Silent Scars

This story includes hints of alcohol use, mental health struggles, and minor bits of sexual violence

I wish she would take back everything she said to me. I know she won’t, but sometimes I still imagine a world where things could be different. I do that a lot. My mind keeps searching for a better version of my life, even though it always ends up the same.

I dream about having friends who care, teachers who respect me, parents who actually listen, and men who see more than just how I look.

My alarm blares through the room, loud and urgent. Sometimes I wish there was an ambulance that could come save me, not for anything physical, but for the things going on in my mind.

I stand up slowly and my legs shake. Every morning, I feel unsteady, like I’m learning to walk all over again. Now that I think about it, that probably isn’t normal.

I walk to the bathroom and turn on the light. My long auburn hair falls in messy waves down my back. There’s still eyeliner and mascara smudged from last night. I remember everything because I was the only one who didn’t drink. When I was lying on the couch, tired from the night, some guys thought I was passed out drunk. I remember their hands on me, touching places that should have been off limits.

I know I should have fought back or called out for help. But I didn’t. I feel like a coward.

The makeup wipes feel cool as I clean away the last streaks of red and black from my face. I brush my teeth, trying to get rid of the taste they left behind. I never want to taste someone else’s alcohol again.

I put on fresh makeup, keeping it light because I have a presentation today. I don’t want my teachers to think badly of me.

I go to my closet and pick out dark jeans and a cardigan. They cover the bruises on my thighs and arms. I think about telling my dad, but he would just roll his eyes and move on. My mom would mumble something with a drink in her hand, glued to the TV. I push those thoughts away and tie my hair into a bun.

I leave the house without saying goodbye to my parents. They don’t deserve it.

The morning is gloomy and rainy, even though summer will be here soon.

The walk to the school's front doors is something I dread every single day, and I feel weak for being so apprehensive and nervous. I do it anyway, though. The school is buzzing with the news of last night's events. I walk over to my locker, where a group of girls is standing. I overhear their conversation. My close friend, Alexandra, doesn't seem to notice my presence and says to the group, “I told them to go over to Autumn, she was on the couch. I don’t think she passed out since she wasn't even drinking. I just know that they were able to do some things for her with my help. She kinda deserved it though, that outfit was asking for it.” They all burst into laughter.

For a moment, I can’t move. The words hit me, heavy and cold, taking away what little strength I had left. My hands shake as I realize it wasn’t just the boys who hurt me. The girl I once trusted betrayed me even more. She planned it, turned my pain into a joke, and laughed like it was nothing. Her betrayal bleeds deeper than the bruises; it stains every memory I had of our friendship.

I turn away from my locker and walk down the hall, feeling the truth with every step. I was alone last night, but now I see I was abandoned long before that. Their laughter follows me, and with each sound, it becomes clearer: I was never safe, and the person I needed most was the one who gave me away.

I move through the hallways like a ghost, completely detached from the sea of students rushing past me.

I make my way into my first class which is history and collapse into my chair. The teacher discusses tragic heroes, but the words blur into white noise. I feel like I am watching myself from outside of my body. Every whisper in the back row feels like a direct jab at me. I keep my eyes glued to my notebook, drawing mindless, jagged lines.

The bell rings signaling the period is over and I let out a sigh of relief. I move to my second period which is chemistry. I walk to the familiar lab bench I have sat in the entire school year. The boys who walk into the classroom are unmistakable. All of them were at the party, drinking, smoking, swearing. Just all of the above. I feel myself tense up and my muscles lock in place. One of the guys, Anderson, makes his way to my bench. I remember looking up at his face with half lidded eyes as he touched my body. I shiver at the memory because it was utterly disgusting the things he said and did to me.

“So, this spot taken?” He asks me with a smirk plastered on his face. “Y-yes, it is,” I say with a shaky voice. I don’t look up to meet his eyes. He cocks his head to the left and asks, “you sure, wouldn't want you to go without a lab partner today. I don’t want you to be alone, especially not after last night.” He grins like he just made a joke. “I am sure,” I whisper. He shrugs his shoulders and walks away to go sit with one of his friends.

Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.

I look out the rain streaked window, wishing I could dissolve into the gray morning fog.

I end up working alone at my station, measuring chemicals with trembling hands. I keep thinking to myself I should report them for what they did to me but if I do, I know they will make me want to crawl out of my own skin. They already accomplished that but I don’t want to continue to feel that.

Maybe if I ignore them they won’t provoke me, or touch me. A glass beaker slips through my fingers and shatters on the floor, drawing everyone’s eyes and muffled snickers.

Class ends, finally. I move through the halls silently not wanting to draw attention to myself.

After four more periods, the school day ends. Head down, the focus remains on the stuffed tiles while navigating the rush of students heading for the exit. Every burst of laughter from nearby groups creates a sense of detachment, a reminder of the shifting social landscape.

Stepping outside into the damp afternoon air, the gray sky reflects the uncertainty of the moment. Walking past familiar courtyards and meeting spots, there is deliberate effort to keep moving. I walk through mud and puddles ignoring the feeling of the water seeping into my shoes.

Stepping inside, the silence of the house provides sharp contrast to the afternoon rush. The bag is dropped by the door, and the transition into a private space brings a heavy set of exhaustion. They took my sanity and safety last night, that is something I can never get back now.

Years of shared secrets, late night phone calls, and whispered promises weren't just broken, they were a lie. Alexandra didn't just walk away; she actively handed me over to the boys who hurt me, treating my trauma as social currency to buy her own popularity.

Looking at the empty room, the despair hardens into a cold, sharp truth. I lost the ability to trust anyone ever again, left alone in the wreckage of a friendship that was nothing but a trap.

I finally understand that the deepest wounds are not left by those who strike you, but by the ones who were supposed to hold you back.