Chapter 26 Hazel the dumpster goblin meets her match

Chapter 26 Hazel the dumpster goblin meets her match
Hazel’s POV
Yesterday, I’d tossed that cursed piece of paper－ Zerran’s number－ into the trash like a mature, emotionally stable human being.
Now I needed it back like it was oxygen. 

I kicked the door open so hard the walls flinched. The nurse let out a sound somewhere between a gasp and a prayer.
I didn’t even acknowledge her existence. I made a beeline for the trash can, dropped to my knees with all the grace of a dying gazelle, and flipped the lid open.
I stared. Blinked. Leaned closer.
…Empty.

The bin was freshly washed, morally upright, church-going empty.
My muscles seized.
“No,” I whispered, offended on a spiritual level.
I dug my hand inside anyway. Because denial was a powerful drug.

Still nothing.

“What,” I croaked, voice cracking, “the hell.”
Behind me, the nurse cleared her throat carefully, like she was approaching a wild animal.

“Hazel… are you feeling better today? Your fever－”
I slowly turned around. Very slowly. The kind of slow that made horror movie violins start playing. I scrambled to my feet and rushed her so fast she actually squeaked and backed into the counter.
“WHY,” I demanded, gripping the edge of her desk, “WAS THE BIN EMPTY.”
She raised her hands like I’d pulled a weapon. “E-Evie emptied it this morning!”

Evie.

I went perfectly still.
“Evie,” I repeated softly.
Of course Evie.
I straightened, clutching my chest. “Evie…?” I whispered, wounded. “Perfect attendance Evie? Alphabetizes her emotions Evie? Drinks water for fun Evie?”
The nurse nodded slowly.

I laughed. A hollow, unhinged sound. “Wow. She didn’t just clean the bin, she cleaned my future.”
The nurse blinked. “Your… what?”
A sharp, violent pain shot through my hip and I folded in half with a strangled wheeze.
“Oh no, nope, absolutely not－” I gasped. “We were not dying in a nurse’s office. That’s embarrassing.”

She rushed toward me. “Hazel, you should sit－”
“No time,” I snapped, already limping toward the door. “EVIE HAS DECLARED WAR.”
I stormed, well, aggressively limped back into the hallway, muttering curses like a disgraced witch.

Let’s review my Ravenhill experience so far, shall we?
First, I got enrolled into this stupid school without my consent.
Then I got insulted by a green-haired idiot.
Then chased by a shovel boy who was emotionally dependent on landscaping equipment.
Then kissed－ kissed－ by a blonde psychopath while I was sick.
And now he’d stolen my painkillers.

MY.
PAINKILLERS.
I stopped mid-hallway, clutching my hip.
“Was this school cursed?” I muttered. “Did I anger a god?”
Could this place be any worse?
Yes.
Because I suddenly realized I had no idea where the trash went in this school. I wandered the halls like a confused ghost with joint problems, sweating, limping, glaring at lockers like they betrayed me. I spotted a group of girls heading to class and immediately decided: violence.

I grabbed one by the collar.
“WHERE,” I snarled, “DO YOU THROW AWAY GARBAGE IN THIS SCHOOL.”
She froze. Trembling, eyes huge.
To be fair, I looked deranged. I was standing at a bizarre angle, one knee bent, the other stretched back, torso tilted sideways. My face twitched from pain and fury.
Her voice shook. “B-Behind Class Wing B－ the dumpsters!”

“CLASS WING B?” I barked.

She nodded so hard her soul almost left her body. I released her collar and smiled sweetly. Too sweet.
“Thank you. You just saved a hip.”

She stared at me like she was going to tell this story to her therapist one day.
I limped away. When I reached the dumpsters behind Wing B, the smell hit me like a slap. No. Like a punch. It smelled like rotten milk, expired dreams, gym socks that had sinned, and something that used to be alive.

I gagged violently. “Oh my God. Was this where sins came to die?”
But pain had removed my dignity and stripped me of pride. I dropped to my knees. I dug.
I was elbow-deep in garbage, tossing aside juice boxes, mystery sludge, and what I prayed was old spaghetti. “Come on,” I muttered. “Show yourself. Mommy needs you.”
I coughed. I wheezed. I kept going because I really needed those pills.
I was no longer Hazel-from-Westbourne.
I was Hazel the Dumpster Goblin with ambitions.

Then
Another smell cut through the rot. Smoke. Cigarette smoke.
I froze mid-dig. Slowly, I lifted my head. From the corner near the dumpsters, a lazy curl of smoke drifted upward. Someone was there. My brain screamed.

If anyone saw me like this; the rich girl digging through trash, I would simply cease to exist.
Six feet under. Closed casket.
And on my tombstone, it would say:
She lost her painkillers.

I heard shuffling. Then a low groan; rough, strained, unmistakably male. I froze. Of course it was a guy. Of course it sounded like a delinquent. I sighed internally. This school bred them like mold.
I slowly rose from the dumpster, and brushed the grime off my skirt. Then, because dignity still existed in fragments, I discreetly sniffed my armpits.

Okay. Good. I didn’t smell like expired tuna wrestling a gym sock in a dark alley. That was a win.
I tiptoed closer to the corner, heart thudding.

Now, I knew what you were thinking.
Hazel, this was how people died in horror movies.
This was the part where the main character hears a noise, ignores all survival instincts, and go full Dora the Explorer: “Can you say bad decision?”
And yes.
That was exactly what I was doing. But I was curious. Curiosity numbed pain.
But listen, if I did die, at least it wouldn’t be from untreated pain because some blonde menace stole my pills.

I leaned against the wall and peeked around the corner.
And there he was.

Shovel Boy.
Jerk 2.0.
Crazed Dirt Enthusiast.
Backyard Shovel Barbie.
Mr. DIY Murder Weapon.
Unhinged Home Depot Mascot.

He was slouched against the wall, one knee bent, the other leg stretched out. Blood stained his white shirt in careless streaks, and there was a slow trickle running from his forehead. Cigarette dangling from his fingers like he was in some low-budget crime drama. He shifted slightly and winced in pain. I immediately jerked my head back and slammed myself against the wall again.

Why was I hiding?
Why did this feel like I was twelve and playing hide-and-seek except the seeker was a violent delinquent with a shovel fetish?
What was I doing? Taking notes? Observing wildlife? National Geographic: The Injured Menace?
This was absurd. I wasn’t scared. I was busy. I had more important things to do than observe an injured lunatic in his natural habitat.

I took a breath, preparing to leave－
－and suddenly a hand clamped around my wrist.