"What a nice day," I whispered to the cold metal of my locker.
It was a lie, of course. It was a mantra I had subconsciously adopted to survive. Every single morning, my eyes would snap open to the dim light of my room, and the heavy weight of reality would immediately press down on my chest. This tiny phrase was my only shield. It was a thin, fragile barrier against the terror of waking up to another day of existence.
I stood in the crowded school corridor, trying my best to become invisible. I organized my belongings inside my locker with practiced, agonizing care. My hands trembled slightly, but I forced them to move precisely. I aligned my notebooks by their edges. I matched corner to corner, stacking them neatly until they formed a perfect, uniform column. If my world was going to be chaotic and violent, I would at least control the exact alignment of my paper.
Click.
As I swung the heavy metal door shut, the world seemed to freeze. Before I could even turn around, a pair of slender arms wound smoothly around my shoulders from behind. The skin of her wrists felt impossibly warm against my neck, but a sudden spike of ice shot straight down my spine.
I froze. My breath caught tight in my throat.
I turned my head just a fraction of an inch. Looking down at me was a girl a few inches taller than myself. She wore our school uniform flawlessly, but her expression was entirely predatory. She leaned in close, flashing a playful, coy smile while wiggling her eyebrows in a mock display of affection. To anyone walking down the hallway, it looked like two close friends sharing a private, happy secret.
But it was a cage.
By the time the cold panic registered in my brain, I realized she was not alone. The trap had already sprung. Four of her friends stepped out from the crowd of passing students. They moved with a terrifying, synchronized smoothness. They were tall, imposing, and wore identical masks of performative friendliness. They didn't yell. They didn't shove. They simply glided into the corridor, forming a solid wall of human bodies that boxed me tightly against the cold metal lockers.
The crowd of regular students walked right past us. No one looked twice. The performative smiles of my captors completely hid the crime happening in broad daylight.
The leader of the group stepped forward. Her smile was wide and brilliant, but the warmth did not reach her eyes. Her gaze was as cold and lifeless as a winter sky. When she spoke, her voice was nothing more than a casual, gentle murmur. It was the exact tone someone would use to invite a classmate out for a pleasant lunch.
"Hey there," she whispered, her breath brushing against my ear. "Rooftop. Now."
They did not grab me by the hair or drag me kicking and screaming. They didn't need to. They surrounded me, their shoulders pressing tightly against mine, walking me forward with a quiet, efficient force. To any teacher looking down the hall, we were just a group of girls walking to class together. But beneath the fabric of our uniforms, their fingers dug hard into my arms, guiding my limping body toward the secluded stairwell.
Every step up the concrete stairs felt like a march to an execution. My legs felt like lead.
When we finally reached the rooftop, the heavy steel door slammed shut behind us, cutting off the distant, comforting sounds of the school hallway. The morning sunlight hit my face instantly. It was blinding and bright, but it offered absolutely no warmth. The rooftop was a vast, open desert of gray concrete and rusted metal fencing. It was completely secluded from the rest of the campus.
There was no negotiation. There were no words spoken. They knew their roles perfectly, and I knew mine.
The silence of the secluded deck was violently broken. The first sound was the rhythmic, agonizing whistle of a lasso cutting sharply through the morning air. Then came the impact.
Thwack.
The heavy wooden rods struck the meat of my back with sickening force. Each impact did not just hurt; it felt like a localized explosion ripping through my flesh. The pain was immediate and blinding, sending violent vibrations through my spine that rattled my very core. My knees buckled instantly. My thighs began to tremble uncontrollably as I was forced down onto the rough concrete.
It was always like this. This was the unspoken rule of our school. Whenever their private lives grew frustrating, whenever their rich parents put too much pressure on them, or whenever they were simply bored, the tension was systematically transferred onto me. I was their lightning rod. I was the sponge meant to absorb their malice.
The heavy, metallic clinking of chains echoed across the roof. They fastened the cold iron links tightly around my wrists and ankles. The sound provided a harsh, industrial soundtrack to my torment—a haunting, twisted contrast to the peaceful stillness of the bright morning sky.
The only human sounds on the roof were their low, amused chuckles. They didn't scream in anger. They didn't show passion. They beat me with the calculated, rhythmic precision of seasoned craftsmen. They moved with care, pacing themselves, making sure not to break their favorite toy too early in the semester.
I could do nothing but whimper. The gray concrete beneath my face began to blur as salty tears tracked through the grit and dirt on my cheeks.
The leader stepped into my field of vision, her polished loafers stopping inches from my nose. They had given me my objective before the session had even begun.
"Listen here, little rat," she had whispered, tapping a wooden rod against my chin. "Count every whip, strike, and whop. If you lose track... we're taking you down to the public stalls."
So, I counted.
I forced my shattered mind to focus on the numbers. I counted through the searing, white-hot heat that radiated across my skin. I counted through the encroaching, terrifying numbness that threatened to make me pass out. The physical pain of the rods was an absolute nightmare, but the thought of being dragged down to the school's public restrooms and drowned in filth again was the only thing more terrifying than the beatings. Fear kept my brain sharp. Fear kept the tally accurate.
Between the heavy strikes, the torture changed. The blunt force stopped, replaced by the invasive, lingering touch of their hands. They pinched the bruised skin of my arms. They pulled my hair, yanking my head back to force me to look at their smiling faces. They mockingly "adjusted" my uniform, straightening my collar and smoothing my skirt with cruel gentleness, treating me as if I were nothing more than a broken porcelain doll.
"Let's see if we can leave a mark where the faculty won't look," one of them whispered. Her hand slid roughly against my exposed ribs, her nails digging into the fresh welts. "You're just a stray, aren't you? The gutter is your best choice of home. You should try living there permanently."
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the strikes ceased. They stood back, heaving heavy sighs of physical exertion. They stretched their arms and wiped the sweat from their brows, acting as if they were the ones who had suffered and labored through the morning.
The leader stepped forward, hovering over my collapsed body like a vulture waiting for a fresh piece of carcass to stop moving.
"Did you manage to keep score?" she asked, her voice dripping with casual amusement.
"Y-yeah," I whispered. My throat felt like sandpaper. I supported my weak voice with a small, pathetic nod against the hard concrete.
"Count."
"Forty whips from the l-las... s-so," I gasped out. The pain radiated in massive, hot waves across my skin with every breath I took. "One hundred and ninety whops f-from the f-flogger. Thirty strikes from the r-rod."
The leader's eyes lit up with satisfaction. "Good dog," she smirked.
She lifted her foot and violently ground the sole of her loafer into my cheek. She pressed my face down, smudging my skin with the sharp grit and dirt from the concrete floor while I lay there, whimpering helplessly in the dust.
"Look at that, you can actually retain information," she chuckled, spinning on her heel. "No toilet water for you today. You're dismissed."
They unchained my wrists and ankles with practiced speed. They turned away and walked toward the exit, their cruel, lighthearted laughter echoing down the concrete stairwell like fading thunder.
When the door clicked shut, I fully collapsed onto the concrete. I let myself sob openly, the tears burning the raw scrapes on my face, until my throat was completely dry and no more sound would come out.
I wasn't a nerd. I wasn't a rebel who fought against the system. I was just a girl who wasn't rich, had absolutely no power, and possessed zero authority. In a school built on wealth and lineage, I was an outcast. I was a ghost.
And even if I wanted to run away, there was nowhere in the world to go. My parents were completely gone. They had gone through a bitter divorce years ago and had completely moved on to their new, separate families. To make sure their new lives were perfect, they had effectively erased me from their records, leaving me behind like an unwanted piece of old furniture.
All I had left was my "loving" uncle. But at home, the atmosphere was no different than the school rooftop. He spent every single penny of my part-time job money on alcohol. Whenever the mood struck him, or whenever his life grew frustrating, he used me as his personal punching bag. Home was just a house with sturdier walls and different weapons.
I managed to drag myself off the concrete floor. I limped slowly toward the school infirmary, gripping the walls for support. I needed to treat my wounds before the morning bell rang. I had to avoid infection, but more importantly, I had to avoid the faculty. If a teacher saw me like this, I would inevitably receive the same old lecture: "It's your fault for being near them, Ms. Paramnesia. Stop causing trouble."
I reached the infirmary door and knocked three times before slipping quietly inside.
"Come in! Oh, Epione! How are you... wait, what happened?!"
The worried voice belonged to Eunoia, my batchmate. She was a kind girl who volunteered heavily for the Warm Hearts Club—a student group dedicated to promoting social harmony, kindness, and basic first aid around campus.
"I tripped on a stone and rolled down eight flights of stairs," I lied immediately. I kept my eyes glued to the linoleum floor, unable to look her in the face.
"Your face is terrible at lying," Eunoia said sternly. But as she saw me wince, her voice softened instantly. She reached out and gently guided me to a medical cot. "Stop making up excuses, Epione. Who did this to you?"
"It's the usual girls," I muttered, staring at my trembling hands. "Just... they started a little earlier than usual today."
Eunoia let out a long, heavy sigh. It was a sound of pure, burning frustration against a system she couldn't fix. "You could fight back, Epione. Or at least report it to the school authorities. This is insane."
I let out a weak, hollow laugh that hurt my chest. "Their parents are the authorities, Eunoia. If they get a temporary suspension, it means nothing. They'll just hunt me down outside the school gates. It's a closed cycle. There is no escape."
She clicked her tongue in sharp disapproval, but she didn't push the issue any further. She knew I was right. With gentle, practiced movements, she helped me remove my school blazer and my torn shirt to treat the deep, blooming bruises across my back. The antiseptic stung like fire, cutting through the numbness, but the quiet, sterile air of the infirmary felt completely safe. It was the only sanctuary I had.
When she finished wrapping the bandages, she reached under the counter and handed me a small, green bear plushie. It had a bright four-leaf clover embroidered perfectly on its stomach.
"Bear with it," she said, offering a small, encouraging smile.
"I didn't know you were so... punny," I managed to joke. The small laugh sent a sharp spike of pain through my cracked ribs, but for a brief second, it warmed my cold chest.
I pulled my uniform back over the bandages and hurried out. I made it to the Health Education classroom just as Professor Croffer began his opening lecture.
"Ah, Ms. Paramnesia," the professor said, letting out a light chuckle as he noted my sweat-drenched hair, pale skin, and heavily hunched posture. "Glad you could join us today. I was just a few minutes late myself. Take a seat."
I didn't answer. I slunk quietly to the very back row of the classroom, choosing the darkest corner away from everyone else. My spine screamed in agony with every single millimeter of movement. I carefully lowered myself into the wooden chair, resting my arms on the desk.
As the professor turned to the chalkboard, beginning to explain the complex differences between pulmonary and systemic blood circulation, something light and soft clipped my left shoulder.
Plop.
It was a small, crumpled piece of yellow pad paper. It rolled across my desk and stopped near my hand.
I looked up, my defensive walls instantly rising. But instead of a bully, I saw a new girl waving at me from a few desks over. She stood up briefly to adjust her school bag, and the entire room seemed to fade into the background. She was exceptionally tall and slender. She possessed a calm, flawless smile and a serene grace that seemed to have silenced the entire chaotic classroom before I had even arrived.
"Good morning, sir," she said clearly, noticing the professor looking her way. Her accent was a perfect, striking blend of Tokyo elegance and crisp Canadian pronunciation. "My name is Katsura Chizuru. I am the exchange student from Japan."
The classroom immediately erupted into a wave of hushed, excited whispers. The other students began muttering about her perfect posture, her radiant skin, and her incredible height.
I ignored their chatter. My focus shifted entirely to the crumpled yellow note sitting on my desk. Curiosity won over my fear. With trembling fingers, I smoothed out the yellow paper, flattening the creases against the wood.
Hi! My name is Katsura Chizuru. I noticed you sitting alone and thought, why not ask you to be my friend? You seem trustworthy and kind, like an innocent flower in a garden of thorns. It's a weird way to ask, but... 'Would you like to be my friend?'
[ ] YES [ ] I GUESS [ ] I'LL THINK ABOUT IT [ ] NO
P.S. Write your name here so I can give you a cute nickname!
As I read the words, a rare, genuine smile crept onto my lips. For the first time in semesters, someone looked at me and wanted me. Not as an object to mock, not as a punching bag to abuse, but as a real human being.
But then, the warm feeling vanished. The phantom weight of the iron chains returned to my wrists. The agonizing sound of the lasso echoed in my ears. I thought of the gray concrete rooftop. I looked at Chizuru's pristine, clean uniform and her flawless skin.
If Chizuru stood by my side, my monsters would notice her. If she became my friend, they would break her too. They would drag her to the roof and tear her apart just to hurt me.
My chest ached. I fished a black pen out of my bag, pressed the ink firmly to the paper, and checked [X] NO.
During a short recess break, while Chizuru was out of the room, I walked over and slid the paper back under her desk. It felt like tearing out a piece of my own heart, but I couldn't let her innocent world get dragged into my miserable, violent reality.
I spent the rest of the recess block sitting alone in the back row. My fingers cramped painfully as I forced myself to focus on the numbers, finishing the advanced Calculus homework three bullies had violently shoved onto my desk that morning.
When the class returned and the bell rang, I watched Chizuru out of the corner of my eye. She walked back to her desk and picked up the yellow note. I held my breath, waiting for her reaction.
Her face didn't change at all. Her expression remained completely neutral, as if the cruel rejection written on the page didn't matter to her in the slightest.
A cold spike of paranoia hit me. Was she just trying to play with me? Was this another trap?
I quickly averted my eyes, staring deeply into my textbook as I felt her intense gaze suddenly shift toward me.
Well, I guess it's for the best, I told myself, gripping my pen tightly. It's safer this way.
But the fragile quiet of the classroom did not last.
BOOM!
The heavy wooden classroom door slammed open with a violent, deafening crash that shook the walls. The entire class jumped in their seats.
Ms. Persophiona, our strict homeroom advisor, marched into the room. Her face was pale. Right behind her was the Head Counselor, Ms. Pillarion. The Counselor looked absolutely livid. Her chest heaved with anger, and her sharp eyes scanned the rows of students like a hawk hunting for prey.
The entire room went dead silent. You could hear a pin drop.
The Head Counselor's gaze locked onto the dark, far corner of the back row. She pointed a trembling finger straight at me.
"Miss Paramnesia!" the Counselor barked, her voice echoing off the walls like a crack of thunder.
My heart violently hammered against my ribs, suffocating me. The breath completely left my lungs.
Me? What did I do?