The school gates loomed like the mouth of a beast.
Amanda stood still for a moment, staring at the building she used to know. It didn't look different. Same peeling paint. Same rusted fence. Same dying hedges. But the moment she stepped through those gates, the air felt wrong—heavy. Charged.
She walked slowly, head down, hood up.
Her steps were deliberate. Her bruises had mostly faded, but the ache still lived in her bones, hidden beneath her sweater. The stares started before she even made it past the lawn.
Whispers followed her like shadows.
"That's her."
"Isn't that the girl from the video?"
"She got jumped by Jonas and his crew, right?"
"Awww poor girl ." One snickered
Amanda kept walking.
Her eyes didn't meet theirs. She didn't flinch. She didn't break her stride.
She'd learned something in the hospital: silence is a weapon. If you don't give them anything, they can't take anything.
But it didn't stop the looks.
Some students looked at her like she was made of glass—fragile, pitiful. Others looked at her like she was dangerous. And some just sneered, enjoying the spectacle.
She passed a group near the lockers. One girl laughed behind her hand. Another mimicked limping. A boy whispered something Amanda didn't catch—but his eyes lingered on her like he expected her to snap.
She didn't.
Not here. Not now.
Inside the classroom, the whispers dulled but never disappeared. Conversations stopped when she walked in. Chairs scraped awkwardly. Eyes flicked toward her, then away. No one sat in the seat next to hers.
Good.
She didn't want their pity. Or their curiosity. Or their fake apologies.
She just wanted to survive the day.
Jonas was there too, in the back row, lounging like nothing had happened. His friends flanked him—loud, confident, unbothered. He didn't look at her. Not once. But Amanda could feel it. That tension. That threat.
She didn't trust the silence.
They hadn't been punished. Not really. A few days' suspension. No criminal charges. No justice. Just… a viral video and gossip.
Amanda kept her head down, pretending to take notes as the teacher droned on. But her hands were clenched under the desk. Her knuckles were white. Her heart wouldn't stop racing.
And then, there was David.
She saw him enter the class a few minutes late, eyes scanning the room until they landed on her. His expression changed—something between relief and regret.
She looked away immediately.
He tried to sit near her. She shifted her chair closer to the wall.
She didn't want his concern.
Later, in the hallway, Amanda was at her locker when she overheard two girls near the bathroom.
"Did you see her face? Still looks like she got hit by a truck."
"Yeah, but honestly? Kinda badass. I mean, she lived."
"Pfft. She's probably faking it for attention. I bet she wanted the video out."
Amanda closed her locker gently.
She walked away.
Not because it didn't hurt—but because if she stopped to speak, she might scream. And they'd love that. They'd feed off it.
No. Not today.
She spent lunch in the old art room. The one no one really used. It smelled like turpentine and dust. The light flickered overhead. But it was quiet.
Finally.
She sat in the corner, knees pulled up, tray untouched beside her. She didn't want food. She just wanted to breathe.
The weight of secrets settled heavy on her chest.
No one knew about Mike.
Not really.
No one knew how he followed her after school. How he laughed when she begged him to leave her alone. How he shoved her toward the trash piles at the edge of the dump. How her fingers closed around the handles of the jerrycan full of gasoline. How she kicked him down.
How he didn't get back up.
How she lit the fire after.
No one knew.
And no one would.
Amanda rested her head on her knees.
Let them talk. Let them stare.
She'd survived worse