Page 92 of That Pucking New Girl

Reaching down for my backpack, I glance down at it as I notice that it’s heavier than it was before. Putting the letters on the ground to open it, I gasp as different items spill out of the top. There’s boxes of condoms with messages that my parents should have used one instead of having me, razor blades, and a bottle of vodka.

Leaving them on the ground disgusted, I pack up the letters I pulled from my locker. It takes a little digging, but I finally find my phone and take photos of the items on the floor and my locker. I don’t want anyone to tell me I’m lying about this or I imagined it due to trauma.

As an afterthought, I open my locker to see if anyone put anything inside it. There’s a large, full color image of my naked body hung up inside it, cropped so that you can't see the Devils. My head isn’t even visible, but I know my body.

I know what I look like. I guess I should be thankful there’s not a full scale canvas of it hanging somewhere. I sound like a hunted animal as I suck in lungfuls of oxygen. My light headedness is not helping at all, and I groan as I sway on my feet.

Don’t fucking pass out, Noor!

I know screaming at myself won’t help, not with my POTS flaring like an angry child having a tantrum. There’s a little note attached to the photo, and I yank it down to shove in my bag. I’ll read it later. I skipped lunch today, which means my blood sugar is tanking.

I’ve been hungrier than usual the last couple of days, regardless of how lackluster I might be feeling overall. The only good news is that I haven’t had a migraine yet this week and my period seems to be staying away.

If I’m lucky, it’ll naturally skip a cycle so I can regulate my life. I live every day in fight or flight mode, even though it’s been relatively quiet.

At least it was, until today. I guess the entire school was in on this somehow. My bubble of peace was a farce.

Slamming shut the locker, I pull my backpack onto my back. I’m almost afraid to check for any missed messages on my phone, so instead, I decide to wait until I’m outside. I know I’m pushing the inevitable since I’ll need to read them soon enough, but I have very few spoons left.

Weaving as I walk, I find I have to stop every few steps to take a break. Too much emotion, trauma, and lack of energy is fucking with my body.

My hands slam onto the exit bar for the front door, but it doesn’t budge. I’ve never been at the school after hours, which means I don’t know what doors are locked.

I just walked by someone…how is she going to get out?

My phone shows that an hour has gone by since I saw her, which makes sense with my time blindness. The minutes are slipping by as if they’re made of sand, and I have no idea as to how to get it to stop.

Frustrated, I walk around until I find an open classroom door. Determined to get the fuck out, I stride in a wobbly path to the window and manage to shove it open. My English teacher will be confused tomorrow morning, but she can close the open window when she gets in.

Crawling out, I let my body drop the two feet to the ground before trudging to the front of the school. I manage to trip twice, falling to my knees so hard that my teeth click.

My mouth is very dry, and that’s when I realize how dehydrated I am. I didn’t bother to drink at all after the flyers were dropped around me, and even when I went to the restroom, it was really concentrated.

Fuck. My electrolytes are seriously imbalanced. This is why I feel so out of it. I feel a wave of shame because I fucking know better than to do this to myself. Pulling my bottle of water out, I open it before gagging at the smell.

Emptying it out, I realize that someone fucking pissed in it.

“Motherfucker!” I scream, my voice raspy and fucked. Have I mentioned how much I hate everyone and everything?

I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to drink out of this thing again, but evidence is evidence. Screwing the top back on in disgust, I shove my bottle into the side pocket of my bag.

“Noor?” a voice asks as I stomp out onto the main lawn.

“Draven,” I spit out, seeing him as I glance up.

“Wow, that’s an interesting reception,” he mutters. “What’s wrong with you? You look…”

“Traumatized? Humiliated? Like my worst moments have been exposed to the world to see? Pick one,” I rasp, coughing as the lack of water catches up to me even more.

“I wasn’t part of any of that,” he promises. “Where have you been? No one has seen you in classes all day. The school administration thinks you ran away.”

Perfect. That’s all a foster kid is good for, right? I might check out, disassociate, and struggle to figure out my shit, but I very rarely run.

“Well, I haven’t been trying to kill myself, which is what most of the school seems to think,” I grumble, stumbling toward the parking lot.

I need to sit down and call Rachelle. If I pass out, the possibility Draven would just leave me here is pretty damn high.

“Are you drunk?” he asks worriedly, following me. He’s in a pair of shorts, a t-shirt, and sports slides with a large bag over his shoulder.