Stacey, The middle one

Facing the aftermath

The weekend dragged like wet clothes clinging to my skin, heavy, suffocating. I barely left my room except to eat, and even then, it was mostly just to keep people from asking questions. My bruises had started to change colour, fading from those harsh purples and reds into that sickly yellow that made them look even worse somehow. The pain hadn’t faded, though, not the kind that mattered. My body ached, yeah, but it was my pride that screamed the loudest.

I’d heard whispers, of course I had. Word always found its way through the cracks. Harry had found Connor. No one could tell me exactly what happened, only that something did. Something big. Connor hadn’t been the same since. And I’d be lying if I said that didn’t stir something in me. For a second, just a breath, I saw Harry as he used to be. My big brother. The one who scared the monsters out from under my bed and told me I was braver than I believed. I wanted to find him, to thank him, maybe even throw my arms around him. But just like always, he vanished into smoke.

And then came Monday.

It hit like a truck, full force, no warning. The cold smacked my face as I walked to school alone, hoodie pulled up, hands stuffed deep into my pockets like I could hide in there. The school gates looked like prison bars, and each step toward them felt like walking into trial.

The moment I stepped through, I felt it, that shift in the air. Whispers zipped past me like little needles. Eyes tracked me like I had something written on my skin. Someone near the entrance murmured, "That’s her... that’s Stacey," and I felt the words stick to me, cling like static.

I kept my eyes low, counting the floor tiles on the way to class.

English.

It used to be my favourite room in the building. Today, it felt like a courtroom. I paused outside the door, took one shaky breath, and pushed it open, praying I could slip in unnoticed.

No such luck.

The conversations dropped, then resumed in hushed tones. I didn’t look at anyone as I made my way to the back, sinking into my seat like I could disappear into it. I kept my gaze fixed on my desk, tried to look busy, tried to pretend I didn’t notice the eyes still watching.

Then I felt it.

His gaze.

Mr. Callahan stood at the front, mid-sentence, marker still in hand, staring at me. Something flickered across his face, concern, guilt, maybe even panic. His mouth opened like he might say something, but then he turned back to the board and kept writing like nothing had happened.

He didn’t look at me again.

The rest of the lesson was just background noise, pens scratching, papers flipping, that low buzz of kids pretending to care. I doodled in the margin of my notebook and absorbed exactly none of what was taught.

When the bell rang, everyone leapt up like they’d been waiting for permission to flee. I stayed still.

"Class is dismissed... except Stacey. Can you stay behind, please?"

My heart dropped.

As the last kid filed out, I sat frozen, the weight of every eye that had watched me all day pressing down on my spine. When the door clicked shut, it felt like something snapped tight in the room.

Mr. Callahan leaned against his desk, arms folded. "I wasn’t expecting to see you today," he said gently.

I didn’t answer.

"How are you holding up?" he tried again.

I shrugged. I could barely find the strength to speak.

"I heard what happened," he said. His jaw tensed. "It’s... going around."

I scoffed without humour. "Everything goes around here."

He exhaled. “I just wanted to check in on you. If there’s anything you need”

I finally looked up. And in that moment, he really saw me. Not just the girl who answered questions in class, but all of me, the hurt, the shame, the raw exhaustion bleeding out of my skin. His expression softened, melted into something almost warm.

"You don’t have to talk. I just want you to know... what happened wasn’t your fault. You didn’t deserve it. And if you ever need a safe place, I’ll make sure you have one."

My throat tightened, but I nodded. It was all I could manage. I stood to leave.

“Stacey,” he added, “you’re stronger than you think.”

I didn’t cry. Not then. But something shifted. The cracks inside me didn’t widen. They healed. Just a little.

As I stepped into the corridor again, the whispers were still there, but I heard them differently. Like background noise. Like static, I didn’t need to tune into.

And deep in my chest, just beneath the bruises, something sparked.

I was still here.

And I wasn’t going anywhere.

Before my next class, I ducked into the girls' toilets, needing a moment. My stomach had been aching all morning, and the dull, familiar throb in my lower back confirmed what I already suspected, perfect timing. Of course, my monthlys had to arrive today, like the universe hadn’t already done enough. I sighed and headed into a stall, digging through my bag for what I needed, bracing myself for one more small battle in a day, already overflowing with them.

Then I saw it.

Scrawled in thick black marker across the inside of the stall door: "Stacey M is a slag with no friends." My breath caught. For a second, I just stared at it, like my brain needed a second to catch up. Seriously? I couldn’t even go to the damn loo without someone taking a shot at me? My fingers clenched into fists. Whoever did it probably thought they were clever, brave, and funny. But all I felt was tired. I'm so tired. Of the whispers, the looks, the bruises, outside and in. I closed my eyes, let the sting pass, and decided right there: they didn’t get to break me. Not now. Not ever.

I stared at the words for a long moment, something inside me twisting tight, then snapping loose. Fine. If this was how it was going to be, if people wanted to play dirty, I could play smart. I rifled through my pencil case, pulled out a sharpie, and took a steadying breath. Then I leaned forward and added my own message beneath the graffiti in bold, unapologetic strokes: "Better a slag with standards than a coward who hides behind toilet doors."

I capped the pen with a snap and stepped back, my chest rising with something that felt dangerously close to pride. There was no mistaking the tone, no room for confusion. I wasn’t going to shrink or apologise for who I was, not for them, not for anyone. If they wanted a war, they’d learn quickly: I wasn’t the same Stacey they thought they could break. From now on, I’d be my own best friend. My own damn army.