Caged Animals (A Story of Bullying)

*Chapter Eleven*

A/N: Hello, everyone! :-) You all are going to absolutely despise me, because this chapter is such a failure. It's quite the filler chapter: this needed to happen before anything else could, but, therefore, aforementioned chapter is short. Extremely short. I hope you enjoy, anyway!

Remember, each and every one of you is beautiful. I love you all. <3

"Hate won't get you anywhere in life. So if you want to board the roller coaster and live a little, stop hating." ~Eleanor Calder

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*Chapter Eleven*

Blurry haze. Gray words. Black storming clouds. Intake of breath, race for the stairs, fall and trip within inches. Grapple with the weapon, punch blindly. Close eyes and stifle sobs. Black out, wake up, repeat. Take out on someone innocent; don’t try to suppress anger.

            A hopeless, hazardous recipe.

            Rinse and repeat. Bake at a raging temperature saturated with red infuriation and drugs.

            A life spent in the black hole.

            Rinse and repeat.

            An everlasting cycle.

            Rinse and repeat.

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I tightened the bandage around my wrist, pulling the edges until they nearly dug into my flesh, the gauze on top doing nothing to cushion the sharpness. My breathing was soft yet panicked, uncaring of the additional pain that would carry later. All I noticed was the time: I had taken much too long in the shower. William would be back soon, and he couldn’t see blood seeping through bandages. Nor could he see the bandage, which was where my trusted companion called the sweatshirt stepped in.

            I slid my arms through the black fabric, only grimacing slightly as my sprained wrist was brutally yanked forward: the familiar fabric, indented with my exact body structure, felt wonderful and comforting on such a strange, fright-inducing day. I inhaled deeply, the air exiting my mouth in a rushed, audible force, gazing at myself in my full-length mirror. Blank, lifeless eyes stared back at me, with dull, wet hair to match. I gulped, feeling realization wash through my veins yet again, as if the aftershock finale of an earthquake. I was pathetic. Flipping up the hood of my sweatshirt to hide my pitiful features, I stumbled down the stairs with my hefty crutches, very nearly falling onto the couch. All that was left to do was wait for him to come back. Groaning and sighing simultaneously, I stiffly leaned forward to grasp the spine of the lone book on the table: Thirteen Reasons Why by Jay Asher. An old favorite. I flipped it open to a random page, sliding my fingertips across the dog-eared corners, breathing meditatively—a weak attempt to calm myself down—and only skimming over the words.

            What was painful about the novel was how popular it was. It was a national bestseller, rapidly becoming the next big thing with everyone at my school. I had even slinked by a few of the Tatiana and Brittany club gushing about it, about how realistic and touching it was. Every time that thought crossed my mind, my breath hitched hurtfully in my throat: how could they read about it, yet still be so utterly blind? How could they not see that that was me? I was the Hannah Baker of our school…yet no one took notice, instead remaining the Justins, Courtneys, and Chips: some unaware that they were hurting me, others obnoxiously so, but no one ceased. No one stopped. This was a game to them.