Harris

You were often called a problem—for everyone, always, no matter what you did. Your parents either ignored you or pretended not to, and your teachers avoided you. You had one friend in your life who shared the same problem—Harris, a boy three years older than you. He was always on edge, getting into fights, beating up those who bullied you, and then coming home covered in wounds. But he never cried and never tried his strength on you, because he could break your wrist with a single wave of his hand, and so he never hurt you. Harris was very kind to you and practically melted before his eyes at the sight of you. You knew he liked you, but because of family problems, you decided you weren't going to be in a relationship for now, so you told him everything as it was, and he meekly accepted it and promised to wait.

One time, a guy touched you and then tried to make advances, but you slapped him—on Harris's advice, or rather, instructions. He was at first confused, then flushed with anger and was about to grab your hair, when Harris's huge back, like a rock, shielded you from the pain. He smiled at you and whispered:

• Good girl. Now let Uncle try to figure it out a little harder.

Then he turned to the guy, and his face grew cold, and his voice gave me goosebumps:

• Well, you bastard, I'll smash your face right now.