I don't know how many hours or days I was left after that. Felt like an eternity. Barely kept myself awake, and even when I was, I just dissociated. Reality didn't feel worth living in that room.
I missed the outside world. I missed my freedom. I missed my old life, no matter how bad I thought it was; I'd taken it all for granted. And I realised that now, locked in this tiny room, curled up on a metal table, shivering violently under a thin blanket.
I realised everything I'd lost. And I sobbed. Couldn't help it.
The adrenaline I'd felt after my little defiant match with Tyler had long since drained out of me. Now I was left wondering how I even managed it. Because, yes, I'd got the upper hand. But with a clear mind now, I realised it wouldn't last. I knew my third Act was just around the corner. it had to be. Knowing him, he'd already have the torture planned - more cuts on my arms, more tormenting, more fear.
And then, suddenly, I was no longer there.
I'd gone again.
Another episode. Another memory I'd long tried to forget...
The classroom smells like pencils, plastic, and cheap, cloying perfume. A spring breeze lifts through the open windows behind me, brushing against the back of my neck, carrying in the far-off shrieks of students on the field.
I can hear someone kicking a football. Laughter. The sharp trill of a referee whistle. Birds chirping. Faint music coming from somewhere. And the caretaker mowing the grass nearby.
But this isn't a good memory.
There's a knot in my stomach. I can feel eyes on me. A breath catches in my throat. I know who it is even before I look.
Mr. Hurst leans back in his chair at the front of the classroom, arms crossed over his chest, legs spread wider than they should be, eyes scanning the room like a hawk searching for a mouse to pounce on. His fingers are stubby, nails too long, and hands calloused. His face is doughy and pale, with sagging jowls and deep lines at the corners of his mouth. He has grey eyes, a broad, flat nose, and thin, brown hair slicked back with gel to hide the bald patch on top. He's wearing a faded blue shirt with a stain of something yellowish third button down. It's tucked loosely into brown trousers that he can barely fasten over his protruding beer belly.
Everything about him screams gross .
And yet... he thinks he can stare at me like that. Like I'm a piece of meat.
He always lingers too long on me when he's scanning the room. Something about my blonde hair, pretty young face, and petite figure makes his wandering eyes crawl over my body more than once every History class.
I look away, too embarrassed to make eye contact. I hate him. Everyone does. He's the sleaziest teacher in the whole school, and I have him for History class every Tuesday and Thursday.
But I'm not alone. Isabel stands beside me, clutching our cue cards with both hands, because today isn't an ordinary day. This isn't an ordinary lesson.
It's presentation day.
Isabel's thick auburn hair is a bushy halo around her shoulders. Her blouse is tucked into her waistband, strained slightly under breasts too grown for our age. Her skirt is short, but not immodest, and black socks are pulled up over sturdy calves, stretched tight. But she's not self-conscious. Never is.
She glances at me with bright green eyes and a small, reassuring smile. "You're gonna be fine," she whispers.
Her voice is soft but firm, grounding me in the moment. Just the sound of her steadies something in my chest. She's warm in ways no one else is — solid, sure, like she belongs here. Like she's never once felt the kind of panic I'm drowning in now.
I nod, but my stomach's still turning. My cue cards are creased from how hard I'm gripping them. My heart is going 100 miles an hour. I'm finding it hard to breathe.
We're next.
At the front of the room, two boys, Alfie and Zander, mumble through the last lines of their presentation, barely glancing at the whiteboard behind them. One of them keeps tugging at the hem of his jumper like it's strangling him; the other shifts his weight from foot to foot, eyes fixed on the floor. Their slide says something about trench warfare, though the bullet points are crooked and half cut off. No one's really listening. Not even Mr. Hurst, who just scratches his chin and lets his eyes drift again, somewhere they shouldn't.
I glance over at the reflective panel of the window beside the classroom door. It's one of those weird fake windows that shows the hallway on the other side. In it, I see my own outline — slouched, stiff, awkward. My blonde hair is tied back in a messy bun, stray wisps curling down around my ears. I look pale. Washed out. My eyes drop to the red pimple on my chin. It feels enormous. Glowing like a warning light.
I glance away fast, heart racing. The last thing I want is to draw more attention to myself.
The scrape of chairs signals the end of the boys' presentation. A few classmates clap out of obligation. Mr. Hurst writes something lazily in his notebook, barely looking up.
"Parker..." he says without inflexion, his eyes lingering again. My eyes shoot up at him, wide. "and Matthews."
Isabel nudges me gently, already halfway out of her seat. "Let's go."
We walk to the front. My legs feel disconnected from my body, like I'm floating. Or sinking. Or weighed down my shackles. My cue cards tremble slightly in my hand, so I grip them tighter.
As I face the class, everything blurs for a second. Rows of desks, half-bored faces, the buzzing of electricity that's a little too loud. I make awkward eye contact with Kara Simmons, one of the popular girls — perfect lip gloss, French manicured nails, an expensive-looking hairband pulling her honey-blonde hair into a glossy wave. She smirks behind her hand. I know she's whispering about me.
Beside her, Jordan Meyers twirls a pen between his fingers, legs stretched long under his desk. He gives me a once-over, not kind but not cruel. Just lazy appraisal, like I'm a menu option he's already dismissed.
Behind them, Luke, a boy with too much gel in his hair and a typical jock build, catches my eye and immediately raises his brows in mocking anticipation. I snap my gaze away.
Isabel begins. Her voice is clear, strong. She gestures to the diagram we drew on the whiteboard. Something about the French Revolution. I can barely remember what part I was supposed to explain. I'm supposed to follow her. My throat feels dry. My lips stick together when I try to talk.
I start to stutter. Not badly, just enough for the silence afterwards to feel heavy. Just enough that Kara bites her lip to keep from laughing.
Someone else moves in the corner of my eye. Mr. Hurst... shifts in his chair. His eyes are on me, on my legs, my backside, my breasts— I know it. I fucking hate him! I want to scrub my body clean with one of those steel dish scrubbers my Mum uses for the pans.
"Emmy... you're okay," Isabel whispers, stepping closer, still smiling. My focus is back on her, momentarily. I try to let it ground me, but that's getting more and more impossible.
I gulp and try again. Words tumble out this time, faster than I want them to. I'm not breathing right. My heart beats behind my eyes. I can feel everyone watching me.
I glance towards Mr. Hurst and immediately regret it.
He's leaned forward slightly, elbows on his desk, chin in hand, watching. Not with encouragement, with interest. And not the good kind. His eyes drag slowly down and then back up again. They don't blink when they pass over my legs, then settle too low on my blouse. I grip the cue cards tighter, so hard my knuckles are white, and I can feel something wet trickling down my palm.
The humiliation rises in my throat mixed with bile. I feel like I'm burning alive. Isabel saves me, stepping in again to redirect the talk. She eases the pressure, makes the next point I was supposed to, and no one stops her. Mr. Hurst doesn't care. He's still looking at me.
When we finish, there's a smattering of polite, obligatory claps.
I want to sit back down and disappear. I want the floor to split open beneath me and swallow me whole.
We walk back to our seats. I keep my eyes on the floor. My knees feel wobbly. Like they don't belong to me anymore.
Mr. Hurst finally speaks.
"Good effort," he says. "Though some of us could work on public speaking confidence... Emily."
He says my name slowly. Like he's tasting it. Tasting me.
There's a low giggle from the back of the room. I think it's Kara. Or one of the other girls like her, perfect and bored and cruel.
My cheeks flame. My hands feel too far away from my body.
I move to sit down, but my foot catches the chair leg. I stumble, not hard, but enough that my books nearly slide off my desk. Enough that it makes a noise. Enough that everyone notices.
"Careful now," Mr. Hurst says in that low, grating voice.
I don't even remember sitting down. Just the flash of heat up my neck. The ringing in my ears. The way the room seems to shrink and blur at the edges like I'm underwater, like I'm a discarded puppet.
Isabel places her hand over mine under the desk. She squeezes once. Warm. Solid. Real. But I don't squeeze back. I don't think I could if I tried.
But then—
Something phantom touches my neck.
I flinch. It isn't Isabel. It didn't even feel like part of the memory.
Suddenly, the classroom was gone. Isabel's hand, the desk, Mr. Hurst — all gone. The light was different now, colder. Fluorescent humming above me like insects trapped behind plastic. The ache in my ribs came back, dull and deep. My skin felt damp. My legs felt stiff.
The touch came again, gentler this time — two fingers on my neck, checking something.
My pulse.
My throat was tight. My eyes opened slowly. The world was blurry, edges swimming, but I recognised the shape of someone standing nearby, arms crossed, watching.
James.
Next to him, someone I didn't know. A man, younger than I expected. Early thirties, maybe. Clean-cut, pale skin, short brown hair, kind eyes. He crouched beside the bed and gave me a small, cautious smile.
"Hello, Emily," he said softly. "Can you hear me?"
I groaned and wiped the dampness around my eyes with the back of my hand. And it came to me, what just happened. I had dissociated again. Or it had been a dream. Either or...
"Are you okay?" James asked, an edge of concern in his voice.
I nodded slightly, barely paying attention yet.
"I'm Sam... I'm the doctor here. I'm just going to check your health, alright?" The young man introduced himself. His voice was gentle. No power behind it. No weight.
My chest tightened, gaze flicking back to James. But he only gave a nod and didn't move. Sam looked at me again, patiently. His gloved fingers rested on the blanket.
I didn't pull away. Something about him was grounding. Reassuring in a way I couldn't describe if I tried.
Slowly, I offered him my arm, allowing him access to the bandages, as if I already knew that's what he wanted. He started unwrapping it, very carefully. I could hear my own breathing, shallow and unsure.
I looked away as the gauze came off. I didn't want to see the wound, the dried blood, the healing gash across my arm.
"You're healing quite well," Sam said quietly. There was a hidden sadness around the edges of his words that gave me pause, like he knew that this would become common practice now. That he'd be seeing me more often, more or less every week, to tend to the damage Tyler would cause.
He didn't ask how it happened. Like he already knew. I glanced up at James and watched him wince at the sight of my arm.
"Is it bad?" I croaked out, my throat scratchy.
His eyes flicked to mine. He paused, blinked, then shook his head slowly with a fake smile.
'It is.'
The doctor finished re-dressing the wound and checked a few other things — my heart rate, my pupils, my lungs. I remained quiet throughout. Unmoving, not speaking. He didn't rush. When he finally stood, he straightened his coat and peeled the blue latex gloves off his hands with a soft snap.
"You've been through a lot," he said. "If you need anything - water, pain relief, just... to talk — I'll be around."
I didn't answer. But for a second, I almost did.
He gave me another brief nod, then looked to James. "I'll, uh... leave you to it."
The door clicked softly shut behind him.
And then it was just the two of us. Me and James.
Again.