“Ow, damn!” I snarl as the tip of my eyeliner slips and stabs me in the cornea.

I rub at my eyeball aggressively, smearing black across my eyelid. I look at my teary reflection in the mirror and assess the damage.

Not bad, actually. A little more goth than what I was going for, but at least no one will mess with me. That’s what I get for trying to do a cat eye. I should’ve known better. My hands shake constantly. There’s always a slight tremor, even when I’m lying down. It’s like my body still thinks I’m in danger.

But I’m not. It’s time for a fresh start. New year, new me, and all of that bullshit, right?

It’s my first day at my new college. The last thing I want to do is stick out like a sore thumb. I pray that people won’t know who I am at this school. But I probably won’t get off that easy. Nothing has come easy for me in the past few months.

I just want to make a good first impression. Maybe even make some friends. Have a normal college education. Go to a party or two. Make a few bad yet sensible decisions. Is that too much to ask for?

It’s pretty crazy that I made it back to college. It wasn’t so long ago that I vowed never to set foot on a campus again. Not after everything I’ve been through. I would settle for a job at a fast-food chain, or maybe become a nun. Anything to avoid going back to school.

And yet, here I am. Isis Chambers, in the flesh. Still standing after all this time. I can hardly believe it. I often pinch myself hard enough to leave bruises. Just to make sure I’m really alive.

What can I say? Hermithood is not the lifestyle for me. So I need to find new people to fill my life with. All the old ones are gone.

But enough teetering on the edge of Memory Lane.

I still haven’t finished unpacking. I dig through one of the boxes and find my beloved stuffie, Grumpy. He’s a dog. Or maybe a rabbit. Kind of hard to tell. We’ve been through a lot together.

I plop him on my bed. If anyone gives me shit about Grumpy, there’ll be hell to pay.

Hopefully my roommate isn’t awful.

I stare at her already made-up bed. It looks normal enough. Her side of the room is clean, orderly. A couple of band posters. Nothing too showy or alarming. I bet she’s never had to worry about anything. Not money. Not her literal mortality.

She took the better bed, which means I’m stuck sleeping in the windowless corner.

If that weren’t shitty enough, there’s a drum kit in the middle of the room.

Seriously? Who brings an entire fucking drum kit to their dorm room? I don’t care how talented of a musician she is. How the hell am I supposed to study—or sleep—with the drums? There’s no way she’ll be allowed to keep them. At least I hope not.

I really have no room to be complaining. I’m lucky that Atlantic University accepted my transfer application, especially since last semester was full of incompletes. In my defense, those incompletes were because I was dealing with TRAUMATIC. SHIT. Luckily, the dean or whoever has a heart, and Atlantic let me in.

Thank god I didn’t have to write a personal essay. I think Atlantic just took pity on me and let me in. Who wants to be the college that rejects Isis Chambers?

Yippee. Here’s to me living the rest of my life. My future’s so bright, I’ve gotta wear shades.

Suddenly, the door to my room bursts open with zero warning, causing me to scream. It’s involuntary. I’m a bit jumpy these days, to put it lightly.

Standing in the entryway is a girl who I’m assuming is Edith, my roommate. She is…also screaming.

Now we’re both screaming.

Shit. Way to make a good first impression. Somehow, I doubt we’re going to spend our first night talking all through the night until we fall asleep.

“Are you Edith?” I ask stupidly.

She stares at me with her jaw dropped. I don’t blame her. She probably thinks I’m fucking crazy.

“Yes,” she says, glaring at me like I have the plague.

“I’m Isis,” I say apologetically.

“Like the terrorist group?” she asks flatly.

Like I haven’t heard that one before.

“No. More like the goddess of healing and magic,” I reply.

“Healing and magic. You don’t say,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “What the hell is your damage, Isis? Are you trying out for a metal band or something?”

“I’m sorry. That was so weird of me, I swear I don’t make a habit of screaming at people… First day jitters, I guess.”

I hold my breath, hoping that she buys it.

Edith studies me carefully.

“Wait a minute,” she says.

Oh no.

“I think I know you.”

Oh, god. I’m going to scream again.

“Where do I know you from?” Her eyebrows knit in confusion.

I let you a sigh. I knew this would happen eventually. It was only a matter of time.

“Holy shit! You’re the final girl! From the Frostville College killings!” Edith exclaims, answering her own question.

I smile awkwardly, like, You got me. There’s no point in denying it. Goddamnit. I should’ve gotten reconstructive facial surgery or something.

“I am she,” I say, trying to look nonchalant. Like, everyone on campus casually got killed except me. No big deal.

“Oh my god. So you were there…oh my god. That’s insane. What was it like?!”

What was it like?

I hate when people ask me that. What a stupid, insensitive question. It’s impossible to answer.

Edith looks like she’s getting ready to conduct a full interview, so I excuse myself, almost knocking her over as I pass by.

I lock myself in the bathroom, where I proceed to have a full-blown panic attack.

This year is going to be impossible. Talking about the killings always triggers my attacks. I’m always hit with horrible flashbacks.

Yes, I’m the sole survivor. The so-called Final Girl. If everyone on campus recognizes me and what happened with Edith just now repeats itself on a daily basis, I won’t make it through the semester. I’ll be reduced to a puddle. I won’t get my B.A. I won’t graduate. I’ll have to become feral and live in the woods.

Why did I think I could do this? I’m never going to be normal again. People know my face. They associate it with a serial killer. It’s so fucked up. I survived, and now all people think of when they see me are the students who were killed. I invoke fear and sadness just by being alive. That’s my lot in life as a survivor of a tragedy.

I splash some cold water on my face in an attempt to calm down.

Maybe I should become a hermit after all. I’d have a lot of time to read. I wouldn’t have to worry about bothering anyone. If I lived in the woods, I wouldn’t have to pay rent. I could learn to hunt and gather.

I count backward from ten, slowly.

I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. At least my eyeliner looks cool.

When I reemerge, Edith is gone. Thank god. She probably made a run for it. Maybe she realized what an asshole she was being and got embarrassed.

I finish unpacking, mostly in a trance. I don’t even remember putting my clothes away in the closet or putting my books on the shelves.

My hands are visibly shaking. I need a break.

I force myself to go walk around campus. The fresh air will do me good.

I may have spoken too soon.

All around campus, I can feel people staring at me. Some of them are even pointing. I can’t be sure, but I think I even spy a couple of phones being pointed at me.

Great. Now I can become a TikTok star. Dreams come true.

The Frostville killings were like a murderous reality TV show from hell unfolding right in front of my eyes. But to everyone else on the planet, it’s just another fascinating story that someone will turn into a podcast. And then a TV show. And then a movie. And then a Broadway musical.

I swear to god, I’m on the verge of another panic attack.

I dive into the first building I see, regretting my decision not to buy an enormous floppy hat and sunglasses so I could look like one half of the Olsen twins on campus.

I’d rather be mistaken for a celebrity than a final girl.

Someone places a hand on my arm.

I stiffen.

My survival instincts kick in before I can blink.

I immediately turn around and throw a punch at that person’s face.