The Muse

I should've known better.

Shame is a living thing. It slithers under your skin, curls tight around your ribs and squeezes the air from your lungs. It tastes bitter and feels like acrid acid burning the back of your throat.

I swallow the lump in my throat as my fingers twitch against the cold linoleum floor.

The laughter swells around me. I can hear everyone making fun of me. Some are outright crackling, others whispering behind their hands. Eyes gleam and peel my layers harshly. I can even see the phone flashes. They're recording me.

I swallow again, and this time, I'm sure I'll end up crying. I press my palms down, willing myself to move.

I can do this. Just get up, Krystina for god's sake.

But my body won't listen.

My muscles are locked, frozen in space between silence and chaos. I can't quite name it. Humiliation? Fear? The deep, clawing certainty that no matter what I do, won't change anything.

I barely blink when I see them.

A pair of black, polished leather boots. Something that shouldn't belong here.

My gaze travels upward and I momentarily wish for the ground to split open and swallow me whole. Muscular legs cladded in darkly washed jeans. A leather jacket thrown over broad shoulders, sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal strong veiny forearms. Strapped Rolex on his wrist.

Like I've been hypnotised by the demon, my eyes find his.

Blue-grey eyes narrowed pierce through me. They're sharp enough to carve through my flesh and soul alike.

My stomach twits.

I want to disappear.

I want everything to cease existing and evaporate with me.

Not him. Anyone but him.

I can face anyone but him.

The worst part isn't the humiliation, but being witnessed. It's knowing the look in his eyes. He's assessing me, peeling back the layers of whatever pathetic dignity I have left, and I can already feel his verdict forming.

My breath is shallow and is my chest.

Why? Why me? What have I done to deserve this?

Was it my silence? My inability to stand up for myself? Did I make myself too easy to break?

I should've walked faster. Should've been more careful. Should've known better. I shouldn't have given him that letter. I should've kept my little meaningless crush only a crush. Then and only then this wouldn't have happened. I wouldn't be kneeling in front of him, looking as ugly as I feel inside. I repulse him and the worst, I repulse myself at the same time.

I close my eyes for a second, trying to stop the burning behind them.

"Her forehead is too broad, fuck."

Someone says from the crowd. I recognise the voice. Violet.

Out of all the things happening right now, my brain decides to hyper-fixate on that.

Great. Just great. I'm covered in trash, on my knees, in front of my nightmare who looks like he stepped out of a noir film, and all I can think about is how my forehead probably looks massive from this angle. '

My lips part like I want to say something, but nothing comes out.

His gaze doesn't waver. He doesn't look amused. Doesn't smirk like the others.

And that somehow makes it worse.

Because I know pity when I see it.

Laughter crashes into me from all directions. A tidal wave, drowning out everything else.

I feel someone stepping from the crowd. My eyes catch the movement before my mind can process it. Anna stands there, wearing the red top, the same one I was wearing yesterday, and the same skirt. No. That's not what startles me. It is not the clothes.

It's something else.

The person beside her.

Violet. Who's snickering with a hand on Anna's shoulder? And my friend, the one I can see holding in her laugh, has her phone held up.

She's... recording me.

"Wow, come on, get up, Kristy. It's not that bad." Anna's voice. It scrapes against my ears.

My stomach drops.

I don't need to look to know she's smiling. I don't need to lift my head to see the gleam in her eyes. But I do. I force myself to.

"Anna." My voice barely makes it past my lips, brittle and small.

I don't even know what I'm asking her. Why? How could you? Was it you? Did you know?

But she just tilts her head, like I'm a confused child making a scene. "Seriously, Kristy. Don't be dramatic."

Laughter spikes around me again, sharper this time, emboldened by her words.

I force myself to look past her, at the other girls. The ones who did this. Or they haven't. I don't know. Is it Massimo? Is it Violet? Sienna? Or... Anna?

I need to get up. I need to move.

But then my gaze shifts, and suddenly, everything else fades.

Massimo.

He's now leaning against the wall like this has nothing to do with him.

Like he isn't the reason this is happening.

Like he wasn't behind all of it.

His face is unreadable, eyes cold and unnerving. He doesn't smile, doesn't laugh. Just watches.

Watches me.

Like he's waiting for something.

For me to cry? To snap? To break?

Tears burn in my eyes, threatening to spill, but I refuse.

Not here. Not in front of them.

My fingers dig into my palms as I force myself up, the sticky trash sliding down my hair, and my back. But I don't look at them.

I don't look at Anna.

I don't look at Violet.

I keep my eyes locked on Massimo.

And for a second—just a second—I think I see something flicker in his expression.

But then it's gone.

They expect me to stay down. For me to kneel and be humiliated. But I won't. Not this time.

I don't wipe my face, don't even bother to straighten my clothes. I don't flinch even if he's still watching me. I keep my head up and turn to the person who started all of this.

My blood hums and my hands curl into fists, before I can process or talk myself out of it, I move. Until I'm standing chest to face in front of me. Craning my head up, to meet his grey cold eyes.

I do what I should've done the very first time he bullied me.

I raise my hand and before he or anyone can process it, my hand collides with his cheek.

People around us still. His head barely tilts, but I feel it in my skin. My chest rises and falls, but I don't care.

I look him straight in the eye. "I hate you."

I don't regret it.

His jaw clenches and that's when he shows a flicker of emotion. I don't care if he'll hit me back, I don't care if he'll kill me. I don't care what he'll do.

Sienna steps forward, clenching her jaw. "You—"

Massimo stops her, but his eyes still haven't left mine.

I don't fucking care.

I turn on my heel, and push past him, ignoring the way the crowd parts for me, ignoring Sienna's sharp intake of breath, ignoring the whispers rising around me.

I don't stop.

Not until I'm far enough that I can breathe again.

And even then, my hands won't stop shaking.