𝗬𝗢𝗨 𝗚𝗢𝗡𝗡𝗔 𝗖𝗥𝗬?

𝗶. 𝗯𝘂𝗴 𝗯𝗶𝘁𝗲𝘀

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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄 ෴ 𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈
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VICTOIRE || BRIGHTON, EAST SUSSEX
1976

MOST OF THE TIME, life-changing moments pass by unnoticed, their ultimate significance to the world becoming more apparent only in the dull murkiness of ensuing catastrophes. But Victoire Dubois never cared for the whole 'subtle approach' business.

THE SUMMER OF 1976 was long and humid in the coastal city of Brighton, days filled with trips to the beach and nights spent catching fireflies on the back porch. Horseflies had been significantly larger (and far more vicious) than the previous years Victoire had lived in Brighton, which was clearly saying something. During morning outings and afternoon escapades, they had swarmed around the clinking of her bicycle wheels, gnawing painful chunks out of sweet, thirteen-year-old flesh. Her arms and legs bore summer kisses from the sun and the scars of months of relentless attacks, peppered with a speckling of freckles from her early childhood years in the sunny countryside of France. 

For Victoire, the smell of summer varied, depending on the time of day you found her. Mornings held the salty tang of the ocean boardwalk, afternoons the ambrosial scent of blueberries growing in her mother's backyard greenhouse. Evenings sifted the pungent chemical stench of antiseptic cream her mother would slather on the bumpy mosaic of bites, a roadmap of where she'd been and the places she'd seen. And despite her helpless hoping, her shoulders still itched from the horseflies' painful attention on the first day of year nine at Brighton Middle School.

Victoire also supposed that her initial discomfort came from the physical manifestation of the anxiety she was feeling that day. She had been avoiding the idea of the start of the school year all summer long, lavishing in the relaxed comfort of every blissfully unscheduled day of vacation she was given. One reason for this was James Calhoun, the boy who had devoted every day to tormenting her after she confessed to fancying him way back in year seven.

For the majority of the previous year, James had bullied her without an ounce of mercy or regret. His attacks came in many forms, though his favourites were little jabs here and there: a startling slap across the back of the head in the corridor between classes, tugging at the long blonde pigtails hanging at the nape of her neck, a kick to her shins beneath a desk. However, he also enjoyed the times when he was able to pull her away from the rest of the school, cornered out of sight and away from the prying eyes of students and teachers alike. Here, James was menacing, crowding on her heavy and huge, shielding her away from the world with hateful spitting words and suffocating kisses against her lips. Victoire felt claustrophobic during these fleeting moments, the warped intimacy of it all seeming to slow time itself. She noticed that during these little romps, James was keen on intently examining her face as he taunted her, eyes sparkling with delight by the anger and fear painting her features.

James possessed a refined grasp on the mechanics of terror. He took watchful care to make sure his attacks were never predictable. Not knowing when she may suffer a blow, or be dragged away from her school friends left her in a constant state of high alert. Once, he had left her alone for nearly a week, which had resulted in an oxymoronic effect of bombing her sense of impending doom. Victoire had been a mess the entire duration of that period, finding herself counting her steps between classes and glancing over her shoulder every passing second. When the moment finally arrived and James lumbered across the courtyard to snatch her away, Victoire's chest was heavy with disgust for feeling relieved that the wait was over. The thought of James Calhoun's taunts and teases were far worse in her imagination than anything he could do in actuality.