CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: EMPTY.

        EMPTY

School was worse than training.

At least training had rules. At least there, getting hit meant you did something wrong, not that someone was bored and needed entertainment.

School smelled like disinfectant and wet shoes. Lockers slammed too loudly, footsteps echoed too close, and laughter always seemed to rise the moment I passed by.

“Move.”

Someone nudged my shoulder as they rushed past me in the hallway. I stumbled, caught myself, and kept walking like nothing happened.

That was the trick. Always keep walking.

I was late that morning. I remember because my books slipped from my hands as I turned the corner too fast. They hit the floor with an ugly clatter, pages spreading everywhere like they were trying to escape.

“Wow.”

I looked up before I could stop myself.

That was my first mistake.

The girl standing over me had perfect hair and that polite smile people use when they want witnesses.

“You should really be more careful,” she said. “You fall a lot.”

Someone laughed.

Another voice added, “Figures.”

She stepped on my notebook as she walked away, grinding her shoe into the paper just enough to crease it.

I waited until the hallway emptied before picking everything up. My hands were shaking so badly that I dropped my pen twice.

By lunch, I already felt exhausted.

The benches were full. Everyone pressed close together, talking over one another, elbows bumping, voices overlapping. Wolves loved noise. Loved being seen.

I took my tray and sat at the far end of the longest table.

A boy across from me leaned toward his friend and whispered, not quietly enough, “She eats alone every day.”

His friend glanced at me, then shrugged. “Maybe she likes it.”

I stared at my plate and ate quickly. Food tasted like cardboard anyway.

Classes weren’t much better.

“Emily.”

The teacher’s voice snapped me upright.

“Yes?” I answered, a little too fast.

“Read the next paragraph.”

I stood, heart pounding, words blurring together as I tried to focus on the page.

Behind me, someone muttered, “Don’t mess it up.”

I made it through the paragraph without stumbling, sat down, and felt a folded paper slide onto my desk.

I knew I shouldn’t open it.

Everyone was watching.

Inside was a terrible drawing of a girl standing alone, no wolf shadow behind her. Underneath it said EMPTY.

I folded it slowly and slipped it into my pocket. My face felt hot. My chest felt tight.

“Are you feeling alright?” the teacher asked.

“Yes,” I said, because that was always the correct answer.

The changing rooms were worse.

One day, someone took my clothes while I was in the shower. I stood there clutching a towel while people walked past.

“Oh my god,” a girl laughed. “Is she still in there?”

“Maybe she’s waiting for her wolf,” someone else said.

I walked out with my head down and didn’t look at anyone.

Another time, my locker was emptied into the hallway. Books, clothes, notebooks scattered everywhere.

Someone had written WEAK on the inside in red ink.

I scrubbed at it with my sleeve until my skin stung.

A teacher walked past and frowned. “You should clean up after yourself.”

“I didn’t—” I stopped. “Sorry.”

At home, my mother asked, “How was school?”

“Fine.”

My father looked up with a tense look from his papers.

“Any trouble?”

“No.”

Lies were easier than explanations.

The bullying evolved the longer I stayed quiet.

“Oh my god, Emily,” someone said loudly one day. “You’re so brave for coming here. I could never come while knowing I’m just existing to not exist, if I were you.”

Another added, “If I were you, I’d stay home.”

They laughed like it was a compliment.

One afternoon, a boy leaned over my desk and rested his elbows there like he owned the space.

“So,” he said casually, “if you don’t have a wolf, what are you actually good for?”

No one said anything.

I looked at my notebook and kept writing like he wasn’t there.

He smirked. “Thought so.”

The walk home was the worst part of the day.

Once, someone shoved me from behind. I went down hard, palms scraping against concrete.

“Oops,” someone said.

Laughter followed.

I got up, brushed the dirt off my clothes, and kept walking. I didn’t look back.

Crying only made it last longer. I learned that quickly.

By seventeen, I learned how to disappear while still being present. Bigger clothes. Smaller voice. Eyes on the floor.

Teachers started calling me “well-behaved.”

“She’s so quiet.”

“So mature.”

So easy to ignore.

I didn’t leave that pack with memories of school.

I left with habits.

Counting exits. Sitting far away from people and tensing uncomfortably at laughter behind me.

Standing in a different place now, with different people, I still feel it sometimes. That momentary tightening, that instinct to brace.

Back t

hen, I thought I was alone.

I wasn’t.

She was there too silently waiting and watching.

Learning exactly how much I could endure and now I’m being tested.