The four of us parted ways as if nothing had happened.
It was true—we left behind unmistakable chaos, but that chaos was nothing compared to what festered inside our chests.
I couldn't find a ride.
So I ran to school.
Halfway there, my body betrayed me. I threw up while walking—hangover, anxiety, sweat pouring from every inch of my skin. My legs didn't stop moving. And finally, I reached my new hell.
School.
A wide white building stood before me.
Written at its center:
"The Rosary School."
I already knew—the name carried the only roses I would ever see here.
I entered through the glass door, exhaling heavily. A security guard sat on a wooden chair nearby, barely awake. Saliva clung to the corner of his mouth. I didn't want to disturb his fragile attempt at sleep, so I walked quietly, almost reaching the classroom corridor.
"Hey, sir!"
I froze.
He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and squinted at me. I sighed, turned around, and forced my lips into something polite.
"How can I help you?" I asked.
"I haven't seen you before. New student?"
I was carrying a school bag.
I was seventeen.
"Yes," I said, offering my hand. "Transfer student."
He stared for a moment, then recognition flickered across his face.
"Ah—right. The principal mentioned you."
He shook my hand, then released it.
"But you're late," he added, irritation leaking into his voice. "I'll let it slide since it's your first day. Still, not a good impression."
My jaw tightened.
"Thank you," I said. "It won't happen again. May I go to class?"
"Of course," he said quickly, suddenly embarrassed.
I walked away.
And immediately got lost.
The corridors twisted into each other like a bad joke. Doors, stairs, identical walls. Fifteen minutes passed. No sign of the high school wing.
I checked my phone.
8:40 a.m.
My schedule ended at 12:30.
Sweat soaked my shirt. My hair clung to my forehead. Cigarette smoke clung to me harder than my cologne ever could.
So I decided to leave.
A classic move.
Except—
I couldn't find the exit.
My breath shortened. The walls felt closer. The silence louder.
Then—
A short figure appeared.
White hair.
A black nun's dress.
Eyes gentle, but sharp—measuring.
"Hello, young man," she said softly. "Are you alright?"
I straightened.
"I'm the new transfer student," I said, extending my hand.
Her smile paused—just a fraction too long.
She shook it.
"Ah. Alexander's son."
My left eye twitched.
"Yes."
She studied me with clinical interest, like a specimen behind glass.
"You're lost," she said, laughing lightly, resting a hand on my shoulder.
"That obvious?"
"Come with me."
We walked together.
"Rough morning?" she asked.
Something in my chest cracked.
"It is."
The third floor greeted us—white and blue walls. Second-year section. She stopped at a black door.
Second Year – Class C
I reached for the handle.
Her grip closed around my wrist.
"What you did in your previous school is known here," she said, voice stripped of warmth. "You were accepted because of your father. And since this is a Christian institution, you'll attend Christian mythology classes."
I gently removed her hand.
"I understand," I said. "No need to worry."
I opened the door.
The room fell silent.
The principal entered behind me.
The classroom was immaculate. Wide. Sterile. The students looked untouched by life—pressed uniforms, perfect skin, careless confidence.
Then I saw her.
Back row.
Blue eyes. Empty.
Long black hair.
A face I knew, but couldn't place.
"Good morning," the principal said. "A new transfer student joins us today. Please take care of him."
My gaze drifted.
Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Foreign features. Wealth without effort.
I felt small.
Messy dark-blond hair.
Black eyes.
A thin body that took up too little space.
"Introduce yourself," the teacher said.
I inhaled.
"I'm Well Ahmed," I said. "If you have questions, I'll answer."
A boy smirked.
"Are you Arab?"
"My father is Palestinian. My mother is German."
A girl raised her hand.
"Are you the son of the famous engineer?"
"Yes."
Whispers spread like infection.
"He shamed his father."
"He doesn't look like him."
My teeth pressed into my lip.
"You may take your seat," the teacher said.
Before I moved, the girl with blue eyes raised her hand.
"Rain," the principal warned.
"I don't mind," I said. "Let her speak."
Rain stood.
"Why transfer in your final year?" she asked calmly. "Are the rumors true?"
My stomach sank.
My vision narrowed.
Don't say it.
Dodge it.
"It's personal," I said, smiling too wide.
The principal left.
I took the seat behind Rain.
The lesson dissolved into noise—Spanish words, laughter, chalk scraping. My head throbbed. I pressed my palms against it.
Then the room shifted.
Faces blurred. Colors drained. Smiles stretched too long. I couldn't make out features—only teeth and sound.
"What's happening to me?" I murmured, staring at the floor.
The bell rang.
I bolted.
Locked myself in the nearest bathroom stall. Sat down.
Cold tile. Harsh light.
My body reacted before my thoughts could catch up.
An erection.
"Why now?" I thought.
A voice answered—familiar.
"Because you're weak."
My father's voice.
His face surfaced in my mind, twisted, cruel.
"Do it."
"Prove something."
"You thought you could escape me?"
"You embarrassed me."
My hands shook as I pulled my pants down. Tears burned my eyes. I bit my lip until copper filled my mouth.
I touched myself—too fast, too rough. Each movement felt like punishment rather than pleasure.
Then—
Release.
It spilled out.
I laughed.
A thin, broken sound.
"How pathetic," I said aloud.
"Yes," the voice agreed, laughing with me. "You are."
Then—
A sharp knock on the door.