrollable, a storm beyond her conscious command. In a swift, furious motion, she flung him across the room. He soared through the air, helpless and weightless, until he crashed violently into the street outside.
A lorry, hurtling down the road, met him before he could recover. The collision was brutal and instantaneous. Zack's body was obliterated, leaving nothing but the echo of what had been.
Davina stood there, trembling, the raw, uncontrolled surge of power coursing through her, the magnitude of her actions sinking in too late.
Kai and her mother appeared at the edge of the chaos, rushing toward her. Davina lifted them effortlessly, yet her eyes betrayed the struggle within: black waves flickered at the corners of her vision, as if a part of her, darker and untamed, sought to emerge. The flicker was brief, but violent. The darkness surged back with renewed strength, colliding with her consciousness, forcing her knees to buckle. The weight of it slammed into her, blurring her sight, and finally, she fell.
Amid the chaos, a single figure moved with a rare clarity, unnoticed before: a guest who had seemed frantic, fleeing aimlessly through the hall, had seen enough. Their fingers flew to a phone, and a call cut through the clamor—911. Sirens began wailing in the distance even as the shadows began to recede. By the time the ambulance arrived, Davina had slipped into unconsciousness, her body limp but her soul restless.
All the while, within the recesses of her mind, it felt as though she were merely an observer. A detached visitor, watching her own life unravel on a cinematic screen in vivid detail. The movements, the destruction, the strange surge of power—it wasn't entirely her. Not yet. Something else had taken control. Something darker. Something that had always been a part of her.
And in that quiet, fleeting moment before oblivion, Davina—or the fragment of her that remained—understood a chilling truth: she was not alone within herself.