Face-Slapping12 min read
"Tell Me You Pushed Me — I Dare You"
ButterPicks9 views
"I took the picture."
I was holding the camera like a weapon when the hotel door cracked open.
"You promised to marry Alexis, Miles," a sneering voice said. "Why are you still seeing me, Claudia? Alexis won't know."
"Heh," came another voice, rough and drunk. "I'm marrying her for the project money. When it's done, I'll throw her away."
Click. Click. Click.
"I told you to stop!" they both cursed as I snapped more shots.
"I signed the wedding off," I said aloud to myself. "Court next." Then I left.
Back in my small apartment, I was about to post the photos when the system spoke.
"Forget now. Travel later," the voice said.
Blackness closed around me.
When I woke, my head hammered. There were memories that were not mine: a girl in a blue dress pushing me into a dry well, a hand slamming my head against rock, the smell of wet dirt, someone laughing as I sank under the surface.
Then the system voice came again. "Alexis Chaney, you have crossed into another time. Accept your role."
I sat up and saw a straw mat, a plain wooden wardrobe, worn walls. I touched my arms. They were small, callused. My name was Alexis Chaney in this life. This world was a village in a chapter of an old book I had read. I had not come here to be a heroine. I had come here to be the footnote everyone stepped on.
"System," I said loudly, "what now?"
Silence. The system slept like a dead machine.
I limped out. Someone carried me part of the way without thinking. He was tall, wide-shouldered, wearing work pants and a white-blue T-shirt. He knelt and pressed at my ankle with strong, calm hands.
"Don't shout," he said. "It will hurt more."
"Who are you?" I asked.
"Arlo," he said briefly. "Get on."
I remember thinking: trust the man who presses like massage and acts like he owns the river. I climbed onto his back. He smelled of earth and oats. He put me down at the riverbank, said, "Rest. The village is near."
"Arlo, thanks," I said.
He waved and walked off.
I heard a voice call, "Alexis! Alexis!"
My brothers—my new brothers—came running. My mother cried. I let them fuss. I let them call me their "little treasure." For the moment, that warmth felt like armor.
Later, in the small room, my mother scolded the cruel cousin I now had: Claudia O'Brien. "That girl is bad," she spat. "She pushed you into a well? I'll make the whole village spit her out."
Claudia tried to act innocent. I looked down at her shoes. "Why do you have river moss on your soles?" I asked.
"What? I don't know," she lied fast.
"You do," I said. "You pushed me."
All the neighbors heard. They pointed at Claudia. She tried to rub the moss off. My mother lunged, slapped her. People shouted. I left while the crowd made judgment.
That night the system pinged and a menu flashed in my head. "Enter space."
I closed my eyes and opened the door to a small room that did not belong to the village—my space was still attached. A sofa, a cabinet that ate the house deed, a bottle of strange salve. I pulled out a vial labeled "Heal — Blood Move." I sprayed my ankle. Pain faded.
I was not just a copy. I had an advantage. I had a secret space tied to a bead I had in another life. This reveal changed everything.
The village turned fast. My mother marched to Claudia's house and broke dishes.
"Break their bowls," she said loud. "They tried to kill my daughter."
The rumor mill began. By morning, the whole valley thought Claudia had ruined my life for the sake of a city boy, Miles Dalton. The truth was messy: Miles wanted the city life and a ticket out. He whispered promises to many. The village chose sides.
"You have to apologize," my father insisted soft when Claudia's parents came to beg.
"Alexis," he said, "ask her to say sorry and we'll bury this."
Claudia came with trembling lips. "I'm—I'm sorry," she squeaked.
"Say it to my face," I said.
"Sorry," she said again.
I spat in her direction. "I don't want your sorry. I want the truth. You tried to kill me."
People gasped. She broke. She said nothing. The village had justice in its hands.
I felt a small thrill. The old me in the city would have screamed.
Days passed with small fires of gossip. I learned the rhythm here. I learned who hugged when nobody watched. I learned that the soldier-boy Arlo Jung kept his distance but watched me like a silent lighthouse.
One night, when the village slept, I whispered into my space, "I want to see the plot in fuller." The system gave me memories—I had in the other life been a woman who used gossip to climb. That woman in the book, Helena Hunter, was the bright star who everyone loved and envied. In the book, Helena saved me, then reached for the man and fortune. Here, Helena was smiling in public, and I felt a cold stab: she was not an ally; she was the puppeteer.
The next morning I watched Helena hang close to the mayor's circle. She moved like warmth. She laughed like sunlight. She spoke like a ribbon of promises. People warmed to her. I noticed also how she gave orders and how her eyes glinted when things burned.
"I will find out," I said into the night and pulled an old, narrow cane from my space—a trick light that could prove what eyes missed.
I started small. I baited Claudia with a rumor. I left the kitchen door unlocked. I planted a scrap of cloth on Claudia's route. She took the bait. She met people in shadow. When she returned, she slipped and I saw moss on her shoes again. I photographed it with the camera I had snuck from my city life.
"Alexis," Arlo said one afternoon as we carried water together, "be careful."
"I'm careful," I lied.
"You aren't," he said. "You are too brave."
He helped like he always did. He scrubbed my ankle, hummed an old song as if to scare pests away. He kept me from falling more times than I counted.
Then the sickness started.
"I swear I didn't do anything," Claudia said, clutching a bowl.
"Everyone in their house tonight," whispered the wife at the river. "They are sick. They can't stand."
It was too perfect. I had spoken one cold line into the moon: "Let those who harm my family have a bellyache." The system had granted me a small curse as part of the space's power—simple, childish, but effective. My mother smiled and said, "Maybe the heavens heard us."
That made me feel small and big at the same time. Vengeance tasted like a bitter tea. But the cursed ailment also gave me time: the village turned eyes away from me and onto Claudia's family and the neighbors began to murmur about terrible payback from the gods.
But I did not want to be just a vessel of petty cruelties. I wanted to reveal the real mastermind: Helena.
The opening came when the village's harvest parade rattled through the dirt road. Helena arrived with gifts for everyone and a laugh that made men goose-step to her tune. Her hair was a white ribbon, her clothes clean. She came to our house, hugged our mother, praised our cooking.
"Helena," I said, "why do you always speak for others?"
She blinked. "I only speak because I can. Isn't that what women must learn?"
I watched her closely for two days. I followed the threads: who smiled when she entered, who fumed when she left, who looked toward her when she spoke of Miles. I found the knot: a small sheet of paper in her hand, folded into the pocket of her skirt, inked with names and times. It matched the notes I had found from Miles to Claudia.
Helena's fingers trembled when she saw me reach for that paper in a market stall. "What are you doing?" she asked, all purity.
"Reading," I said. "Why are you writing their names?"
"I am untying knots," she said, smile fixed. "Some strings are better cut."
"Cut whose life for your climb?" I asked.
Her face changed. For an instant, I saw the mask slip. Her eyes sharpened.
"You don't know anything," she said.
"I know the well," I said. "I know the moss on Claudia's shoes. I know who wrote fake notes. I was pushed. You wanted this stage."
The market quieted. She laughed like someone with a secret. "Alexis, this is madness."
"Prove to us you are not the one who ordered the shove," I said.
She stepped back, collected herself and called for them to gather at the village square that evening. "There is a celebration," she said. "And I will explain. There is too much bitterness."
People came. I saw Arlo in the crowd, arms crossed, jaw tight. He looked at me and gave a tiny nod. I swallowed. The system pinged. "Reveal."
"Helena," I said when the lanterns lit and the shadows bowed. "Tell us: who told Claudia to push me? Who wrote the notes to the teacher? Who wanted Miles to ferrit between women so you could step in and shine?"
She smiled sweetly, as if I had asked her the weather. "I only ever wanted safety," she said. "I've always helped."
"Did you tell Claudia to push me?" I asked again.
"No," she said. "I had no need."
"You did." I walked forward and held the paper in the air. "You wrote these. You wrote the notes that put Miles and Claudia together in secret. You turned my life into a ladder."
Helena's expression clipped. "Alexis, hold on." She reached for the paper like a mother. People saw her fingers. She looked guilty even before I opened the secret.
"Open it," the village demanded.
I crumpled the paper and tossed it to the ground. "I found your ink lines. They match the handwriting in the letters from Miles."
"That's not proof," she said.
"Watch." I touched my space's tiny cane. It shone a thin blue line toward the ground. "Look here. This cane was in the wardrobe that Miles left in the town. The marks on this cane and the marks on the paper match. You played with fibers. You clipped Claudia's shoe laces and smeared moss as if the wind did it."
Helena tried to keep a smile. "You can accuse. But we must be careful with words."
"Then look careful." I called for the mayor to have everyone examine the letters, the cane, the mud patterns. The village elders watched. Arlo's hand stayed open at his side like a promise.
"I didn't order the push," Helena said in a small voice. The crowd closed.
"You planned the rest," I said. "You planted the notes, you egged Claudia with money, you whispered to Miles. You made the scene to steal sympathy and to win the hearts of the men with your kindness while throwing others under the cart."
Helena's composure broke. She screamed, not with rage, but with the sound of a woman who had been shown her reflection and disliked it. "You cannot make me small," she yelled. "You can't take the future I planned."
"Why would you do it?" I asked.
She spit, "Power. A life that does not tremble. People love brightness; they don't check the wires."
"Claudia," I said, turning. "Tell them the truth. You were paid."
Claudia's face collapsed in shame. "She gave me pennies," she whispered. "She said a note would make Miles choose me. She said we would be the ones who win."
The crowd pressed. The elders shook their heads. Helena lunged like a trapped animal and tried to speak. The older women in the village closed ranks like an iron gate.
"Enough!" Arlo's voice cut across like a blade. He stepped forward, grabbed Helena's arm, and lowered his face to hers. "You hurt people," he said quietly. "You used them because you feared being poor."
Helena tried to push him away. "Let go!" she screamed.
Arlo didn't. He pulled her in front of everyone and then, slow and patient, told the story he had found: a letter between Helena and Miles asking him to keep two women hanging so she could decide later, the receipt of money to Claudia. I had taken the pictures earlier. Arlo had kept them safe. He produced them now like proof.
The villagers gasped as the last thread snapped.
Helena's mask fell. Her eyes burned. She started to riot—words that once won a crowd now sounded false. She lunged for the mayor's table and pushed it over. People climbed back. Claudia's family cried. Helena finally shrank into herself.
"You used people," I said. "You pretended you were saving the village. You made us hate one another."
Her mouth opened. She had nothing left.
Arlo held out his hand to me in front of everyone. "Are you okay?" he asked.
"I am," I said. "Because you stood with me."
He didn't kneel or make big words. He only wrapped his arm around my shoulders and led me out of the square.
"People think the story ends with arrest," he said softly. "But people can change when they are seen. And people have to be fed. Let us first cleanse what is left of this night."
We found Helena's father in the crowd. He looked at his broken daughter with the hollow eyes of a man who long knew she would choose the wrong road. The mayor decided to make Helena repair what she broke. She would do work for the village, return the money if any, confess publicly, and show the harm she caused.
I did not want vengeance that would ruin a girl forever. I wanted truth out and a chance for Helena's life to be honest. The village agreed: a public apology and work for the harvest. No exile. Let shame be a tool for learning, not an executioner.
After the square, the village returned to chores. My mother's pride swelled. Claudia's family stayed low and quiet. Helena worked in the tea house in the mornings. She bowed when she saw me and said, "I am sorry."
"You can be sorry," I told her. "But I want you to tell this to every house you harmed."
She did.
The story took a softer turn. Arlo kept helping me with my ankle. He walked me home when the lane was wet, and sometimes he would grin and ask me the most dangerous thing: "Do you sleep alone?"
"No," I would say and mean more than the words. I leaned my forehead against his shoulder one sunset. He put his forearm around me like he was keeping the sky from slipping away.
Days later the mayor came to our door with a cart. "There is a gift sent by the county," he announced. It was a small grant to the village for harvest improvement. Someone in the county had seen the story spread—how a girl bravely refused to be silenced—and had donated seed for the next season. It was enough to help the school and to make sure Helena's work truly repaired what was broken.
Life settled into a rhythm, but not the old one. My father stopped trying to make me hide. He let me go to work at the propaganda room again. He smiled when Arlo visited.
"Call me Uncle Arlo," he joked once, and Arlo laughed, and the household sank into small joy.
I used my space for good. I fed medicine to the elders with science from the bottles. I repaired the broken piano with glue and a little wood that my space supplied. I gave some small salves to the woman who sold bread, and she kissed my hand.
Every now and then I used the space's tiny, childish curse. Never cruelly. Once, to protect the harvest we set traps for thieves; the thieves suddenly found their bellies loose and they left the village to think. I would not lie: it felt childish, and sometimes I felt the guilt.
Arlo and I grew closer in the slow way of fields. He teased me about my city words. I teased him about his stubborn hands. He told me of nights in the barracks, how a small kindness from a stranger kept him alive. I told him about the cameras in the hotel and how my old life smelled of smog.
"Do you regret coming here?" he asked once, his thumb tracing the scar on my ankle.
"Some days," I said. "Some days I regret nothing."
We had a small moment that I still keep in my chest like a pressed apple: he carried my heavy basket home like he used to carry me on his back when I could not walk. He set it down gently, and I looked up at him, and he kissed the crown of my head like a blessing.
One evening when the harvest moon was fat and yellow, Helena came to our yard. She had a single apple in her hand. "From the apology list," she muttered. "May I speak?"
"Speak," my mother said, but I was watching Helena with a careful calm.
Helena knelt. "Alexis, you set me down when I needed someone to look," she said bluntly. "I was terrified of being poor and invisible, so I stole other people's chances. I am sorry."
"It is not enough," I said. "But it is the start."
She handed me the apple and I took it. It was a small thing: red, not perfect, a seed inside.
"People will still talk," she whispered, eyes wet. "I will earn back my place."
Arlo put his hand on my back. "We will help," he said.
The system buzzed in the space that night. It felt like an old friend clearing its throat. "You may close the loop," it said.
I went to the wardrobe that had hidden my deeds and took out one small object: a bead tied to a thin leather cord—the relic that had brought the space. I unscrewed the tiny brass cap and placed within it a folded paper—a receipt from Helena's confession, a list of the notes, a photograph of Claudia's shoes with moss, and a small shard of the cane that had matched Helena's fibers.
I whispered, "For future truth."
I closed the tiny cap, placed the bead into a small wooden box, and set it into the space. Then I took the key and walked to the river where Arlo waited.
"Why the river?" he asked.
"Because things that are fixed should be watched," I said.
We threw the key into the water together. It sank slow and straight, a small dot in the moonlight.
"You locked it away?" he said.
"I locked it away and I left a picture of what truth looks like," I answered.
He picked me up by the waist and swung me once, like we were children chasing a summer. The sound of our laughter rose with the frogs.
"We can go to the town," he said later, quieter. "If you want."
"I want to keep both," I said. "This place where truth is small and human, and the town where my old life can do some good."
He leaned his forehead to mine. "Then we do both."
Helena worked in the fields. Claudia mended shoes. Miles left the county with no good word; he had to learn being honest alone. The village learned to look past shiny eyes to what hands did.
My mother still told everyone at tea how her "treasure" saved the day. My father still pretended to be stern and then winked at Arlo.
Sometimes at night I open the wardrobe and look at the empty spot where the bead had been. I imagine the river holding little shadows of my choices. I press my palm to the wood and remember the feel of Arlo's strong hands, the way he massaged my ankle, the way his voice steadied me.
"I'm not the girl who ran a camera for a story anymore," I say to the dark. "I'm a woman who can demand truth."
Arlo puts his hand over mine. "You made the village better."
"Not me," I say. "We did."
We stand by the river until the moon drops low. I take his hand and let him lead. We are walking toward the town and back toward the field at the same time.
The last thing I do before sleep is whisper to the space, "Guard the proof. Guard the people."
It answers with soft light. Then I close my eyes, and I let myself be held.
The End
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