Chapter 2

Content Warning: *Includes depictions of high school bullying, physical framing/humiliation, dissociative sensory loss, and references to past parental neglect and child abuse.
*

Walking inside the school is the thing I hate the most.

Can’t I just teleport into my class?

I walk into the corridor and suddenly hit the wall. More like—I’m pushed into it. I look up. Mia. Two years older. Senior.

One of my bullies.

She looks at me like I’m disgusting trash she wants to trample again and again.

“Fucking stay out of my way, you fucking witch.”

I look at her and think: If I’m a witch, you’re surely a demon. Because humans aren’t this cruel.

She looks at me, her voice loud enough for everyone to hear. “I need to contact someone—fast—a witch is in my way today. Who knows what bad luck I’m gonna have.”

Others laugh.

You don’t need bad luck. Demons don’t get affected by bad luck. It’s me who wants to contact an exorcism professional.

I really want to say it to her face, but I know what will come next. I won’t be able to handle it. Better to avoid her before she—or I—can speak.

Her crush walks down the corridor.

Oh, merciful God. Thank you.

She plasters on a smile and moves away from me. A demon wearing a smile is still a demon, though. She walks toward her crush, and I head to the junior department, stepping inside my classroom.

But there are small demons waiting for me here, too. One tries to trip me. I dodge, but another foot catches me—I can’t dodge in time. The next second, I’m on the floor.

Thank God my backpack was in front of me. It doesn’t hurt. Just my wrist.

They’re laughing again.

Again.

This laughter echoes in my head even when they stop. Even when all of this stops. Even when everything goes quiet, this sick, cruel laughter doesn’t stop in my mind.

Some of them laugh from pure amusement. Some laugh because they don’t want to be the target of bullying. Showing me sympathy would make them the next victim.

I stand up and walk to my chair.

It’s covered in red paint.

I look around, spot an old chair at the back of the class, and sit down.

Before anyone speaks further—before the venom spills from their mouths—the teacher comes in.

The hypocrisy.

There’s a rule here: no bullying in front of teachers. Do whatever behind their backs. All these demons follow this rule. So do the teachers.

I sit down as the teacher starts speaking, and a thought crosses my mind.

I tried to tell my homeroom teacher. Showed evidence. He dismissed me.

I tried to tell my English teacher. He said to keep him out of it—he doesn’t want to lose his job.

This much love for a job makes you this selfish? To refuse to help a person in need—to become blind to others’ pain, why?

Then came the last person I asked for help. What did she do? She told the bullies who I was asking to be saved from.

If my stupid self had known she would do that, I never would have told her.

I was stupid. How could I think they would help me when my own parents don’t? When my own sister is one of them?

What have I done? Is my existence itself so hateful that they torture me like this? Or is there some sin I’ve committed to deserve this?

I look at the teacher.

Please. Look closely. Look at me, the person you chose to ignore. Look at me closely. I hope you get nightmares that don’t leave you.

He starts teaching, but suddenly, everything goes quiet.

It’s happening again: these little sessions I experience these days. Moments where I lose my ability to hear, or see, or speak.

Some people might find it scary, but I love it.

When I can’t hear their mocking laughter, when I can’t see their demonic faces… God, You could have made me deaf. It would have been such a blessing.

These sessions last for a few minutes and end on their own. It’s like my body is telling me it’s falling apart—telling me we’ve had enough.

I look at my trembling hands. The headache in my head is blasting, but it’s peaceful.

I wish this type of peace would last. I wouldn’t have to hear anything.

I can be free when I have these episodes alone. It’s scary—I get vulnerable—but when the world quiets down, when I’m not able to see or hear, when the world goes dark, I strangely find peace.

The peace I’m searching for. The peace I’m longing for.

It’s a mercy that Iva isn’t in my class. My twin. It would have been a nightmare for me here, too.

The session ends, and class continues.

I look at my school bag. It’s lunch time, but I can’t go inside the cafeteria—they would be there.

I walk toward the library. Those demons don’t go there.

God, please make my hunger go away.

I step inside the library and sit in a quiet corner where no one will disturb me. Sitting down, I realize I’m feeling dizzy. Is it because I haven’t eaten anything? Maybe that’s the reason.

I search inside my bag and find a small candy. Glucose. I open it and place it in my mouth.

My taste buds have gone crazy lately; I’m slowly losing the ability to taste things.

I open my book and start to read.

The only time I get to zone out of the hell around me is with my books.

A little self-accomplishment. A little control over my life. My books. My studies. When I study, I forget my reality. And I love it. I love when I forget everything.

I wish there was a delete button.

Control. A little control I have in my life. A little bit of control where I can achieve something on my own—my studies and my grades.

I look at my books and say to myself—Dove. A nickname I give myself when I want to take command of my mind.

Let’s study. We have a test after lunch.

My stomach growls, but I drink water instead.

It’s okay. If I just repeat “I’m not hungry,” I won’t remain hungry.

I’m minding my own business, doing my test, when a sharp voice calls my name. It hits my ears like a slap.

I look up. My teacher is yelling at me. “Are you shameless? Aren’t you cheating right in front of me?”

I look at her. When did I?

I want to say this to her, but if I talk back, she’s going to kick me out of class.

I look at her and hear someone laughing. I turn to my side—one of Iva’s minions. Laughing.

Oh. It’s a setup.

The teacher looks at me. “Get your chair up here right now, Miss Cheater. In front of the whole class, so everyone can see you cheating.”

I stand up, drag my chair to the front, and sit down. She hands me a new sheet.

“Here. Write. We’ll see what kind of cheater you are.”

I look at the sheet. It’s fine. The test is easy, and I can finish it on time.

Oh, how I wish you experienced the same humiliation you just gave me, Teacher. How I wish all of you demons rot in hell.

I know tomorrow I’m going to be called a “cheater witch.” What else is there for them to add?

Today I’m left behind in class. For what? Cleaning the classroom. It was supposed to be a whole group assignment, but I’m here alone, doing their work too.

I feel dizzy. My hands are getting cold. I’m hungry.

I’m mopping the floor when I feel a sudden chill down my spine. The hair on my neck stands up. Years of experience have taught me one thing: never ignore this feeling.

I look behind me. A boy is standing in the doorway, holding his phone—maybe on a video call with someone.

Who is he? He isn’t from this class.

He gives me a disgusting look, a sickening smirk on his lips. He thinks it’s cool, but it’s vile. I know that look all too well.

He walks closer. I swear—if he passes this chair, I’m going to splash this dirty water on him. I am not ready for this.

He stops.

“What?” I ask.

He looks at me and speaks with disgusting confidence. “For a cursed whore like you, you have a hot body.”

My heart trembles at the sheer disgust and fear.

“My friends gave me a dare for losing a bet—to kiss you. So you better behave and let me do this. You understand me?”

I’m not an object, you bastard.

I look at him and take a step forward. He’s holding his camera—probably live-streaming to his friends.

I peel off the glove from my left hand—the one I always wear. I unbutton my sleeve and fold it up, exposing my scar.

“See this? I have great luck. I happen to have a skin condition, and the doctors said it can transmit through saliva. How about we test it? Who knows—the doctors might be wrong.”

My heart is trembling, but I force a cold mask onto my face and keep my voice steady. My legs are shaking, my heart is hammering, and my fingertips are ice-cold from the dizziness, but I won’t let anyone strip away my dignity like this.

He shrinks back. “Stay away from me, you fucking bitch! Disgusting!”

He flees the room.

I look down at the burn scar covering my left hand and forearm. This ugly, permanent mark is the only thing Mother ever gave me.

I remember how I got it.

I was seven years old. My brother Luke—two years younger than me—was in the kitchen late at night. I went in to find something to eat and found him messing with boiling water on the stove.

Before I could think, I lunged forward. The water was about to spill on him, and I managed to pull him away, taking the burn myself instead.

And what did he do? That child blamed me. He was terrified of Mother, not realizing he wouldn’t have been punished anyway.

“I was in the kitchen,” he lied, “and she came in to—“

Mother didn’t get me medical treatment. She locked me in the basement for three days: cold, dark, and alone. When my punishment finally ended, she allowed a doctor to treat me just enough to prevent infection.

According to her, I needed to keep the scar permanently as a reminder of what I “did” and what could have happened to her precious prince.

Oh yes, Mother. I will remember this my whole life. Your own blood can be this cold, cruel, and monstrous. Thank you for the valuable lesson.

I mop the floor quickly, desperate to get out before something else happens.

God, when is this day going to end?

I’m tired. I’m so tired of all of this.