Piper
Igroan, the sunlight filtering through the curtains I somehow always forget to close burning the back of my eyeballs.
I hate getting up to go to school. I hate it, I’ve always hated it. I am NOT a morning person.
But today is worse than usual, because today I have exactly three bruises on my face. One under my eye, another on my cheek, and a third on my forehead. A nasty pattern of blue, green and grey that makes my freckles stand out all the more. And that’s without counting my bloody nose and busted lip. That asshole really went for it last night. I hate him. I hate him so goddamn much.
My glasses are on the floor, as usual. The stems are completely bent out of shape, and I look absolutely ridiculous as I shove them onto the bridge of my nose. They’re more lopsided than ever.
I really wish I could afford contacts. Barring that, normal, discreet glasses. But my eyes are so messed up that I have to wear thick lenses, so even if my frames were smaller, I’d still look like some weird, crazy insect.
I look even weirder and crazier today with my face splotchy blue. And the embarrassment that paints my cheeks and nose bright red when I think of having to go to school looking like this certainly doesn’t help.
I’ve grown so used to the bullying that it barely fazes me. It doesn’t usually get physical, but I guess I can take a few punches to the face. Somehow it’s easier to handle than the insults andhumiliation that accompany it.
And there were a whole lot of insults and humiliation last night. It made mepissed. So insanely pissed that for the first time since I started getting bullied in fifth grade, I decided I was going to do something about it. Something more drastic than my usual snarky retorts.
I spent the night plotting revenge.
But how can you get revenge when you’re about three times smaller than your bully, and don’t have an ounce of muscle? The asshole looks like he should be a quarterback or something. Or a soldier. He’s sure got the look of a soldier, with his buzz cut and muscles.
Does that mean I need to start going to the gym?
Not a chance in hell.
If there’s one thing I hate more than getting up early, it’s the idea of working out. I’d rather die than do a sit up.
Sighing, I pull on some clothes then go to the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face. My stomach sinks when I catch a glance at myself in the mirror. I knew it was bad when I looked at myself in the small mirror on my dresser, but the bigger mirror of the medicine cabinet, in the full light of day, more than confirms it.
Forget about school. How the hell am I going to face Dad?
Mom won’t care. Mom won’t even notice. She’s probably in bed, where she always is, and where she spends most of her days. I’ve never seen anyone as lazy as her, and it just pisses me off, the way she idles away her time while Dad works himself to the bone to provide for us.
I guess a lot of things piss me off these days. But right now, no one pisses me off more than the asshole who is about to pay for what he’s done.
“Piper! Time for school!” calls out my dad.
Sighing, I grit my teeth and hobble out of the bathroom anddown the stairs. I definitely got a few punches to the stomach too, and walking toward the kitchen reminds me of it. I take a deep breath and steel myself for Dad’s reaction as I enter the small, cheerful room. I really wish I had some makeup to conceal the bruises, but knowing I’d probably stab my eye out with my mascara wand if I ever tried to wear any has always kept me far away from the cosmetics aisle.
Dad doesn’t notice me at first, too busy multitasking over a pot of oatmeal on the stove while reading the newspaper. I glance at the big picture on the front cover and recognize the face of the guy who was stabbed two nights ago. I think Dad knew him—they worked at the same company.
But right now, I’m too preoccupied by the state of my face, and Dad’s reaction when he’ll notice, to care much.
I don’t have to wait for long.
“Make sure to eat a fruit, Piper,” he says. “We’ve got bananas, apples, clementines—what the hell?”
He’s just turned around, and he stops speaking, frozen in shock. It takes a lot for Dad to even say half a curse word, he’s so gentle. Now, he stares at me, his mouth wide open.
“Uh, yeah,” I mutter, mustering up the courage to speak the lie I’ve been preparing since I woke up. “I, uhm… fell.”
“You fell?” he questions in disbelief.
“I got hungry in the night,” I wince, “so I went downstairs, but I forgot my glasses, and, uhm, took a nasty tumble in the stairs. Didn’t you hear that loud noise?”
I look up at him, forcing myself to return his gaze even though I feel terrible for lying to him. But he has enough stress in his life. He’s already upset about me not having any friends. I know he feels the full weight of having to support our family. And to top it all off, lately, he’s been stressed out about the death of that guy, even though the latter works so high up at his company that I don’t think they’ve crossed paths more than once or twice.
Still, if Dad knew I was getting bullied on top of everything, well… I think I’d feel worse about his reaction than about the actual bullying.
