Trapped (Bullied Series #4) (SAMPLE)

Chapter 1

Present

End of February

Benjamin Franklin said nothing can be certain in this world but death and taxes.

He was wrong because now, as I sat right in front of my bully in U.S. history, I could easily add another thing to that list.

Nothing can be certain in this world but death, taxes, and Blake Jones' torture.

Blake just had to sit right behind me in this class. He just had to.

I was hyperaware of his nearness every second of this dreadfully long class. Goose bumps broke out on my skin each time I sensed him move, and I could hardly bear it. I had to fight to keep my breathing even, hoping I didn't look like a complete weirdo to my classmate, Marcus, who sat next to me.

That hope waned by the minute because Blake made sure to smear my image in front of him as much as possible. He jeered at me whenever Marcus leaned in to whisper something to me while our teacher scribbled on the blackboard, and I was losing my patience. My heart raced at the prospect of a fight with a guy who was the most complex and callous person I'd ever met.

Blake Jones. Even his name itself gave me the shivers.

He represented a long, distressing story, one that had started on my first day as a senior at this school. He'd bullied me from the moment he laid eyes on me and made my life at East Willow High nightmarish. I'd experienced bullying in middle school and at my previous high school, but that couldn't compare with what I went through with Blake, not by a long shot.

Blake had been crushing me day by day. He tainted my self-image to the point where I disliked everything about myself—from my looks to my personality—and even with therapy, I struggled to remember that I shouldn't care about his insults and should love myself the way I was.

My therapist, Susan, reminded me time and again that I was a beautiful and special girl and Blake was likely only projecting his insecurities onto me, but logical thinking didn't mean much each time he hurt me and brought me to tears.

I was a coward. I was the type of person who would run away at the sight of danger or wait for others to save her, which Blake liked to point out often. He would call me a wimp and double his abuse, just so he could see me crack and beg for his mercy. I constantly lived in fear of his abuse or retaliation if I stood up against him in any way.

I never told anyone about the time he broke into my locker and stole my pads and my period leaked through my jeans by the time my classes finished. The walk out of school was horrifyingly humiliating. Blake was there to document it with his phone, of course.

I also never told anyone he dumped a cigarette butt into my meticulously curled hair as he passed me by, telling me I would catch on fire. Washed over with horror, I tried to remove the lit butt before it burned my hair, only to find out he'd already put out the cigarette before he threw it in. I spent hours crying in my room, unable to understand how someone could traumatize people like that.

Then there was the time he broke into my locker again and left a pile of trash. I reported him to the principal, but he told me I didn't have proof it was Blake who did it and refused to do anything against him. This didn't come as a surprise, as he hadn't helped me after my "welcome party" six months earlier either. The school didn't have cameras, and since no one had stepped up as a witness, it was my word against Blake's. Blake's father was Enfield's mayor, so it was clear whose word had more value in this corrupted school.

Blake had been outraged because I tattled on him to the principal, so he'd gotten back at me by photoshopping my face onto a picture of a woman in a corset and stockings with a whip in her hand and her foot planted on a mini fridge. He sent this to one of his football buddies, who posted it on his Instagram and captioned it "Food Slut." The nickname stuck with me in the following months, reminding me that each time I fought back, Blake was there to make things even worse.