Herring

I'm so F*cked

Waking up felt like someone had taken my soul, run it through a blender, and poured the chunky remains back into a body that had been hit by a truck. Twice. Maybe three times. I'd lost count. I'd lost everything.

My face was crusted with dried tears. My hair was a rat's nest of grief and poor decisions. My mouth tasted like something had died in it, resurrected, and died again. I was still on the floor. The floor was still cold. The floor didn't give a s**t. I respected that.

Get up. Get the f**k up. You have class. You have a life, allegedly. Get up, you miserable s**t-sack of wasted potential.

I got up. Every joint cracked. Every muscle screamed. My ribs reminded me, in their special broken language, that breathing was a privilege they could revoke at any moment. My ankle said f**k you. My hand, still wrapped, still healing, said f**k you twice.

Deia: "f**k you too. f**k all of you. f**k this floor. f**k this apartment. f**k the f*****g concept of vertical movement."

I made coffee. Drank it. It tasted like burnt dirt and spite. f*****g Perfect.

———

School materialized around me like a bad dream I couldn't wake from. Same grey buildings. Same grey sky. Same grey faces staring at me like I was a zoo exhibit that had learned to walk upright.

Yeah. Keep staring. I'm the bridge girl. I'm the dead girl. I'm the fish girl. I'm whatever the f**k you want me to be. Just don't talk to me. Don't breathe on me. Don't exist in my general vicinity.

Class was class. Aldaine droned. I stared at the whiteboard without seeing it. Words went in, bounced around the empty cavern of my skull, found nothing worth sticking to, and left. The girl two seats over—the expensive-smelling one—had upgraded her buffer zone to three seats. Soon she'd be in a different building. Different city. Different continent. Good. f**k her. f**k her expensive smell.

Class ended. I gathered my s**t. Headed for the bathroom because my bladder was staging a revolt and I didn't have the energy to negotiate.

———

The bathroom. Fluorescent lights that made everyone look like a corpse. The particular smell of industrial soap and other people's bad decisions. I did my business. Washed my hands. Avoided my own reflection because I knew what I'd see and I wasn't in the mood for that b***h.

I pushed the door open.

A body collided with mine. Liquid—hot, sticky, beige—splashed across my chest. A latte. A f*****g oat milk latte, because of course it was, because the universe has a sense of humor and it's f*****g terrible.

Decorative Girl, remember her? The one from before. Her two satellites flanking her like the world's shittiest entourage. She held an empty cup. Her face was arranged in an expression of mock horror so perfect it belonged in a museum of insincerity.

Decorative Girl: "Oh my god. I'm so sorry."

Satellite One: "So sorry."

Satellite Two: "Like, so sorry."

Their smiles said they were not sorry. Their smiles said they had been waiting for this. Their smiles said we rehearsed this and it went exactly how we wanted.

Deia: "What the hell."

Decorative Girl: "It was a mistake. Calm down."

Deia: "You walked directly into me. With a full cup. That's not a mistake. That's a choice. That's a f*****g commitment."

Decorative Girl: "I said I was sorry. God. Get over it."

Something in my chest cracked. Not my ribs—those were already f****d. Something deeper. Something that had been holding on by threads and was done holding on.

Deia: "Get over it? GET OVER IT? You've been on my f*****g case since day one. The fish. The rumors. The stairs. The f*****g sardine tin. And now you're pouring drinks on me like we're in a shitty high school movie? What the f**k is your problem?"

My voice echoed off the tiles. The satellites took a step back. Decorative Girl didn't move. Her smile just... shifted. Became something sharper.

A new voice cut through. From behind me. The bathroom door swinging open with the energy of someone who owned every room she entered.

Voice: "What's that noisy fly buzzing in my ear? Too damn loud. Some of us are trying to exist without being assaulted by cheap drama."

I turned. A girl I'd never seen before. Tall. Sharp cheekbones. Hair slicked back like she was on her way to ruin someone's life and was looking forward to it. She looked at Decorative Girl. Then at me. Then at the latte soaking through my shirt. Let's call her Pompous b***h, cause what else would she have been if not that.

Pompous b***h: "Oh. You're the bridge girl. I saw you on the news. You looked better drowning."

Before I could respond—before I could even process the absolute f*****g audacity—she raised her own cup. Some kind of iced thing. Pink. Fruity. Probably cost more than my groceries.

She poured it over my head.

Cold. Sticky. The liquid ran down my hair, into my eyes, over my cheeks. It dripped off my chin and splattered onto the floor. The satellites giggled. Decorative Girl's smile widened into something genuinely delighted.

Decorative Girl: “Oh Daisy you didn't have to do that.” she said giggling.

Daisy huh. What a f*****g name. Cliche. Should've just named her Rose because of how f*****g wonderful she is.

Daisy: "What are you going to do about it?"

I stood there. Soaked. Latte on my chest. Pink fruity bullshit in my hair. Every eye in the hallway—because of course a crowd had gathered, of course it had—watching. Waiting. My mind raced.

Do something. Say something. Fight back. Run. Scream. Cry. Don't cry. Don't you f*****g cry. Not here. Not in front of these cunts. Think. THINK.

Nothing came. Just the cold. Just the wet. Just the shame, thick and hot in my throat.

And then she spat on me.

A small, precise glob of saliva. It landed on my cheek and slowly slid down toward my jaw. Decorative Girl looked proud of herself. Pompous b***h looked bored, like spitting on people was just another Tuesday.

Something snapped. Not audibly. Internally. The last thread. The final f**k. The end of whatever had been keeping me civil, keeping me small, keeping me the kind of person who got spat on and did nothing.

I lunged.

My fist connected with Daisy's face before my brain caught up to what my body was doing. The impact was glorious. A solid, meaty thwack that I felt all the way up to my shoulder. Her head snapped back. She staggered. Her expensive iced drink went flying. Her hands flew to her nose, and when she pulled them away, they were red.

Blood. Real blood. From her perfect, punchable face.

Silence.

Every single person in that hallway stopped. Stared. The satellites' mouths hung open. Decorative Girl's smile had finally, finally vanished. Daisy was making a sound like a wounded seagull.

I looked at my hand. My knuckles were red. Some of it was her blood. Some of it might have been mine. I didn't care. I couldn't feel it. I couldn't feel anything except the wild, electric hum of having finally, finally done something.

Oh s**t.

Oh f**k.

I'm so f*****g f****d.