What doesn’t kill you… Chapter 4

I didn’t make it five steps into Stackhouse before I felt it—the eyes. Everyone watching, whispering. The air was heavy with it. Trailer doors cracked, curtains twitched, folks too curious to stay hidden. Word had already spread. People must’ve crawled out of the Spur and started talking. They knew what I did. They knew what I was.

Good.

I leaned into it, hips swinging, putting filth into my strut just to make them choke on it. Let them look. Every step, I felt more stares, heard more whispers. And then it hit me—I could really hear them. Not scraps, not guesses—every hushed word carried clear as glass, like the whole park had turned its volume up just for me.

“They say she’s a demon.”

“She killed four.”

“She went for Rhett.”

“They say she was shot and didn’t even bleed.”

“That’s nonsense. Don’t be stupid.”

I smirked. Wanna find out?

By the time I hit my door, there was a crowd lurking in the shadows. Not close—nobody had the guts for that—but hanging back, waiting to see if I’d catch fire. I didn’t spare ’em a word. Just went inside.

The stink of liquor hit me first. Mitch was home. Not as plastered as usual, but still glassy-eyed, still wrecked. The counter was littered with ripped-open envelopes. He’d been digging for my checks again. My jaw locked.

He stumbled up when he saw me. “They say… they say you killed people.” His eyes dropped to the blood smeared down my shirt, my arms. He froze. “Jolene… what’ve you done?”

I smiled slow. Sharp.

“What’ve I done?” I stepped in, clamped my hand around his throat, and lifted. Slammed him up until his head hit the ceiling. His legs dangled, kicking useless.

“What’ve I done, Mitch? You killed Mama. You drove her to the bottle, to the grave. You made me raise myself—raise you—or starve. You sat there like a coward while Rhett beat me bloody. You stole every dollar I earned puttin’ my body through hell, just so you could drink it away.

Turns out all that shit I been pumpin’ through my body finally did somethin’ worth a damn. N’ Rhett? He had it comin’. World’s better off without that bastard.”

His face turned purple. Tears streaked through the dirt on his cheeks. He clawed at my wrist, weak, desperate. “Jo… I’m your father—”

“Yeah,” I snapped, squeezing harder. “That’s been my curse.”

His feet swung, searching for the floor like a man hanging from a rope, and God, it felt good. Felt right. I could end him here. Every part of me wanted to. Yes.

And then I let go.

He hit the floor hard, wheezing, gagging, pathetic. I looked down at him. “I should kill you. World’d be better off.”

He stared up at me, trembling.

“But I won’t. Not today. You’re gonna get the fuck outta Stackhouse. You never show your face again. Next time I see you, you die.”

“I—I—”

“NOW!” My voice cracked like thunder. The trailer shook. Glass rattled in the sink.

He scrambled out the door, stumbling down the steps, running like the rat he was.

I stood there, chest tight, hand still tingling from the choke. Then I walked back to my room. Peeled off my torn top, stared at the blood smeared across my skin. Thought about how close I’d been. Why didn’t I finish it? Because he was my father? Because he wasn’t worth the effort?

Maybe.

But if he ever came back, I knew I wouldn’t hesitate again.

I shut my door and caught my reflection in the cracked mirror. Same girl staring back at me… only not. Still hot, sure, but sharper somehow. Tighter. Like everything about me had been turned up a notch. Skin looked shinier, eyes brighter, body cut just a little harder. Even the blood streaked across me gave it a wild edge I couldn’t hate.

I grabbed a towel from the bathroom, soaked it under the tap, and started wiping down. Red and brown smeared across the cloth—blood, dirt, all of it. I thought back on everything I’d been through in the last few hours. A wrecked truck cabin. A wall splintering around me. Bullets tearing through my clothes. Men I’d put down without breaking stride. And I was still standing. Better than standing. I kept scrubbing until I came out spotless, towel ruined.

My shorts were stained too, ugly patches of dried blood. I ripped them right down the seams, tossed ’em aside. That left me in nothing but panties and boots. I looked down at the boots and smirked. Low heels, scuffed from years of wear. Didn’t matter—no reason to swap them out for sneakers. Comfort wasn’t an issue anymore.

I dug through my drawer. Not much there. Pulled out a fresh pair of shorts—skimpier, tighter than the last. Denim clung to me like a second skin. Then I dragged on a black tank top so tight it bit into me, no bra, my chest pressed firm against it. The neckline cut low, the cleavage bold, wild.

Good. This worked. Made me look good. Then again, anything would now.

I smiled at myself in the mirror. I was ready.

I stepped out the front door and froze a second at the sight. A crowd had gathered—neighbors, faces I knew. Kayla Deen, staring at me wide-eyed. Old man Hogan, puffed up like always, thinking he’s some kinda mayor of Stackhouse. A bunch of others, all standing back in the dark, forming a wedge around my trailer.

I stopped at the top of the platform, hands on my hips, cocky grin on my face. “Had to come n’ check me out, huh?”

Whispers rippled, nervous, low. Good.

Hogan cleared his throat. “What did you do, Jolene?”

I smirked. “Haven’t ya heard?” My tone made it clear—I’d done everything they whispered and more. “’Cept maybe y’all didn’t hear about Rhett. Rat finally scurried away. Pride of Stackhouse, the little prince of shitheads? He’s gone too.” Gasps popped through the crowd. I leaned in, lips curling. “Begged in the end.”

Shock. Rage. Disbelief. Didn’t shake me.

“Couldn’t do nothin’ about him for years,” I told them, voice sharp. “Not when he fucked with people you knew. Not when he beat me bloody. So I did it for you. You’re welcome.”

Hogan’s jaw worked. He shifted gears. “You kicked Mitch out of his own house.”

I barked a laugh. “My house now.”

“You can’t do that,” he said.

“Sure I can,” I shot back. “Mitch better do what I said. And you too.” The words hit me even as I spoke them. That was the truth, wasn’t it? What this new strength meant. I repeated it, harder. “From now on, you better do what I say.”

That set him off. “You’re high,” Hogan snapped. “You don’t know what you’re sayin’. Maybe we need to call the cops.”

Gasps. Big words in Stackhouse. Nobody called the cops here.

I smirked and started down the steps, slow, making every movement count. Strutted right toward him. I saw his twitch, the way people near him backed off. But he couldn’t move. He had to stand, keep his little crown of authority.

I stopped in front of him, tilted my chin up—he was taller than me, but it didn’t matter—and smirked wicked.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” he snapped.

I laughed and grabbed a fistful of his t-shirt. One yank, and he was in the air, feet kicking. His scream cut through the park. I straightened my arm, held him high. No strain. Easy. The crowd gasped louder, stumbling back.

“This,” I said. My voice cut like a blade.

I held him up, scanned the crowd, then dragged my eyes back to the squirming, terrified Hogan. “Y’all believe what you heard now?”

Then I tossed him. Arm swung lazy, but the force sent him flying clear over a row of trailers. He disappeared, landing with a sick thud somewhere out of sight.

The crowd broke—screams, gasps, some bolting, some frozen.

I raised my voice, and it boomed out of me, unnatural, shaking windows. “UNDERSTAND NOW? From now on—you do as I say!”

My voice hit like a shotgun blast, echoing down the lanes, shaking tin walls in broad daylight. Sun was blazing overhead, every face lit clear—no shadows to hide in.

That’s when I locked eyes with Kayla Deen. She froze, arms tight across her chest, trying not to fold under my stare. I held it on her until she shivered.

“Give me a ride,” I said.

Her lips moved, stuttering, fumbling. “I—I don’t know if—”

“It wasn’t a fuckin’ question.”

*=*=*=*=*=*

We were on the road. Kayla Deen behind the wheel, white-knuckled grip, eyes locked dead ahead like if she looked at me too long I might snap her in half.

“Drive faster,” I told her, legs crossed on the dash, hands laced behind my head. “We’re crawlin’ for God’s sake.”

Her voice wavered. “I’m doin’ sixty-five.”

I snorted. “Hell, I could jog that.”

She flinched but kept her foot steady. Fear poured off her in waves, like the whole car smelled of it.

“What… what happened to you, Jolene?” she asked finally.

I smirked at the windshield. “Guess I’m gonna find out.”

Her eyes flicked sideways. “Your strength… it’s—”

“Cool, right?” I cut in.

Her lips trembled. “You killed people.”

“Mhm.”

“How could you…”

“Easier than it seems.” I let it hang, both ways. Physically. Emotionally.

She swallowed hard. “They say you were shot.”

“Yeah,” I said, stretching, lazy. “Stung like hell.”

“But you’re not hurt.”

I smiled at the road ahead. “Nothing does, it seems.”

We pulled into the lot at Silverpines Medical, Kayla’s grip still welded to the wheel. She kept darting glances at me like she wanted to ask something but was afraid her tongue might get cut out for it. Finally, she blurted:

“Do you think… do you think it was that drug you tested? That’s what did this to you?”

I grinned. “Either that or the milk at Corner Stop. What d’you think?”

Her jaw fell a little. “That’s impossible.”

“Ask Rhett,” I said, sweet as poison. Watched her swallow hard.

She tried again. “What are you gonna do now?”

“Get some answers.”

“How?”

I smirked, leaned closer. “Figure it out. Hopefully I don’t need to get too rough.”

Her knuckles tightened on the wheel. “You talk about that like it’s… natural.”

“It is natural.”

We rolled to a stop. I popped the latch, door creaking open. She looked at me, lip trembling. “Jolene… do you… do you think that drug could make someone else… like you?”

I shrugged. “Don’t know.”

Her eyes lit, just for a heartbeat. “Maybe… maybe I could try—”

“No.”

She blinked, shocked, disappointed. “But—”

“I don’t feel like sharin’.” I turned my smirk on her, slow and sharp.

“I’m your friend,” she whispered.

“That’s why I’m warnin’ you. If you set one foot in that clinic after me—I’ll snap your neck.”

Her breath caught, eyes wide. I swung out of the car, slammed the door, and sashayed toward the front entrance like it was a runway.

The clinic doors slid open and I walked straight in. The nurse at the front desk looked up, blinked twice, then gawked. “Jolene?”

“Dr. Bryant in?” I asked.

She stammered. “Y-yes, but… he’s with someone. You’re not on the list until next Monday.”

“I can’t waste time.” I started walking toward his door.

She rushed out from behind the counter, arms out. “You can’t go in there.”

I stopped, narrowed my eyes. Then I grabbed her by the back of the head and slammed her skull against the wall. She dropped, out cold.

An aide came rushing in at the sound, skidding to a stop when he saw the nurse crumpled on the floor. “What did you—”

I shoved him with one hand. Barely touched him, but he flew back into a column, head cracking. Out cold too.

“God,” I muttered. “People are so slow to get it, aren’t they?”

I reached the door, turned the knob, walked in like I owned the place.

Bryant was there, tense as a cornered animal. I could see it in his shoulders. He had heard the commotion, of course. Beside him, on a stretcher, was a woman—older than me, ugly as sin, trying not to breathe too loud.

“Jolene,” Bryant said. “What’s going on?”

“Need a word,” I told him.

“I’m with a patient—”

I walked straight to her. She turned her eyes to me, wide. I grabbed her by the shirt and hauled her clean off the stretcher. She screamed. Bryant screamed.

“What’s she taking?” I demanded.

“What?” Bryant blinked.

I lifted her higher, her feet kicking at air. “What the fuck is she taking? Same shit you gave me?”

“What—no, no!” He was panicking now. “Standard diabetes drug test—placebo!”

“Good.” I tossed her across the room. She hit the window, glass shattering as she crashed through to the ground outside. Softer than I usually threw.

Bryant yelled, horrified.

“She’ll live. Most probably,” I said, brushing my hands off. “Now. We need a word.”

He bolted for his desk, grabbed the phone, started dialing. 9-1-1.

I crossed the room in three strides, ripped it from his hand, crushed it in my fist. Plastic and wire rained to the floor.

Bryant’s mouth fell open.

I grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the wall. Not enough to break him—by my new standards, it was barely rough at all—but it rattled his bones good.

“I need a fuckin’ word,” I hissed. “And I need privacy. Do you fuckin’ understand?”

He nodded quick, eyes wide, sweat beading on his forehead. Scared shitless. Freaked out.

“Good,” I told him, smiling like a wolf.

I lifted him like he weighed nothing, carried him over, and dropped him in his chair. “Stay.” I slid into the chair across from him, stretched out, long legs folded onto his desk, skin bare but for the scraps of denim I’d pulled on earlier.

He swallowed. “Jolene… what happened to you?”

“That’s what I was hopin’ you could help me with.”

“It… it can’t be,” he muttered, shaking his head.

“What was the fuckin’ drug, Bryant?”

His voice cracked. “It can’t be—”

My volume snapped up, unnatural, rattling the glass panes. “WHAT WAS THE FUCKIN’ SHIT YOU PUT THROUGH ME?”

“Enhancer!” he shouted back before he could stop himself.

“Not sports,” I shot.

He shook his head, panicked. “No.”

“Then what?”

He stammered, mumbling. My hand slid across the table, found a paperweight. I curled my fingers and crushed it to powder, grit trickling out between my knuckles. His eyes nearly popped.

“What the fuck was it?” I asked again.

He darted his eyes around, desperate. “I… I can’t… I promised. Signed—”

“How much would you like to be dead, Bryant? Not quick. Slow. Bone by bone.”

I stood, moved behind him. My hands fell soft on his shoulders, kneading like a massage. He let out a shaky breath. Then I clamped down, vicious grip, and he shrieked.

“What the fuck did you put through me?”

His body shook. “The… the company. The one I worked with. Long-term military project. Performance enhancer for soldiers in the field.”

“Super soldier?” I said.

“K-kind of. But temporary. Like a boost. For combat. But… they’re testing an unexplored avenue. Think they can make so much more money.”

“Then what?” I asked. “How does it work?”

“I… I don’t know. They don’t give me the details.”

“Then why test it?”

“They’re years away from approved trials. But they needed the data.”

I narrowed my eyes. “How many people?”

He swallowed. “Just you.”

“What?” I froze. “Why?”

His lips trembled. I understood.

“I’m not supposed to survive, am I?”

He shook his head.

I yanked him up by the throat, slammed him to the wall. “Am I?”

He gasped, tears streaking his face, shaking his head again.

I smiled cold. “I get it now. Young girl. Stackhouse. They’d say I overdosed.”

Tears streamed down his cheeks. I dropped him. He crumpled on the floor. I crouched beside him. “What were my chances of living?”

He shook his head, sobbing.

“Answer me!” I snapped, voice sharp.

“L-less than fifty percent,” he gasped.

“What were you gonna check on Monday?”

He coughed. “Signs of early stroke.”

My lip curled. “What were the chances of me gettin’ stronger than a pack of bulls?”

“I… I don’t know. I only ran the tests. They never told me how it worked—”

“Who is they?”

He bit down on his lip, eyes darting. Trying to hold it in.

I leaned in close, one hand sliding over his chest like I was steadyin’ him. Then I pushed, sudden, sharp, right between his ribs. Heard the crack, felt it give under my fingers like dry wood snapping.

His whole body jolted. Mouth flew open, a strangled cry tearing out before he could choke it down. It wasn’t a clean scream—it broke halfway, cracked high, then dropped raw and ugly. His face twisted, red and wet, spit stringing from his lips as he gasped for air.

I didn’t flinch. I watched it ripple through him, felt his bones grind under my hand.

“Still don’t wanna talk?” I asked soft, calm, while he writhed under my grip. “I’ll go one by one,” I said, calm as a blade. “Can they do that?”

He whimpered, shaking his head.

CRACK. Another rib gave way under my hand. He jerked sideways with a guttural scream, raw and desperate, echoing off the walls. His breath hitched, pain ripping through him, eyes wide like he couldn’t believe I’d just done it again.

Finally he groaned it out. “Northwell Biogenics.”

“Where?”

“Brighton,” he sobbed.

I let him drop, stood, brushed dust from my hands. “Guess I’ll need to pay them a visit.”

“Stand up,” I said.

He whimpered, clutching his ribs, staying down.

I let the volume rip out of me, unnatural, shaking the glass. “STAND THE FUCK UP!”

He scrambled, dragged himself upright, leaning hard on the desk for balance.

“What were the results of the analysis?”

His lips trembled. “I… I only send it to Northwell. They analyze it. They don’t tell me anything.”

“And the tests?”

“M-more than fifty percent improvement.”

I stared him down. “This feels a hell of a lot more than fifty.”

“I don’t… maybe a catalyst…” He trailed off, eyes darting.

I thought about it. Thought about the night everything tore apart, the way death itself had brushed me. Didn’t explain it. Didn’t need to.

“Do you have any more of that shit left?”

His eyes went wide.

I stepped closer. “I said—do you?”

“What do you… what do you want to do with it?” he stammered.

“What d’you think?”

His head shook. “It’s not a good idea—”

“Bryant,” I said, low and sharp, leaning in close. “Don’t fuckin’ stall me.”

He froze, then started rambling. “What you took—it was extremely diluted—”

“What the fuck do you have?”

“Listen, I—”

CRACK.

He screamed, clutching his side, sliding half over the desk. Another rib gone.

“I want it,” I said. “Now.”

Groaning, he stumbled toward the fridge, limp dragging him across the room. Every move sounded like it hurt. He reached in, pulled out a vial—clear liquid, full.

I snatched it from him, held it up to the light. “This ain’t much.”

“It’s concentrated,” he gasped. “What you got was… was diluted—thousands of times.”

“In English.”

“There’s over a thousand times more of the component here than you took in a week.”

My grin spread. “Good.”

“Don’t,” he pleaded. “They don’t know what can happen! The chances of dying were over fifty percent with just a thousandth of that—please!”

“I’ve been shot,” I said, rolling the vial between my fingers. “And I don’t have a scratch.”

I popped the cap and downed it.

Bryant’s scream tore through the office. “NO!”

The second the liquid hit my stomach, I felt it. Warmth blooming out from deep inside me, curling up my spine, wrapping around my ribs. My skin flushed hot, every nerve tingling like I was standing naked in the sun.

“Ohh… oh, yes…” My head tipped back, eyes half-lidded. “Oh, that’s good…”

Strength pooled through me, heavy and sweet, almost orgasmic. My chest swelled with it, my legs thrummed against the floor like a live wire. I laughed, low and breathy, clutching my sides. “Ohhh… fuck… oh yes…”

My thoughts blurred, half-slow, half-drugged, drifting with the current flooding through me. This was the right call. Best decision I ever made. God, what’ll it do to me? Maybe I’ll stay the same. Maybe I’ll get stronger. Stronger than I already am. Can you believe it?

I glanced at Bryant, caught the horror plastered across his face. I smirked, eyes heavy. “Don’t look so scared, Doc. You’re watchin’ history.” My words slurred with pleasure.

He twitched toward the door but didn’t move. He was too afraid. Too hooked.

I let the feeling wash me, moaning, lips parting, hands pressing against my thighs. “Oh God… oh yes… mmm… this… this is what I was meant for…”

Then it shifted.

The warmth turned sharp. A burn. It spread quick, catching like fire under my skin.

My smile faltered. “That’s… hot…” I hissed through my teeth. “Fuck, that’s hot—”

The heat spiked, boiling me alive. I groaned, doubled over, clutching my stomach. My skin crawled, veins singing like molten wire.

“Ahh—what the fuck—what is this?!”

It roared higher. Pain stabbing, tearing, ripping from the inside. I dropped to my knees, nails scraping across the floor. My breaths came shallow, ragged, and every inhale felt like knives.

“Doc—! What the fuck did you—ahhh—!”

Convulsions tore through me, violent, uncontrollable. My body slammed the desk, rattled the glass, kicked a chair clear across the room. One arm lashed wide and nearly took Bryant’s head off. He flinched, frozen.

I couldn’t see him anymore. Couldn’t see anything but the haze of fire blistering my vision.

Another spasm snapped me sideways, crashing me into the wall. My teeth rattled, a scream ripping up my throat so raw it shook the room. Windows quivered, the ceiling tiles rained dust.

Bryant finally bolted. I heard his shoes slap once, then vanish.

Didn’t matter. Couldn’t stop it.

It was worse than being shot. Worse than being hit, cut, burned. God—it was like being ripped open from the inside, every cell catching fire, shredded to pieces.

“AHHHHHHHH!” My scream tore out, rattling the whole clinic, echoing like a siren. I clawed at the floor, knees giving out, then my back arching so hard it felt like my spine would snap.

Why didn’t I listen? The thought spiraled through me, blurred with the agony. Got greedy. Got drunk on it. I was perfect. I had it all. And now—

I convulsed again, body snapping like a ragdoll, foam at the corners of my mouth. The room was rubble—desk shattered, papers burned from my touch, walls cracked from the force of my thrashing.

I bit off more than I could chew.

My last scream tore my throat raw, the sound rattling the air like thunder. Then—black.

Everything collapsed in pain.

I died.