It felt much hotter today compared to yesterday. Sweat seeped down my back, making my shirt cling to my skin uncomfortably. Walking to school didn’t seem like the best idea anymore, even though I was the one who had reassured Mom that I’d be fine getting there on foot.
The directions to school weren’t an issue—I had them imprinted in my mind from all the times Mom and I had walked Gemma to school and back. My memory was sharp, so I knew I wouldn’t need a refresher, but just to be safe, I had my recorder with me.
I wasn’t sure how I felt about being back at school, but one thing kept me going: those hands on my cheeks. No matter what awaited me, I was eager to know more about those hands.
Everything went smoothly until lunchtime. The moment the bell rang, a wave of fear washed over me. I winced at the thought of being bullied again.
I decided to spend my lunch break somewhere secluded—maybe an empty classroom, anywhere I wouldn’t have to face the other students. I wasn’t ready to step into the cafeteria.
Just as I turned away from the cafeteria doors, I heard that familiar thick Yorkshire accent—the one that sent chills down my spine.
“Not you again. I thought I told you to crawl back to your hole, creep,” she sneered. She was close. Too close.
“Please…” I mumbled, trying to step away.
“Crawl back up your mother’s twat, worthless swine,” another voice chimed in.
“Please, let me go,” I pleaded, but it was futile.
“Let you go? We let you go yesterday, and we thought we made ourselves clear, but your annoying ass is still here at this school where you don’t belong, freak.”
I cringed at the slur. It was disgusting. The word felt like a sharp jab, one I wasn’t prepared to handle.
“It’s time we teach this freak a lesson. What do you say, boys?” the leader of the group taunted.
The others hollered their agreement, and my heartbeat skyrocketed. I took a step back, but before I could move further, my collar was yanked, and a fist slammed into my jaw. A metallic taste filled my mouth as I stumbled back.
Another blow followed. I tried to shield my face, but they shifted their assault to my stomach, treating me like their personal punching bag. My knees buckled, and I collapsed. That’s when the kicking began. With each impact, I felt like my ribs were on the verge of breaking.
“You shouldn’t have come today. You’re pathetic and weak,” one of them spat before delivering another sharp kick to my stomach.
“What have I even done to you?” I coughed out, still shielding my face as they continued their assault.
They only laughed.
“You can’t do anything to us, freak,” one of them chuckled before sending one last kick my way.
“I think that’s enough, girls. Next time, don’t even think about talking back,” the gang leader announced.
With that, they walked away, their laughter fading as they disappeared toward the cafeteria. I lay there, trying to steady my breath, every inch of my body aching. I felt like I was burning from the inside out. Rolling onto my back, I closed my eyes for a moment, willing the pain to subside before I attempted to sit up.
I stayed there for a while, my body buzzing with pain. Just as I tried to push myself up, a hand landed on my shoulder. I flinched but didn’t pull away completely. The hand rubbed my shoulder gently, as if to reassure me that they meant no harm.
I don’t know why, but I trusted them.
Grabbing their hand, I let them help me up. They guided me somewhere unfamiliar, leading me to a seat before letting go. I heard shuffling, and soon, I felt their breath close to my face.
I closed my eyes as soft cotton pressed against my wounds. They held my face with one hand while the other dabbed at my injuries. I winced and yelped in pain, but they didn’t speak. They just continued tending to me.
I trusted them. I couldn’t see them. I couldn’t even tell if they were male or female. Their hands were rough, but their touch was gentle. I didn’t want to judge, so I didn’t mention it. I just trusted them.
When they were done, they applied ointment before covering my wounds with bandages. I turned toward where I thought they were and smiled, hoping they saw it.
“Thank you,” I murmured, taking their hand in mine. Their hands didn’t feel like a woman’s, but I didn’t voice my thoughts.
“Are you the same person who helped me in the bathroom yesterday?” I asked, but there was no response.
I waited. Nothing.
“I’m sorry, but can you speak? This isn’t helping. I can’t see you, so the only way I can get to know you is if you talk.” I let go of their hand and waited again. Silence.
I sighed. “I can’t even tell if you’re still in the room.”
I was sure they had left—until I heard a phone beep. My heart leaped.
“So, you don’t want to talk to me?” I asked, but there was still no response. I sighed in frustration, wincing as I pushed myself up.
Immediately, an arm wrapped around my waist to steady me, but I gently pushed it away.
“What’s the point of helping me if you think I’m not worth talking to?” I exhaled, irritated.
As expected, no response.
“Fine. I’m going. Just tell me where I am so I can get to my next class.”
Instead of a voice, I heard my own recorded navigation from Linda, giving me directions. I shook my head in exasperation, wondering why they refused to speak.
They led me out of the room, and I heard the door close behind me. Letting out a puff of air, I walked to my next class—my favorite: Literature.
Mr. Brown was his usual lively self, cracking jokes about Shakespeare and unraveling the intricacies of poetry. He even shared some of his own work with us. His class was always engaging, and though he allowed a bit of friendly chatter, discipline was paramount when it came to learning.
As I walked toward the school’s front gate after my classes, a familiar voice called out.
“Noel!”
I turned toward the voice. “Keith?”
“Yep, it’s me, girl. What’s up with the bruises?” His voice was tinged with concern.
If he could see them, then Mom would too. I needed to hide them.
“I fell,” I lied. “Keith, can you help me cover them? Mom’s going to freak if she sees me like this.”
He sighed but nodded. “Yeah, of course. Come with me.”
He grabbed my wrist and led me away. His touch was different from the person who had helped me earlier—less delicate, more firm.
Why am I even comparing them? Why am I thinking about that person again?
Keith found a girl named Alice who helped cover my bruises with foundation. It didn’t hide the wounds, but at least I wouldn’t look as battered.
As Keith and I walked home, he joked about getting lost if he were in my place.
“No, you wouldn’t,” I assured him. “If you lack one sense, you excel in another.”
He patted my shoulder. “Take care, buddy. We’ll walk to school together tomorrow.”
That night, as I lay in bed, my body sore from the day’s events, I dreamed.
I was in darkness, walking endlessly with no sound or sight. I was lost, but then a light appeared in the distance, glowing faintly before growing brighter.
The warmth of a hand touched my cheek—the same warmth I had felt earlier that day.
Then, the light faded, and I was alone in the dark again.