Content Warning: This story contains extreme bullying, physical abuse, sexualized humiliation, and other mature themes. Reader discretion is strongly advised.
The school nurse dabbed antiseptic on the cut across my nose, her gloved hands steady, detached. A quick bandage sealed it up—nothing broken, just a nosebleed and a dull throb behind my eyes.
To Natalie, though, it was a disaster. "You're hurt," she whispered, her voice trembling, tears brimming in her wide, earnest eyes. "We have to tell the teacher. You should go home and rest."
I shook my head, stubborn. There was an exam today, and missing it wasn't an option.
Back in the classroom, Ms. Alstone strode in, her heels clicking against the floor like a metronome. She carried a stack of exam papers, her expression unreadable—watching us as though from behind glass.
"Clear your desks," she commanded, her voice cutting clean through the room.
A collective groan rippled across the class, but no one dared disobey. I barely heard her at all—my mind was still snagged on the morning's brutality. When she glided down the rows, handing out papers, she paused at my desk.
Her eyes locked on mine for a heartbeat, then flicked to the blood-crusted bandage on my nose—a silent testament to earlier's torment. The pain, dulled to a faint ache, flared under her gaze. Was that pity? Disgust? Something else? She said nothing, only set the paper on my desk and moved on, her heels clicking a retreating rhythm.
I picked up my pen and tried to write, though the exam barely mattered. Nothing did. Around me, students scribbled furiously—some destined to fail, others doomed to repeat the grade. Blake, of course, was untouchable. His paper was a formality, a charade to conceal what I had glimpsed but could never prove: his assured victory, earned by means outside the rules.
The bell rang, signaling the end of the day. Students poured into the hallways like a rushing tide, laughter and chatter spilling into every corner. I was halfway to the school gate when a rough hand clamped down on my arm.
"Come with us. Blake wants to see you," one sneered.
Before I could resist, two others flanked me, steering me down an empty corridor toward the locker rooms. Violence wasn't necessary—no, they were smarter than that—their presence alone herded me forward until we stopped in front of the locker rooms.
"Inside," one barked.
I froze. The sign read: Girls' Locker Room.
"…Wait, this isn't—"
A fist slammed into my stomach, cutting my words short. I gasped for air, and staggered through the swinging door. The sharp scent of disinfectant mixed with perfume hit me like a wall, while laughter ricocheted off the lockers, slicing through the air.
Blake lounged on a wooden bench, scrolling his phone with the lazy arrogance of a king. His grin sharpened when he spotted me—predatory, calculating.
"Well, well, well…if it isn't our little voyeur," he drawled, mockery lacing every word. "Enjoy yesterday's show, Luck?"
"I…don't know what you're talking about," I muttered, sidestepping his bait.
"Oh, really? Must've been your doppelgänger. Bring me his phone." His words cut like a command—and his friends obeyed, like well-trained dogs.
"What's this loser hiding?" one muttered as another yanked my bag off my shoulder. They dumped it on the floor, scattering books and notes. Another went straight for my phone, snatching it from my pocket and handing it to Blake.
"Ever heard that snitches get stitches, Luck? Let's see if you deserve any," he sneered, scrolling through my screen. "An old hag—is she your grandmother or some weird fetish? A middle schooler? Cute. Your sister? She has your eyes. And the girl in our class—pretty, but not really my type—I usually prefer slightly older women, MILFs—you know what I mean? I see the way you stare at her; it's pathetic. What was her name again…Natasha? Natalyn?"
He snorted, unimpressed. "Boring. I thought you were supposed to be some once-in-a-lifetime genius, Luck. If I were you, I'd have recorded yesterday, blackmailed me—or Ms. Alstone—for cash. But no. You just peeped like a creep, probably got off on it."
With a careless flick, he sent my phone spinning toward the toilet. Splash. The screen glowed underwater, distorted by ripples. That phone was a gift from Grandma—earned through sleepless nights and sacrifice—for my birthday.
"Don't get angry—you're scaring me. Just go get it," Blake said, grinning. "Might still work."
"And if I don't?" I snapped, anger flaring through my fear. "You gonna try to kill me like you did Noah?"
His face darkened, eyes narrowing. "Hold him down," he growled, unzipping his pants. "While I take a leak." He spat his gum into the toilet, then relieved himself right where my phone had been.
When he was done, he pressed his shoe against my skull, forcing my face toward the cold porcelain. I thrashed and clawed, but their grip was iron. Rancid, icy water surged over me, my phone scraping against my lips. The stench was unbearable.
"Fetch it, dog," they sneered, holding me in place.
Darkness swirled at the edges of my vision. My body went limp.
The last thing I felt was hands yanking at my clothes, fabric ripping, their laughter echoing—and then nothing.
The next morning, chaos erupted.
"My grandson is missing!" Grandma's frantic voice cut through the school office. She clutched my photo in trembling hands, showing everyone what I looked like.
But by the time they found me, the story had already been twisted. Whispers spread like wildfire: pervert, freak, found by a girl naked inside her locker, in the girls' locker room.
The principal's face was a mask of disgust as he summoned me to his office.
"You've embarrassed this institution," he said, his voice cold and unyielding. "Until this matter is resolved, you're suspended. And as for your scholarship…consider it hanging by a thread."
I tried to speak, my voice trembling, but the more I said, the emptier my words felt. Nobody listened—not the teachers, not the principal, not even when Grandma raised her voice in my defense.
In their eyes, I wasn't a victim—I was guilty.
And just like that, they took everything from me.
At home, Grandma's voice was gentle but firm. "Don't worry, child. The truth will prevail."
Maeve clung to my arm, tears glistening in her eyes. "You're hurt," she whispered.
That night, I barely slept.
A week passed. Grandma handed me a second-hand phone. It wasn't as fancy as the last one—there was a crack on the screen, proof it had belonged to someone else—but she had worked hard to get it.
The moment I inserted my SIM, it was flooded with hate: texts from classmates, strangers, all screaming die, freak, pervert, kill yourself. Every notification ping tightened my chest, a cold, relentless drip of anxiety sinking deeper with each alert.
One message stood out: Reader's. For months, her comments on my chapters had been a beacon—words of encouragement, little jokes that coaxed rare smiles. But her last message, sent a week ago, felt different: "What if someone close to you disappeared? Would you try to find them, or let them go?"
Below that was another, from three days ago: Goodbye.
A strange chill crawled up my spine. I hurried to reply, hoping that even after a week, she might still answer.
"Are you okay? If something's wrong, talk to me."
The message bounced back. Undelivered. Too late.
Days bled into weeks. I checked obsessively for any sign of Reader's return, but her silence was absolute. And just like that, I knew—Reader was gone.
Natalie didn't answer either. Her voicemail played on, mechanical and detached, her absence a hollow drumbeat in my life.
"Hi, you've reached Natalie. Sorry I missed your call—I might be busy or away from my phone right now. Please leave your name, number, and a short message, and I'll get back to you as soon as I can. Thanks!"
My world, already fragile, felt even emptier without them.
The day came for me to return to school. The hallways smelled the same, the chatter the same—but everything felt wrong. Ms. Alstone stood at the doorway as the bell rang, signaling the end of the day. Her smile was sharp, a hidden blade behind polite words.
"Have a wonderful day, class," she said, tilting her head. Her gaze landed on me. "And, of course, try not to get locked in the girls' lockers."
I froze. Heat surged to my face, my heartbeat thundering louder than the laughter of my classmates. She knew the truth—how I had ended up in those lockers. But because it was Blake—her lover—she wouldn't dare do anything.
Maybe I should have told someone about their forbidden affair—the principal, the other teachers—but it wouldn't have mattered. I had no proof.
Then came the betrayal I never saw coming. Natalie sat at her usual table, but she wasn't the same Natalie I knew. She turned away when I tried to speak to her, as if she were above me. During lunch, she sat with Blake. He leaned in close, brushing her thigh, his eyes mocking me over her shoulder. She laughed at everything he did. My stomach twisted—a bitter cocktail of disbelief and helplessness.
My childhood friend, my first love, was gone. Maybe if I had confessed my feelings, we wouldn't be here. I told myself I didn't care, didn't need her—or anyone—for that matter. But the lie tasted bitter.
Then came the whispers in the early mornings. The moment I stepped into the classroom, they stopped—too sudden, too sharp—a clear sign I had been their topic of conversation.
Even my own class had turned against me. Their silence was heavier than any words, their eyes drilling into me, full of judgment and scorn.
Then came the bullying—from everyone. Those who believed I was a pervert, those who did it for the thrill. Upperclassmen used my hands as ashtrays, their slaps stinging when I flinched, leaving cigarette burns like warped rings.
Blake carved B+N into my skin with scissors—a grotesque parody of love etched like initials on a tree, standing for Blake + Natalie.
The next morning, random schoolmates yanked my pants down as I passed through the school gate. Laughter erupted. Phones shot up. Some even recorded it—later posting the clip online with the caption: "Pantsing the pervert found naked in the girls' locker." It went viral. My suffering became content, millions of views piling up, strangers passing judgment on a story they knew nothing about. Thousands of cruel comments poured in, a digital mob sharpening their knives:
User123: Womp Womp.
BurntToast44: Karma came faster than Amazon Pryme.
DeadInside99: Bro probably thought he was HIM…nah, you're not, you're just a villain.
MemeDealer69: Someone cue the "Curb Your Enthusiasm" music.
Mickey_Rat: SYBAU 🥀.
Ghosted4Life: He really woke up and chose jail time.
Sasha_101: Serves him right. Naked in a girl's locker room?? Disgusting. 🤢
HotTeaSpiller: Imagine being THAT desperate. Couldn't be me.
BurnerAcc777: Bro really spawned in the wrong lobby. 🚪➡️🚫
CloudKid: This isn't Amerikan Pie, this is pervert charges pending.
xXEdgeLordXx: Mans was speedrunning his way onto the offender's list.
TruthHurts: Bet he tells people it was "just a prank." 🤡
Kaylee22: Girls can't even change in peace anymore…pathetic.
WitchyVibes: May he forever be haunted by the sound of locker doors slamming. 🔒
Just a few more months, and I'd be free of this place, I told myself, thinking of Grandma and Maeve whenever the urge to end it all surged.
Each day had become a test of endurance: wake up, survive school, go home, repeat. The classroom walls pressed in, and the lessons felt written for someone else—someone with dreams, someone with a future.
I used to have those too. Now, I had neither.
That morning felt strange, my alarm didn't go off. My body felt paralyzed, as though movement itself had abandoned me. A cold weight settled over my chest, whispering that I should stay in bed. It wasn't fear—it was certainty, heavy and unshakable. Still, I got up. I went anyway.
The final bell rang, slicing through the classroom noise. Normally, I would have bolted, eager to escape the torment. But today, I stayed frozen.
"Hey, Luck. It's been a while. How've you been?"
Natalie's voice cut through the air.
I turned toward her, met her gaze—but said nothing.
"Come with me," she said, her eyes unreadable.
I shook my head and grabbed my bag. "No. I'm fine. Thanks."
"Please," she pressed, her voice soft but insistent. "It's important. After this, I won't bother you again. Pinky promise."
Something in her tone made my feet move on their own.
She led me up the stairs, past locked doors, to the rooftop—a place that was always sealed.
But today, it was open.
Blake leaned against the railing, waiting. His friends circled him like vultures, their laughter sharp and inevitable.
"Pay up. I told you he'd follow her," one sneered.
I snapped my eyes to Natalie, but she wouldn't look at me.
This wasn't a conversation.
It was a trap.