I've never had it easy. From the moment I was orphaned, my life became a series of harsh realities and fleeting chances. Being passed from one foster home to another, I was always the outsider, never truly belonging. High school was supposed to be my chance to change things, to find my place. But it didn't turn out that way.
Chad Turner made sure of that. He was everything I wasn't—popular, wealthy, and untouchable. And he knew exactly how to push my buttons. It wasn't just my awkwardness or my shyness that made me a target; it was something deeper, something they all knew and used against me.
"Look at Mia, still hanging around," Chad's voice echoed down the hall one day. "She must be used to living in the gutter."
I froze, feeling the sting of his words. "Shut up, Chad," I muttered, trying to walk faster.
Chad's laughter followed me. "What's wrong, Mia? Did your mom teach you to fight? Oh wait, she was too busy working the streets."
I felt a knot form in my stomach. My biological mother had been a prostitute. It was their favourite way to hurt me, to remind me that I came from a background they thought inferior.
That day in the gym, things went from bad to worse. Chad and his friends cornered me, their faces twisted with a cruel sort of glee. I knew what was coming, but I couldn't escape.
"Hey, Mia," Chad said, smirking as he approached. "Still upset about your mom's job? Maybe you need a reminder of where you come from."
Before I could react, he grabbed me, and his friends joined in, their hands rough and unrelenting. I fought back as best I could, but their strength overwhelmed me. In the chaos, my phone was smashed—my only means of documenting what happened.
"Stop!" I yelled, but their taunts swallowed my voice. "You're sick!"
When they finally let me go, I was left shaken and humiliated. My phone lay shattered on the floor, its screen cracked beyond repair. The one thing I had to prove was that the truth was gone.
Afterwards, the rumours started spreading. Chad and his friends twisted the story, making it seem like the assault was my fault. I overheard snippets of conversation in the hallways that made my heart sink.
"I heard Mia's just like her mom," one girl said with a sneer. "Probably wanted it."
"Yeah," another added. "She's just a mess. Why would anyone believe her?"
Each cruel remark, each mocking glance, felt like a punch to the gut. My foster parents were no help. "It's just teenage drama," my foster mom said, brushing off my concerns. "You'll get over it."
The counsellors at school were no better, offering only empty platitudes. "Try to stay positive," one suggested, her tone more patronizing than reassuring.
I was left alone, grappling with the pain of being betrayed by everyone I thought I could trust. The rumours spread like wildfire, and explicit photos of me, some real, some doctored, were circulated among my classmates. Each day brought a new layer of humiliation, and I felt trapped in a nightmare with no escape.