Motherless

41

Talia

The hallway was too bright this morning.

I squinted as I stepped out of homeroom, clutching the folders I didn't even care about. I just needed to drop off some stuff in my locker. Take a breath. Pretend I was still a normal student before the next period started.

I turned the corner, tugged on my locker handle, and—

SPLAT.

Something wet hit the front of my shirt.

I looked down slowly.

Ketchup.

I exhaled through my nose, peeled the empty packet off my hoodie, and dropped it into the trash like it didn't bother me. Like my skin didn't crawl. Like I hadn't already been holding it together with duct tape and lies.

Behind me, I heard snickering. I didn't even bother turning around.

Whatever. Same old crap. I was used to it.

I wiped my hands on the inside of my sleeve, shoved my books into my locker, and slammed it shut.

That's when I felt the shove.

My shoulder jerked forward.

"Oh my God, watch where you're walking, freak," Becca sneered.

I didn't even turn around. I started walking. Fast.

Her footsteps followed. "What, no comeback today? That's boring."

I kept walking.

Then I felt her foot hook behind mine.

I went down hard, palms slapping against the tile.

I heard more laughter.

But I didn't get up right away. I just stared at the floor, breathing. My hands burned. My knees ached. But I stayed still.

"You should really work on your balance," Becca giggled.

I stood up slowly, grabbed my folder from the ground, and kept walking. Still silent. Still holding the leash on the storm inside my chest.

And maybe that would've been the end of it.

Maybe I would've just gone to class and let the sting fade like all the other days.

But then she said it.

Loud enough for the hallway to hear.

"At least my mom didn't have to buy me."

I stopped walking.

Everything around me blurred.

She kept going.

"Must suck having to pretend someone loves you when they only took you in because no one else would. Guess Ms. Winslow needed a pet project."

The sound that left my mouth wasn't even a sound.

It was silence snapping in half.

My binder hit the floor.

And then I moved.

I don't even remember thinking.

My fist connected with her face before either of us could blink. The thud of her body hitting the lockers was almost satisfying. Her scream barely registered.

I didn't stop.

I couldn't.

I grabbed her again, slammed her back against the lockers, and hit her over and over—fists shaking, blood pumping, vision tunneling. Screams echoed down the hallway but none of them mattered.