First message
I stopped fighting back a long time ago. It’s not bravery, it’s just… easier. Fighting only drags it out—gives them a reason to keep going. So I just take it. Let the hits land. Let the names stick. It’s better when it ends quickly. A fist slams into my stomach, knocking the air out of me. I fold, hitting the ground hard. Cold tile kisses my cheek, and I feel the familiar burn behind my eyes. Not from the pain—I’ve learned how to dull that—but from the shame. From knowing I won’t do anything. That I can’t.
Someone laughs, sharp and cruel, and then there’s a kick to my side. I hear it more than feel it—like a distant echo underwater. My ribs throb. My backpack’s been ripped off, tossed somewhere behind me. I don’t look for it. Another kick lands. I don’t know who it is this time—doesn’t matter. They all blur together eventually. Different faces, same hate.
“Say something, freak,” one of them sneers. I don’t. I never do.I taste blood. Bit the inside of my cheek again.