I can't stop smiling.

I take my time this morning, curling my hair, doing my makeup and wearing my new Vans I got when shopping. I had a great weekend. I spent time with Harold, I flirted with Wren and I slept soundlessly. Small steps, but steps nonetheless.

I'm slightly late to class because of my coffee pit stop. I slide into the seat beside Wren.

"I come bearing the goods," I declare. "Here is one for you, so you don't have to steal mine."

He grins at me. Instead of taking the one I have placed on his desk, he takes mine.

"Wren!" I groan.

"I told you, yours tastes better. I don't make the rules," he shrugs.

His eyes linger on my face for a moment, and I wonder if he is noticing the effort I put in today. I try not to let his attention get to my head too much and quickly scribble down today's date.

"How was your Sunday?" I ask.

"Someone is in a good mood today."

I smile. "I had a really nice weekend."

He nods, his own small smile appearing. "My Sunday was fine."

"Did you see your sister?" I ask, completely forgetting we are in class. I lean forward, instinctively trying to get closer to him. God damn, he smells fantastic.

"No," he exhales, disappointment rolling off of him in waves. "They cancelled. They said she wasn't feeling very good."

"Oh," I say. "That's a bummer."

"Yep. Only reason I went home."

"When did you see her last?"

"Two months, or so," he shrugs. "We can't visit all the time. Too 'disrupting'," he air quotes the last word with a scoff.

"Fuck that!"

"I know."

My hand is on his arm before I realise, and I quickly snatch it back. He stiffens for a moment and I look forward, wishing I had more control over myself when it comes to him. Silence falls between us and I force myself to tune into the lesson.

I hate touching people, and I hate being touched. But all of that doesn't seem to matter when I'm with him.

"Scooter, you're up," our teacher announces—I've honestly forgotten his name already—his beard greying and probably too long to be considered professional.

A greasy-haired boy with acne biting into his cheeks stands and scuffles towards the board. I've never noticed him before. He's almost there when Brea—with her stupid high-pony tail and ridiculously long legs—sticks her foot out, tripping him. He crashes to the floor, sending papers and pens cluttering. Laughter erupts around us—even Wren snorts—but I grit my teeth in anger.

I'm on my feet without a second thought and drop to my knees beside him, helping pick it up. The boy looks at me in shock.

"Thanks," he mutters.

"They're assholes," I shake my head.

"Looks like the new girl might be getting freaky with the freak," Brea says loudly. More laughter. My hands curl.

Ignoring her, I walk back to my table. The boy is barely on his feet again, when Brea's foot, once again, jams across his path. When he falls this time, he grips a table and quickly rights his feet, before he picks it up and swings it at her, an enraged growl ripping from him. She screams as it connects with her arms, knocking her to the ground and clipping the girl beside her, who also shrieks. A guy sitting behind the girls leaps to his feet and lunges at the boy. They roll on the floor, throwing punches.

Our teacher quickly slips inside the small filing room and locks himself inside. The next moment, there is complete chaos. An alarm blares overhead and everyone is out of their seats, throwing things, yelling, pushing each other. I yelp when a girl is shoved into my side. I hit the desk painfully.

Wren reaches for my hand and pulls me behind him.

By the time we are in the hall, the chaos has spread to the other classrooms, because everyone is pouring out of their rooms with wild eyes.

A hand curls around my bicep and tugs me, hard. I flinch at the grip and my vision turns black.

His weight is too much to bear as he presses on me. Everything hurts.

I blink back to reality to see Wren landing a punch on a stranger's face. The hand has been removed from my arm. Wren's arm pulls back, and he throws his fist again. This time, blood spurts down the boy's nose and he staggers back.

He reaches for my hand and when his fingers wrap around mine, blood smears over my skin.

He pulls me after him and I'm dizzy. I struggle to keep myself in the present as memories flash across my mind.

He's flipped me over. My arms are twisted behind my back.

Wren pulls me into an empty classroom. His hands are on my shoulders.

My cheek is flattened on the mattress. My bruises haven't faded since his last assault. The pain inside me is something I have never experienced. My skin tears.

"Addison," he says, shaking me. "Are you all right?"

It's cold. There're no blankets. It's dark.

More shaking.

I feel between my legs. It's wet with blood.

"Addison?" he repeats.

I collapse into his arms.

***

It's white, cold, and I'm all alone.

I'm in the infirmary wing. There're a few boys further down, bruises and bloody scratches covering their faces. I have a damp cloth across my forehead. I peel it off and sit up, feeling a little disorientated.

I get to my feet. As I walk to the desk, I pull at my sleeve until it's over my entire hand. I pull and pull until I feel the neck of my shirt dislodge.

"Can I leave?"

The nurse looks up from her computer and brushes a bit of ginger hair from her eyes.

"Well, hi to you, too. How do you feel?"

"Fine."

"Do you remember what happened?" she asks me with a slight frown.

"I'm guessing I passed out. It's sort of a regular thing," I admit.

Her frown deepens. "How often is this happening?"

"Whenever I feel overwhelmed."

Realisation shows on her face. "Oh. It's a panic attack."

"I suppose so."

"Are you on any medication?"

"Valium."

"Anything else?"

"Legally? No."

She purses her lips. "Hold on a minute. Go back to your bed, let me check you out."

I sigh and walk back to where I woke up. I sit down and swing my feet off the edge until the woman appears. After a few minutes, she calls a guard to escort me back to my room. We're on lockdown, which means we must remain inside our rooms until tomorrow.

I got given a juice box and a packet of pretzels. He offers me a water bottle when we get to the door.

"Stay inside until you're told otherwise," he says gruffly, before he swaggers from me, dragging his feet with every step.

Constance is asleep. I yank my shirt over my head and look at my arm to see dark purple finger-mark bruises. I feel a little numb. My body has worn these bruises before.

I change into a long-sleeved shirt and take twice the Valium dosage I'm meant to. I lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

I sing softly as I walk, kicking little bits of loose gravel across the bitumen road. Suddenly, my arm is pulled to my left, my earphone falling out of my ear. A tall man, dressed in all-black, is dragging me towards a van.

A scream escapes me, and I thrash wildly. Another man appears at my other side. Their hands are strong. I'm shoved inside the van where another man sits. He presses a cloth over my face. I inhale sharply in panic.

I open my eyes. I close them. I re-open them. It doesn't help.

It's dark. I swallow and try to move, but my hands are tied, the rope digging into my skin.

Sweat is dripping down the side of my face. I toss and turn, trying to find a position that is comfortable.

"You know why you're here?" a voice growls at me. "I told her what would happen if she didn't pay up. She didn't listen."

I can't breathe. I can't fucking breathe.

"Pretty little thing you are," he says. When he smiles, his teeth are stained brown.

Ripping the sheets from me, I stumble to my feet. Constance's soft snores tell me she is still asleep. I rummage through her things quickly, trying to find anything to help. When my hand wraps around a bottle, I weep.

Pressing it to my lips, I down every last drop.

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