Eight

Why can't he understand that I am not interested?

Today was my own personal Hell on Earth. No matter where I turned, I saw that horrible flyer mocking me. That, and those five flipping words were haunting me, rolling around in my head.

"You won't be for long."

What the heck was that supposed to mean? I don't like him, I don't want him, and I never will. But, his words were like a threat... or a promise. That infuriating man. Apparently, he doesn't know what "not interested" means.

Then again, with the way I hadn't been able to get him out of my head, I didn't either. It wasn't that I wanted to be attracted to him. I just was.

I walked upstairs and crawled into bed. Flipping on the television, I went channel surfing. My phone vibrated on my nightstand, and I grabbed it, hoping it would be Chris.

"Hello?" No answer.

"Hello?" Why is this person not talking? Wait, what if this is the person who put out those fliers?

"Hello, Julie." The voice was deep and familiar. I felt my stomach tighten with dread.

I didn't speak.

"I'm sure by now you figured out that I am the person who, let's say, informed the school about you." Tell me what else was new, you dick.

My voice caught. There was a hard lump in my throat. Whatever their goal was, they sounded pleased that they had succeeded. They did what no one else was able to do. They hurt and broke me. They were the first person to make me cry in years.

"Why?" I choked out. My eyes filled up. How did this person manage to destroy everything that made me happy? When I got home today, my sister even called me a dirty slut.

"Because I could. Are you going to walk down the halls with your head held high now?" If I say yes, he wins. If I say no, he will destroy me more. The only person who seemed to have a problem with me doing that was . . . Jessie!!

"Jessie?" I meant to say it as an accusation, but it came out in a stutter, sounding like a question.

"Ding, ding, ding. We have a winner!" I felt like I was being strangled. He did that just to see if I have actually ever put out, or was it just to make my life living hell?

"What did I ever do to you?" I needed to put an end to this. The tears that I had held at bay started to fall again. There was no way that he missed the sound of me sniffling or the cracking in my voice.

"Don't get so emotional. It was just a dare." The line went dead, and my phone fell onto my bed. My mouth hung open, and I stared into space. I felt like I couldn't breathe and needed air desperately.

I walked into the hallway and headed down the stairs once I had collected myself enough to stop crying. I walked into the living room on the way to the kitchen, and I saw my mom sitting on the couch with a bottle of Vodka. Oh, great.

She stood up quickly.

"Julie. You are a disgrace to this family!" Her words were slurring so much I could barely make out what she was saying. "You are a Sanders, and you need to start acting like one! Not like a dirty slut. Why can't you be like your sister? Instead, Lana brings me home this!"

In her sloppy movements, she hunches over, grabbing the familiar piece of paper from the coffee table. I didn't need to look at it to know that my picture was plastered across the top of it.

"Mom, they are just bullying me! It isn't even true!"

She stomped quickly towards me, and my head flung to the side. I felt a sting, but I was smarter than that. If I kept my eyes down, it would end sooner. My eyes filled up with tears, and I couldn't see very well.

"I hope you were switched at birth! You will never be my daughter, just a whore who lives under this roof!" The dramatics made me want to laugh, but the reality of the situation was heavier than I expected. It was lodged in my throat, preventing any noise from escaping. When I saw she had the flyer, I had hoped that she would take my side. She had the evidence from my bullies right there, but no.

She was just unreasonable and bitter. She only got like this when her boy toys broke up with her or disappeared the next morning. Which meant Jack got smart and finally left her.

I stood still waiting for the next blow. When nothing came, I turned my head slowly until I was facing her again. This time she hit me harder and screamed, "How could you?!"

My face was stinging, and I knew it would leave a mark. I heard her walk back over to the couch, the old piece of furniture creaking as she sat down.

Seeing this as my escape, I sprinted from the room and up the stairs to lock myself away.

That wasn't the first time she had done that. Whenever she got dumped or woke up to an empty bed, she would take her anger out on whoever she saw first. She had hit me and my sister, but never more than a punch in the gut or a slap in the face.

I blame the alcohol. When she turned to drinking after my dad died, it was like she got a second personality. It only seemed to come out when she was intoxicated. The rest of the time, it sat inside her, festering in a fire of hate and anger until it was set free to release its rage on any innocent it came across.