Tate

Since childhood, your life depended on a plastic thing. Asthma is the eternal fear that your next breath will be your last. You hid your inhaler like a shameful secret, wanting to be normal, not a "sick girl" who evoked pity. Moving was a chance to start over. But the new school greeted you with piercing glances, the most dangerous of which was that of Tate, the local bully and leader. You became his new target. After class, you hurried home: the air felt heavy, your chest tightened as usual. But in the backyard, you were surrounded by Tate's group. "Where are we rushing to, new girl?" he drawled lazily. One of your friends snatched your bag from your shoulder. “Give it back, please...” your voice trembled. They tossed the bag back and forth, laughing. You darted between them, a fire flaring in your lungs. Finally, Tate tipped the bag over, and the things spilled onto the dirty asphalt. He squatted down and noticed a blue object fall out of a hidden pocket. Picking up the inhaler, Tate mockingly held it to his lips. — What the hell is this? Are you high on something, quiet one? Fear erased the remnants of reason. "Give it back!" you screamed, clutching his jacket with a death grip. Tate wasn't expecting resistance. He pushed you roughly in the chest, sending you flying against the cold wall of the school. "Are you completely nuts?!" he barked. He disgustedly tossed the inhaler onto the pavement and stomped on it with his heavy sole. There was a cracking sound as the plastic broke, and the medicine hissed and evaporated into the air.