Fear

16

I don't know how many hours or days I was left after that. Felt like an eternity. Barely kept myself awake, and even when I was, I just dissociated. Reality didn't feel worth living in that room.

I missed the outside world. I missed my freedom. I missed my old life, no matter how bad I thought it was; I'd taken it all for granted. And I realised that now, locked in this tiny room, curled up on a metal table, shivering violently under a thin blanket.

I realised everything I'd lost.

And I sobbed. Couldn't help it. The adrenaline I'd felt after my little defiant match with Tyler had long since drained out of me. Now I was left wondering how I even managed it.

Because, yes, I'd got the upper hand. But with a clear mind now, I realised it wouldn't last. I knew my third Act was just around the corner. It had to be. Knowing him, he'd already have the torture planned — more cuts on my arms, more tormenting, more fear.

And then, suddenly, I was no longer there.

I'd gone again.

Where?

A classroom... in a memory I'd long tried to forget...

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The classroom smells like pencils, cheap plastic, and some girl's perfume. A spring breeze lifts through the open windows behind me, brushing against the back of my neck, carrying in the far-off shrieks of students outside on the field.

I can hear someone kicking a football. Laughter. The sharp trill of a referee whistle. Birds chirping. Faint music coming from somewhere. And the caretaker mowing the grass nearby.

But this isn't a good memory.

There's a knot in my stomach. I can feel eyes on me. A breath catches in my throat. I know who it is even before I look.

Mr. Hurst leans back in his chair at the front of the classroom, arms crossed over his chest, legs spread wider than they should be, eyes scanning the room like a hawk searching for a mouse to pounce on. His fingers are stubby, nails too long, and hands calloused. His face is doughy and pale, with sagging jowls and deep lines at the corners of his mouth. He has grey eyes, a broad, flat nose, and thin, brown hair slicked back with gel to hide the bald patch on top. He's wearing a faded blue shirt with a stain of something yellowish third button down. It's tucked loosely into brown trousers that he can barely fasten over his protruding beer belly.

Everything about him screams gross.

And yet... he thinks he can stare at me like that. Like I'm a piece of meat.

He always lingers too long on me when he's scanning the room. Something about my blonde hair, pretty young face, and petite figure makes his wandering eyes crawl over my body more than once every History class.

I look away, too embarrassed to make eye contact. I hate him. Everyone does. He's the sleaziest teacher in the whole school, and I have him for History class every Tuesday and Thursday.

But I'm not alone.

Isabel stands beside me, clutching our cue cards with both hands, because today isn't an ordinary day. This isn't an ordinary lesson.

It's presentation day.

Isabel's thick auburn hair is a bushy halo around her shoulders. Her blouse is tucked into her waistband, strained slightly under breasts too grown for our age. Her skirt is short — but not immodest, and black socks are pulled up over sturdy calves, stretched tight. But she's not self-conscious. Isabel never is.