I stand over the sink, hands braced on the porcelain, and inspect my reflection in the mirror. The person staring back at me is unrecognizable. Sure, the features are the same: round face with almond shaped brown eyes, lips smudged with the same blackberry lipstick I reapplied at lunch, and the small mole at the corner of my lip.

Despite putting up with everyone's shit this week, I kept myself from descending into the hole of depression that has often been my home away from home. I've taken Ashlie and her friends insults on the chin, ignored the crude rumors and stupid pranks, however, I was ill prepared for Devon's brand of degradation.

Shoving me in a dark room is nothing unusual. But the crazed look in his eyes and the nightstick fighting against the zipper of his jeans caused a different kind of fear. As his gaze slithering over my body before shoving me over the desk, I thought for sure he was going to force himself on me right here at school.

He's a bully, after all, but a sick monster?

Well, the jury is still out on that one.

Safe to say, he has some morals. Although spanking his classmate is still sexual assault. Wait, is spanking considered sexual? By his heavy breathing and rutting against me like a dog in heat, I'm going to say yes.

Then why aren't you reporting him?

I scrub a hand down my face, my answer lost in the disorder cluttering my brain. Doing the most logical thing verses the consequential fallout seals my booted feet to the floor.

For one, it would be his word against mine and in the land of popular jocks on a winning streak, my word holds are much weight as a feather in a windstorm.

Granted, I do I have proof but there's no way I'm shucking my pants to show off my abused
backside. I squirm from the ache as my eyes drop to the discoloration along my neck. Well, there's that and the ones on my stomach and wrist.

A lump lodges in my throat at the bruises marking my caramel toned skin. I think back and can't remember Devon ever leaving marks this severe on my body. The proof of his constant abuse is more skin deep.

My chest constricts on a shaky inhale and it feels like sandpaper on my windpipe. Rising panic sets in remembering his hands around my neck and the way his head tilted like he was seriously contemplating squeezing the life out of me. The possibility of falling unconscious at Devon's feet makes me ill. Worse yet, ending up dead and his stupid face as my last memory.

I choke back a sob when my morbid thoughts mix with a hundred different emotions bombarding me at once.

Despair sinks my soul.

Anxiety has my hands shaking.

Lingering fear trickles like ice in my veins.

Coming out as the reigning champ is shame. Always shame.

Usually it's caused by others. Now that I'm the culprit, it hits differently and burns like acid. I can practically feel my self-worth dissolving as I stand here in the girl's bathroom.

How in the world could my body respond to Devon's force, his dirty words, and roaming hands?

I want to vomit because after the spanking continued, it started to feel... good?

No, that can't be right. I'll say it wasn't unpleasant because the vibration from each hit traveled to that little spot between my legs causing tingles of sensation over my nerve endings. My nipples beaded painfully against the desk as pain morphed into unwelcomed pleasure.

I've called Devon every name under the sun and I'm convinced he's a deviant sprouted from the seeds of Hell. But, if he's all those things, what am I, the girl turned on by his warped treatment?

In no way ready to examine that mind-fuck, I shove it into the deep recesses of my mind. I also tell myself the dampness ruining my panties is just a little piddle from being overstimulated.

Yes, that's it. I'm just an excited puppy with a sensitive bladder not a freak turned on by violence.

I dig my palms into my eye sockets and release a weary sigh. Holy crapola, how is this my life?

The bell rings out, breaking me from my erratic thoughts and ending the school day.

Practice has been cancelled due to the weather and thank goodness for small favors because I need a drink and not one of those wine coolers Lindsey favors. After that bullshit, mama needs a glass of something twenty proof on the rocks.

ASAP!

Turning on the faucet, I splash my face with water then fix myself up. I pull out my powder compact and attempt to cover the bruises then finger my curls over my shoulders. Hopefully, my friends won't notice because I don't have the brain power to dodge and weave around their questions.

I finish just as a group of girls burst through the door chatting loudly about the one topic that seems to rule our little teenage world.

Boys. The bane of every girl's existence.

I slip my messenger bag on my shoulder and head towards the door just as the last person I want to see strolls in tapping on her cell.

Dressed stylishly in her finest Pretty Little Things ensemble, Rochelle has evolved from the days of Barbie dolls and slumber parties where we binged watched MTV and The Kardashians while create vision boards of our future life plans.

Her sable hair is cut in layer with a few highlights that compliment her slightly upturned eyes and angular face. We're about the same height but I outweigh her by a good thirty pounds.

Planning to continue our ritual of acting as though the other doesn't exist, I keep my eyes forward until I notice her glance up as she slips her phone in her purse.

"Oh, Thea, uh, hey."

Out of all the days she chooses to go against the grain, of course, it has to be after getting my ass battered by the king jockhole.

What the hell did I do in my past life to deserve this?

She pauses by the first stall, giving me a wobbly smile that I don't return. The room instantly shrinks by the awkward tension thickening the air and I want to keep walking but my momma raised me better.

"Hey." I mumble and the single greeting is bloated with years of unspoken words between us.

There was a time where we were inseparable. Like all good things, our friendship had to come to end at one of the most pivotal points in a pre-teen's life. Middle school can either make or break you and Rochelle caught the good in of the stick.

When Ashlie, the vipers, and few others joined Westlake Middle from another school during a redistricting mandate, she was inducted into their clique while I was deemed an eye sore because of my bushy hair, braces, and frumpy clothes.

The gradual decline of our friendship came to a head at Rochelle's thirteenth birthday party where I was kicked out on Ashlie's orders. The total devastation of being dumped by my best friend under a balloon archway with a sprinkle cupcake in my hand shattered the small hope I had of us remaining friends. Rochelle had picked her side and we haven't spoken since.

"How are you?" She says as I pass and the question is simple enough, one that I've been asked a million times but all I can do is tip my head in confusion.

How am I? How am I?

Has she been living in a commune for the last five years or even the last 24 hours?

She was at the party, sitting at the same lunch table where her friends mocked me with pig masks, and this traitor has the audacity to ask how I'm doing?

My blank stare has her shuffling on her feet while anger, so fierce in its rage, lances my blood and heats the chill from earlier. Clasping the strap of my bag like it's the last defense holding me together, I tell myself to calm down.

"Just living the dream." I'm amazed at how steady my voice is when every molecule in my body is ready to shatter into the ether. "You?"

She doesn't look convinced by my response and studies me but I board up my emotions with steel plates.

"Uh, fine." she replies after a moment's hesitation.

"Great." I slap on a fake smile and move pass her towards the door.

"Thea," I stop again, roll my eyes, and turn my head. "I just wanted to say that I'm, umm, sorry about what happened, you know, last weekend."

I bite the inside of my cheek and nod.

"Devon is a real jerk sometimes but he wasn't responsible for what happened at lunch yesterday." She continues and the mere mention of his name makes me want to commit violence.

"Who was it then?" I cock a brow already knowing that if it wasn't Devon next in line is his bitch of a girlfriend.

Rochelle plays with the ends of her hair, one of her nervous ticks.

"I-I think it was one of the guys." Her lie is stale and only serves to add to my irritation because God forbid she go against her queen.

I turn fully towards her, clear the annoyance form my face, and breath out a chuckle. "Figures, guys are so juvenile." She nods in agreement, visibly relaxing. Premature move on her part. "Well, at least my former best friend had my back and didn't stand by while I was humiliated in front of the entire cafeteria. I really, really appreciate her speaking up and not standing by like a coward because she values popularity over doing what's right."

The bathroom goes silent aside from the hand dryer by the sink and a stall door slamming closed. We've earned the rapt attention from the others standing around ear hustling so they can gossip about it later.

Her mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water and while she figures out a reply, exhaustion threatens to take me under as tears sting the back of my eyes.

Two seconds from breaking down, I walk backwards to the door while glaring at her with years festering resentment and say, "Have a good one, Chelle."

And go fuck yourself.