The Darkness Within Page 9

  Walking to school with Matt has me momentarily forgetting about the shit that is raining down all around me. It’s just like old times as we chew the fat over stuff which is unrelated to Grant, Sam or, Bowie. He even indulges me by arguing over whether Hermione should have ended up with Harry instead of Ron and when he throws his arm over my shoulder, I don’t flinch as I have been since that weird evening in his back yard. He doesn’t even notice when some of his friends, mainly the football team, or the odd popular girl, look at him strangely for slumming it with the new dregs of society, aka me.

  However, life can’t be that kind for long, because as soon as I step foot inside the corridor of doom, my world comes crashing down again. At first, all I can take in are the large white posters papering the walls and lockers down the entire length of the hallway, then I notice the faces of other students, smirking, gasping, and generally looking at me like I’ve walked to school naked without realizing it. Finally, I notice the tall and imposing figure of Bowie leaning up against my locker with one of those smug grins on his face, the one that tells me I’m about to be slaughtered in front of everyone.

  Matt rips down one of the posters and begins to study the words written all over it, in large, scrappy handwriting which looks horrifyingly like mine. I can’t even look at him because my eyes are still being held in a locked position by the boy who has made it his life’s mission to destroy me. I can only hear Matt sighing angrily, then notice his head shaking from side to side in the peripheries of my vision. Leaning in closer to him, I see him screwing up the paper into a crumpled little ball, telling me it’s bad, really bad.

  “What does it say?” I ask him without averting my eyes from Bowie’s unperturbed body language, looking oh so proud of himself for whatever it is he’s put up about me. The classic stance of a high school bully who gets off on how much they can make you cry and who no doubt considers it a fail if he doesn’t destroy you on a daily basis.

  Matt doesn’t answer me. He simply storms up towards Bowie and shoves him hard against the lockers with a mighty crashing sound that has everyone instantly falling silent. I run after him, desperate to know what the posters say, but also terrified of looking. Bowie looks from Matt, who is now all up in his face, then back to me with a sneer. It’s only then that I notice the words on the poster, the irreparable damage that I can’t hide because it’s already everywhere:

  Wednesday (nearly 2 years ago)

  Melody followed me into the toilets today and I was expecting her to say something horrible, but she stayed quiet. She just started preening herself in front of the mirror. I took advantage of her silence and went to the loo as normal. I should have known better.

  As soon as I came out, she announced to practically the whole school that I was on my period and smelled of rotten fish. I was so angry I wanted to slap her! But instead, I gave into tears and ran off. I wish I were braver, but apart from Matt and Mercy, they all scare me.

  I tried to use a tampon after school, but I just couldn’t do it. It didn’t feel right. It’s not like I can ask Mom, she’s never here. And while I’ll go to Grant about a lot of things, I have to draw a line at periods and sanitary products! Life is crap!

  As I feel the blood drain from my face, Melody saunters up to this little horror show and hands me a leaflet with a smile written all over her face. She’s looking ready to make another announcement in front of everyone.

  “Seeing as mommy doesn’t even want you, I thought I’d take pity and help you out a little bit.”

  I unfold the scrap of paper to see a set of instructions from a tampon box, highlighted with the parts that tell you how to insert a tampon correctly. I almost stop breathing with humiliation and automatically clasp my hand to my mouth, which is only moments away from ejecting the entire contents of my breakfast.

  My horror soon turns to anger, a burning rage that has been gradually building up from the past few weeks, and now threatens to erupt in spectacular fashion within the confines of the small space between these walls. But before I can say anything to either Melody or Bowie, Matt shoves him again, snarling in his face with threats to commit God knows what on him. It stuns me into yet another stupor. The rest of the student body is still watching on with voyeuristic amusement as the altercation between Matt and Bowie reaches new heights.

  “Matt,” I find myself gasping while placing my hand gently onto his much larger bicep, which is now feeling tense from the strain of holding his best friend up against the locker doors. “Matt, don’t bother. He’s your friend. Whatever his beef is with me, don’t get involved.”

  After a few moments of eyeballing Bowie with murderous intent, the same bully who is now laughing hysterically over my humiliation, Matt finally turns to face me. He appears confused and frustrated over my intervention, but it’s all I could think of to calm the situation down and to stop my friend from getting into any unnecessary trouble. I’m half surprised none of the teachers have already come out to see what all the crashing and shouting is about. I can only surmise there must be cake or doughnuts in the staffroom. Still, I’m not risking Matt’s squeaky-clean reputation just for my sake.

  “He’s being an asshole to you! I won’t have it, Millie,” he says firmly through clenched teeth, “I care too much about you.”

  Oh heart, can’t you see what you’re refusing to have feelings for? Here’s an amazing guy who’s willing to go up against his best friend for you, and yet you’re pining after the asshole who hates you so much, he’s just blown up and advertised one of your most humiliating diary entries all around the school. Fuck my life!

  “I appreciate that Matt, I do, but it’s not your responsibility,” I say gently, “I can look after myself.”

  “What the fuck do you mean?!” Oh God, this is not coming across very well at all! “I’m your best friend, of course it’s my responsibility!”

  “So is he,” I look him in the eye and gesture to Bowie, who is now baring his teeth in a predatory grin for yours truly, “please don’t fight over me.”

  I feel guilty when he takes a few moments to breathe heavily in anger, before finally shoving him back with another clatter of metal. Bowie’s tall, broad body drops to the floor with another stern eyeballing from Matt.

  “Fine!” Matt growls, though I’m not sure which one of us he’s talking to, or even which one of us has pissed him off more. However, my intervention seems to have worked because in the next moment he’s stomping off down the hallway and running his hands through his hair in a thoroughly irritated fashion.

  “How very chivalrous of you,” Bowie smirks, all the while I watch Matt walk away with a heavy feeling, further adding to the weight of everything else already sitting on top of my shoulders.

  “Well, one of us needs to be,” I reply, still with my eyes firmly fixed on Matt before he eventually turns a corner and out of sight.

  “Pathetic much?”

  “What the hell is your problem?!” My old friend, rage, returns with venom and when I turn to face him, I poke him in his rock-hard chest with my finger, screwing my face up in disdain for the bastard. “What exactly do you want from all of this?”

  “Just to make you squirm a bit sweetheart,” he smiles with a theatrical pout, gripping my chin between his finger and thumb. I instantly shuck out of it like his touch is literally toxic to my skin. He merely tsks at me before saying, “So testy, who knew there was a little firecracker in you?”

  “Name it!” Fuck his mindless games, I’m going straight to the heart of the matter. “I can deal with your taunts and your derisive comments, but my diary is personal. I want it back, so what is it that you want?”

  “Hmmm,” he mocks me by pretending to think of something, placing the tip of his index finger to his chin, all the while my patience is running dangerously thin. “Get on your knees and beg little doggy,” he reaches into his back pocket, retrieves my offending little black book, and dangles it in front of me, almost prompting me to jump up and down for it. “Go on, lit
tle doggy, beg for it!”

  Even though there are at least a few dozen students who are still watching the show before them, I reluctantly lower myself to the linoleum floor, which is scuffed and dirtied by the sheer amount of traffic it has to endure each day and rest on my knees before him. The whole act is marginally more embarrassing than the posters still glued to the walls all around us, and to make matters worse, it doesn’t escape my attention that my eyeline is right in front of his groin.

  “Please let me have my diary back,” I growl through clenched teeth, narrowing my eyes at him as he takes a moment or two to pretend to think about it. Melody’s salacious grin appears from behind his shoulder, and I seriously consider punching him right where it would cause him to hobble around for the rest of the day. Only the little black book he’s clutching hold of, far out of my reach, is standing between me and the temptation to make it a reality.

  “You call that begging?” he asks with a smirk, followed by a click of his tongue, “Come on Fridge, you can do better than that!”

  “Please, please, Bowie, give me back my diary!” I ‘beg’ and even lower my head down to look at the polished floor beneath his feet. Partly to look more subservient, partly because angry tears are already beginning to build on my lower lashes, and I don’t want him to have the satisfaction of seeing them.

  A rage-filled grimace sweeps over my face when he steps forward, so closely his groin is now only inches away from the tip of my nose. The crowd gathered close by suddenly bursts into laughter, so I can only imagine what obscene gesture he’s pulling right now. Some of the football team whistle and cheer as he starts thrusting his hips back and forth towards me. Eventually, his hips still and I feel his hand pat my head like a dog before lowering down so we are eye to eye. When he looks so tauntingly at me, all I can do is sigh heavily over his incessant need to torment my very existence.

  “Please Bowie,” I whisper, trying to make this ordeal as private as possible, which is ridiculous, considering I’ve already failed in that feat. “Give it back to me!”

  He pulls his lips into a pout in such a way, I already know he’s never going to willingly return it to me. This whole humiliating process was a complete waste of time, as well as my pride.

  “No,” he replies, still with that damn pout, “but you did turn me on a little bit. It’s a shame you don’t have your diary, because the guy you are in lust with telling you that, is totally a ‘dear diary’ moment.”

  I narrow my eyes venomously, which only serves as the perfect catalyst to turn that mocking pout into a smug grin. I look back to my hands, now trembling in anger, just before he jumps up and walks away, making me look even more pathetic as I’m left to kneel on the ground, on my own, in front of the masses. The raucous audience to my misfortune, my degradation, my complete descent on the social scale for the rest of my high school career, all continues to whisper and stare while they go about their routine business. The street mime idea is seriously starting to look infinitely more appealing than having to face this for the next two years.

  Come on Millie! You’ve just gotta make it through one more week, then my Sophomore year is complete, and I can focus all of my attention on Grant.

  Thankfully, the rest of my morning is a lot less eventful than the incident in the hallway. By the second period, the posters have been cleared away and people have finally stopped teasing me with barking noises whenever I walk by them. I am also beyond grateful to not have any classes with Bowie, or Melody for that matter, but when I have Math, I can tell Matt is still in a foul mood with everyone. With that in mind, I decided to give him his space and hide out in the corner, where I try hard to blend into the wall behind me. It works, but as soon as I walk into the cafeteria to meet Mercy for lunch, the Bowie Phillip’s bully treatment commences all over again.

  “Yo, Fridge!” His obnoxious and distinctively low voice travels across the hall with ease, cutting straight through most of the noise from the other students. The ensuing silence for their king amuses the mass of popular kids on his table, being that they all start laughing or high-fiving each other like a pack of hyenas gathering around for their next victim.

  I can’t help noticing even some of the nicer popular kids, the ones I used to play with at middle school before they all grew up without me, are now laughing too. Humiliation turns to hurt when I see some of the people who weren’t exactly my friends but were at least nice to me now and then, also point and mock me just as harshly as the crueler ones. I can only surmise this is what happens when your brother is accused of rape. It becomes virtually mandatory to join the so-called injured party that is Bowie Phillips and to crap all over the assailant’s sister. It has zero logic but then I wouldn’t exactly rate their intelligence or morality with anything much more than that.

  “What do you want, Bowie?” I sigh, trying to sound beyond bored. Isn’t that what they tell you to do as soon as you start school? How many teachers have told us to, ‘Just ignore them and they’ll get fed up and move on!’ Something tells me it’s going to take a lot of ignoring to get Bowie Phillips to move on from his dedicated onslaught of terror over me.

  “My muscles are a little tense, Fridge,” he replies, theatrically bending his head side to side and shuffling his broad shoulders about, “give them a good, hard, rub will you!”

  He makes a point of annunciating each word slowly, making his innuendo about as subtle as a brick to the face for the pleasure of his crowd of miscreant followers. Matt is nowhere to be seen, but I’m relieved because I don’t think I would be able to hold him back from another fight.

  Looking up to the ceiling with a roll of my eyes, secretly asking God why he feels the need to punish me daily, I eventually drop my bag and move around to the back of his chair where he is leaning casually up against it. I have to flex my fingers a few times just to get them to move, but even then, they’re still trembling above his meaty frame.

  As soon as I place my hands nervously onto his shoulders, a traitorous zing runs through me, and I silently berate myself for still finding him disturbingly attractive. I begin to move them slowly over his tight muscles and almost gasp when he makes a show of leaning into me, all the while making suggestive noises that cause my cheeks to burn.

  “Oh yeah, Fridge…fuck yeah, harder, deeper, Baby!”

  The lewd tone of his words has me eyeing a nearby knife, which I then picture sinking deep into his neck in front of all his subjects, ripping away their taunting smirks in one slick move. I think it’s the only way I manage to get through this humiliating situation without completely crumbling.

  “Fuck! I think I’m gonna come!”

  Their smirks erupt into brash laughter and I instinctively break my contact, jump back, and gape over his crude comment.

  “Hey, motherfucker!” Mercy’s wild red hair flashes in front of me as she marches over to us with a few shoves between the crowd that has gathered to watch the show. “Leave my friend alone or I’ll cut it off!” she threatens, then picks up the same knife I had been staring at only moments ago. “Don’t think I won’t!”

  “Oh, hey it’s the crazy chick!” Bowie grins, not moving a muscle from his stance on his make-shift throne, the one lunch chair that doesn’t have a customary dick drawn on it.

  “She gives good head, Bowie,” one of the other football players, a guy named Russ, says before laughing at his own vile offering to the conversation, one no one asked for.

  “Yeah, it’s a pity you don’t give good anything!” she retorts, then turns back to Bowie when some of the other players laugh at the conceited jock.

  “You wanna read, Mercy?” Bowie flaps out my diary again, “It’s got some pretty interesting stuff about you in here!”

  Bullshit! I haven’t written anything derogatory about any of my friends in that diary, it’s not who I am. I’m not like any of the cretins here, reveling in someone else’s private torment for their satisfaction, either to gain credit for being a prick or because they’ve got a warped
sense of humor.

  “No, I want you to stop being a creep and give it back to her,” she says coolly, and I love her for it.

  “Not gonna happen, Mercy!” he replies, then makes a show of putting it back inside of his jacket. “I feel like playing for a little bit longer. You see, you didn’t see my sister after that animal attacked her. Someone she loved and trusted abused her, and the only way I can have vengeance on the motherfucker, is to hurt his sister. You understand.”

  His expression turns cold and threatening but Mercy doesn’t flinch, that’s the way she is. Me, on the other hand, I have to look away, because the picture he just painted for everyone is more than hard for me to hear.

  “Oh, so this is for your benefit, right?” she asks, now placing a finger to her chin as if in deep thought. “This isn’t in any way for your sister’s wellbeing, this is purely for you to feel smug and justified for bullying someone who has recently lost her brother. Well, what a big fucking man you are Bowie! Your parents must be so proud!”