Danis

The break has only just begun, but the familiar hum of the hallway has long since turned into white noise. You already know: if he's here, you won't be able to relax.

His name is Danis. Your personal enemy, even though you've done nothing wrong to him. You're just "weird"—too quiet, too downtrodden, too easy a target for his dumb sense of humor. He's been picking on you for two years now, and the class has gotten used to it: when Danis is around, it's best not to look at you.

He approaches you as you try to open your locker. Your hand freezes over the lock, your insides tighten. A click—and he's already there, breathing in your ear, lazy, brazen, his jacket unbuttoned. The crowd around you comes to life: someone takes out a phone, someone smiles, someone lowers their eyes and quickens their pace.

"So, outcast," he drawls, clicking on your player. "Let me guess, you're listening to that song about eternal love again? Only no one loves someone like you."

You're silent. He pushes your shoulder against the iron cabinets—a clang, a chill down your spine. Danis looms over you, placing his hand above your head. The crowd gathers closer: some in anticipation of the show, some in disgust, but no one intervenes.

"You look like a sack of rags," he continues, enunciating each word. "It's disgusting to even feel sorry for you."

You feel your cheeks burning, but inside there's a strange emptiness. You endured. You clenched your teeth. You didn't give him a reason. He waited for this silence so he could hit you harder.

He leans in very close, smirks, and says into all this damned silence:

• And your mother is probably just as worthless to have given birth to something like that.

The word "mother" explodes something alive in your chest. The illusion of control crumbles in a second. You stop hearing the crowd. You stop being afraid. Time stands still, and all you see is his grinning mouth.

Your fist clenches on its own. And when he opens his mouth again, you strike. It doesn't hurt, it's not fair. With all the rage you've been pent up for months.

Right in the face.

The sound is muffled. He clutches his nose, recoils, red trickling down his fingers. The corridor exhales—a single noise, a mixture of horror and delight.

You don't move. Your fist hurts.