"What a nice day," I whispered—a mantra I'd subconsciously adopted to survive. I stood before my locker, organizing my belongings with practiced care. As I closed the metal door, a pair of slender arms wound around mine. I turned to see a girl a few inches taller than me, looking down with a playful, coy smile and wiggling eyebrows.
By the time I realized she wasn't alone, it was too late. Four of her friends—all imposing and wearing masks of performative friendliness—had already surrounded me. I looked back at the leader, and her next words made my soul deflate.
"Hey, bud. Rooftop… now."
The Price of "Entertainment"
Now, the sunlight burns my face. The only sounds on this secluded rooftop are the rhythmic whack of a lasso and the sharp thwack of wooden rods hitting my back. The vibrations rattle my core, sending tremors through my thighs. The heavy clinking of the chains on my wrists and ankles provides a cold, industrial soundtrack—a haunting contrast to the peaceful stillness of a winter's eve.
The only "human" sounds are the amused, psychotic laughs of the five girls. They beat me with the calculated precision of people who don't want to break their favorite toy. I can do nothing but whimper, my vision blurring as salty tears track through the dust on my cheeks.
They gave me an objective before the session began:
"Listen here, little rat. Count every whip, strike, and whop. If you lose track… you're going into the public toilet."
I counted. I counted through the numbness and the stinging heat, because the thought of being drowned in filth again was the only thing more terrifying than the rods.
Finally, they stopped, heaving sighs of exertion as if they were the ones suffering.
"Did you manage to count them all?" the leader asked, hovering over me.
"Y-yeah," I whispered, supporting my voice with a weak nod.
"Count."
"40 whips from the lasso," I gasped, the pain radiating in waves. "190 whops from the flogger. 30 strikes from the rod."
"Good dog," she smirked. "You can count. No toilet for you today. You're dismissed."
They unchained me and left. I collapsed onto the concrete, sobbing until there was nothing left. I am not a nerd; I am not a rebel. I am just a girl who is not rich, has no power, and no authority. I am an outcast. And even if I wanted to leave, I couldn't. My parents are gone, and my loving uncle at home is no different—spending my part-time job money on alcohol and using me as a punching bag when the mood strikes him.
The Sanctuary of the Clinic
I managed to limp to the school clinic, hoping to treat my wounds before class to avoid infection—and the inevitable "it's your fault for being near them" lecture from the teachers.
I knocked three times before slipping inside.
"Come in! Oh, Epione! How are—wait, what happened?!"
It was Eunoia, my batchmate. She volunteers for the Warm Hearts Club, promoting social harmony and basic medicine.
"I tripped on a stone and rolled down eight flights of stairs," I lied.
"Your face is terrible at lying," Eunoia said sternly. "Stop the excuses. Who did this?"
"The usual girls," I muttered. "Just… a little earlier than usual."
Eunoia sighed, a sound of pure frustration. "You could fight back, Epione. Or tell the authorities."
"Their parents are the authorities, Eunoia. If they get suspended, they'll just hunt me down outside. It's a cycle."
She clicked her tongue and helped me remove my top to treat the bruises. Despite the pain, I felt safe with her. She handed me a green bear plushie with a four-leaf clover on its stomach.
"Bear with it," she said with a small smile.
"I didn't know you were so... punny," I managed to joke, the laughter hurting my ribs but warming my chest.
The Foreign Exchange
I made it to Health Education just as Professor Croffer began his lecture.
"Ah, Ms. Paramnesia," he said with a light chuckle, seeing me drenched in sweat and hunched over. "Glad you could join us. I was just a few minutes late myself. Take a seat."
I slunk to the back, my back screaming with every movement. As the professor explained the difference between pulmonary and systemic circulation, something hit my shoulder. A crumpled piece of yellow pad paper.
I looked up. A new girl was waving at me. She was ethereal—tall, slender, and possessed a smile that seemed to have silenced the entire room earlier.
"Good morning, sir," she said when the professor noticed her. Her accent was a perfect blend of Seoul and Canada. "My name is Song Chaeryoung. I am the exchange student from South Korea."
The class erupted in whispers about her beauty, her skin, and her height. I ignored them, my focus on the note she had thrown.
The Choice
I opened the paper.
Hi! My name is Song Chaeryoung. I noticed you sitting alone and thought, why not ask you to be my friend? You seem trustworthy and kind—like an innocent flower in a garden of thorns. It's a weird way to ask, but... 'Would you like to be my friend?'
[ ] YES [ ] I GUESS [ ] I'LL THINK ABOUT IT [ ] NO
P.S. Write your name here so I can give you a cute nickname!
A smile crept onto my lips. For the first time, someone wanted me. Not as a toy, but as a person. But then, I thought of the rooftop. I thought of the chains. If she stands by me, they will break her too.
I fished out my pen and checked 'NO'.
I slid the paper back under her desk while she was out for a break. It hurt to do it, but I couldn't let her into my miserable world. I spent the rest of the break finishing the Calculus homework three bullies had shoved onto my desk, my fingers cramping as I churned out numbers.
When the class returned, I saw Chaeryoung pick up the note. From the corner of my eye, I saw her shoulders slump. A heavy sigh of disappointment escaped her.
It's for the best, I told myself.
But the peace didn't last. The door slammed open. Ms. Persophiona, the teacher, marched in alongside the Head Counselor, who looked absolutely livid.
"Miss Paramnesia!" the Counselor barked.
My heart hammered against my ribs. Me? What did I do?