The little lies that make us human

the fight

Chapter One: Burn

I'm sitting on the toilet lid, back pressed against the cold tiles of the school bathroom stall, cigarette dangling between my fingers. I don't even like smoking. It burns my lungs, makes my head spin. But there's something about the way the smoke curls and disappears that makes it feel like everything inside me could vanish with it. I hold it in, imagining the way I could just—poof—turn into nothing.

The sound of footsteps echoes in the bathroom, the kind of rushed, frantic sound of someone desperate to get in and out before the bell rings. I exhale, watching the smoke twist and curl, pretending I'm invisible. They don't see me. They never do.

A drop of sweat slips down the side of my face, mingling with the curls that cling to my skin. My hair, thick and dark, always falls in front of my eyes. Sometimes I wish I could hide behind it, disappear completely. But even that's not enough.

Moments pass, and then I feel it—the sting on my thigh where I pressed the cigarette butt earlier. I pull up the hem of my skirt just slightly and glance at the burn, the small circle of angry red flesh, still tender, still hurting. I press my fingers into it, feeling the pain flare like it's waking up. At least it makes me feel something. More than anything else in this dead world.

The bell rings, sharp and shrill, dragging me back to reality. I stub out the cigarette on the dirty tile floor and stand up, smoothing out my skirt. The smell of smoke clings to me, heavy and obvious, but I don't care. Let them say something. Let them stare.

As I push open the stall door, I catch a glimpse of myself in the cracked mirror. Olive skin with a warm undertone, dark eyes that never seem to stop keeping secrets, hair curly and long flowing down my back. I'm pretty, people say. Pretty and wasted. What a fucking joke.

I walk out into the hallway, and before I can even breathe, I see him—Devon. His eyes find mine, and he smirks like he owns the place. Like he thinks he can have whatever he wants. Like he still thinks I'm going to be another name he adds to his list.

"Maeve," he calls out, stepping toward me. "You ignoring me now?"

I don't stop walking. Don't look at him.

"Hey!" His voice gets louder, and he grabs my arm, pulling me back. "I'm talking to you!"

I twist out of his grip, glaring at him. "Don't touch me."

But he doesn't back down. He never does. "What, you're too good for me now? Think you're special? Too busy being a freak to know when a guy actually likes you?"

Something inside me snaps. It's the way he says it, like he thinks he's entitled to me. Like he thinks I owe him something.

I turn around and grab a fistful of his hair, pulling him toward me, and then I slam his head against the wall. Once, twice, harder each time. Blood spatters onto my hand, and his groans turn into pathetic whimpers. He tries to pull away, but I shove him again, his skull cracking against the hard surface.

"You're not worth it," I hiss through clenched teeth, yanking his head back and looking into his wide, terrified eyes. His lip trembles, a stream of blood running down his face, mixing with sweat and fear.

He's begging now. "Please, Maeve, stop."

I push him away, watching him slump down against the wall, defeated. The rush of adrenaline pulses through me, thick and hot, like fire under my skin. My hands shake, but I don't care. This is what it feels like to have control. To be the one holding the power.

"Don't ever touch me again," I say, my voice low, deadly calm. And then I walk away, leaving him there in the hallway, his blood staining the floor where I stood.

As I turn the corner, I catch a glimpse of Judy waiting by the lockers, watching the scene from a distance. She doesn't say anything, just gives me that look she always does, the one that's a mixture of concern and resignation. Like she's used to it. Like she knows I'm a lost cause.

But I'm not. Not yet.