The fluorescent lights of Room 3B didn't hum so much as gasp, each flicker a tiny, dying breath against the oppressive beige of the ceiling tiles. The air hung thick and stale, a cloying mix of chalk dust, cheap floor cleaner, and the faint, sharp scent of adolescent anxiety. Audrey's vision swam, the multiplication problems on the quiz blurring into meaningless shapes. Her head felt heavy, balanced precariously on a neck that felt too thin, too weak. Every muscle ached with a deep, bone-weary exhaustion that no amount of rest could touch. Sleep, a luxury she rarely knew uninterrupted, had slipped further from her reach each passing night.
Her pencil, a cheap yellow stub borrowed from the teacher's desk, scratched faintly against the paper. The sound was a whisper in the otherwise silent classroom, punctuated only by the restless shuffling of feet and the occasional clearing of a throat. Ninety-two times eighteen. Her mind felt like static, refusing to conjure even the simplest arithmetic. She pressed harder, the graphite tip digging into the paper.
And then it snapped.
The sharp, brittle crack echoed in the silence, disproportionately loud. It wasn't just the sound of breaking wood and lead. It was the sound of a belt buckle hitting the floor after a swift, brutal arc. It was the sound of a door slamming shut, trapping her inside. It was the sound of a scream that never left her throat.
Her breath hitched, jagged in her chest. The room tilted violently. Mrs. Davison's concerned face swam into view, then receded. Her own hands felt alien, trembling uncontrollably. A low whine started in her ears, rising, rising. She swayed forward, her forehead hitting the rough surface of the laminate desk with a dull, heavy thud. The world slipped away.
The first thing she registered was a hand, cool and strangely damp, closing over hers. Then a voice, trembling pitch-perfectly, a violin string vibrating with manufactured grief.
"Oh, Audrey… she hasn't slept in days. I've tried to tell them…" Mia's voice, always so carefully modulated, now broke on a sob. "She hurts herself, you know. I found… I found things…"
Lies, already spinning, weaving a story before Audrey was even conscious enough to deny it. Mia, her adopted sister, hovering over her, a dark angel of concerned manipulation. Audrey felt herself being lifted, cradled, her limp hand squeezed tight by Mia's clammy grip. The last fragments of consciousness dissolved under the weight of Mia's performance and Audrey's own exhaustion.
When Audrey surfaced again, the air was scrubbed clean, sharp and sterile. The Nurse's Office. A too-bright examination light glared down, harsh and unforgiving. She lay on a narrow cot, the thin paper sheet beneath her crinkling like dry leaves. The sound was a whisper, a warning.
The nurse, a woman with kind eyes but a detached air, checked her pulse. "Audrey? Can you hear me, honey?"
Audrey managed a weak nod. Her head throbbed where it had hit the desk. Her body ached in places she could no longer track.
"Just relax," the nurse said, her voice soothing but distant. She gently lifted the back of Audrey's t-shirt. Cool air swept over her skin.
Audrey heard the nurse's sharp intake of breath.
She didn't have to look. She knew what was there. Faded, horizontal lines across her shoulder blades—old belt marks, thin and red. Newer ones, lower on her back, dark purple and yellow, blooming painfully across her pale skin. And on her wrists, where Mia had just clutched her too tightly, faint bruises were already beginning to form.
This wasn't self-harm, the nurse's silence screamed. This was something else. Something deliberate. Something cruel.
The door opened, and the sweet, heavy scent of rose perfume drifted in before Mrs. Jones. She entered gracefully, clutching a small plastic baggie. Mr. Jones followed, his expression somber, his hands clasped like a grieving parishioner. They were the perfect Christian parents, well-known and respected, their photo proudly displayed in the principal's office. A model family.
"Oh, Nurse Agnes," Mrs. Jones began, her voice soft, trembling with carefully calibrated concern. "We came as soon as Mia called us. She was so worried."
Of course Mia had called them first. Mia always moved faster.
"She collapsed during the quiz," Nurse Agnes explained, her voice carefully neutral. "Audrey, would you like your parents to stay?"
Audrey couldn't speak. Her throat burned, her tongue thick. She stared up at the buzzing light above.
Mrs. Jones stepped closer, her expression shifting from concern to soft sadness. "Nurse, we need to be honest. This isn't the first time. And we found this in her backpack this morning."
She held up the plastic bag. Inside, a small, dull razor blade glinted under the harsh light.
Audrey's heart slammed in her chest. That wasn't hers. She hadn't put that there.
"We've found these before," Mrs. Jones sighed, her voice dripping with false sorrow. "She's ashamed. That's why she hides it. She's been struggling for a long time." She shook her head slowly, a perfect portrait of maternal heartbreak.
Mr. Jones sighed, steady and measured, as if carrying the burden of difficult parenting. "Some children crave discipline. But Audrey resists. We've tried everything. Counseling, prayer…" His gaze shifted to Nurse Agnes, a quiet plea for understanding. "She needs help."
The lies settled like concrete in the room. They weren't subtle. They were absolute. The Joneses painted Audrey as disturbed, unstable, self-destructive. The marks on her back? Self-inflicted. The bruises? Perhaps from falling, perhaps from resisting their help.
The door opened again, and Mia stepped in with Principal Harrison at her side. Mr. Harrison, a man whose face was carved into a mask of weary authority, nodded at the Joneses.
Mia, wide-eyed, tear-streaked, rushed to Audrey's side, falling to her knees beside the cot. "Audrey!" she whispered, trembling. "Are you okay? I was so worried."
She took Audrey's hand and squeezed, her grip sharp against the bruises. "I just want her to get better," Mia choked out, her tears glistening as she looked up at the adults. "We pray every night. I try to help her, but she lies… she lies to everyone. She pretends nothing's wrong."
Mia's voice, the perfect mixture of heartbreak and sincerity, wrapped the adults in its web. She pulled back her sleeve, revealing a thin, fresh scratch on her forearm. "She did this to me this morning when I tried to take the blade from her. She gets so angry. She needs help."
The razor, the scratch, the tears. Mia's masterpiece.
Teachers whispered in the hallway, nodding, murmuring in quiet agreement. Mia's concern was believable. Audrey's silence, her withdrawn behavior, her missed school days—it all seemed to fit.
Mr. Harrison's gaze moved from Mia to Audrey. He knew the Joneses. They were good people. They were known. Mia was a model student. Audrey was the troubled one.
The easiest story to believe.
Audrey's lips parted. Her voice barely escaped, dry and cracked. "I didn't—"
Nurse Agnes gently squeezed her hand. "Honey, we understand. Denial is part of the process. You'll get help now."
Denial. Diagnosis. It was done. They had already decided. Audrey's story had been discarded. Mia's version was easier to digest.
Audrey closed her eyes. The scent of rose perfume clung to the air, the metallic taste of bitten lips thick on her tongue.
But she wasn't broken.
In her pocket, she felt it, the folded brochure for the summer program she'd applied to on her own, miles away, her escape plan, her fragile secret.
She wouldn't win with words. They belonged to Mia now. But evidence ,evidence would speak louder.
As they wheeled her out toward the waiting ambulance, Audrey let her eyes fall shut, not in defeat but in quiet calculation.
Let them believe Mia.
For now.