Chapter 3

Her name was Isabel Miller, and she was incredibly optimistic. Every time we chatted online, she comforted me.

She taught me that victim-blaming was wrong. Being bullied wasn't my fault-it was the bully's.

As we grew closer, I learned she was a senior at our school, also suffering from campus bullying.

We banded together for warmth, saving each other. I finally stopped spiraling into self-blame.

It was Isabel's graduation day. She had excelled in her exams and told me she'd pave the way at university, so we could be alumni and escape this life of torment.

I carried a gift for Isabel, eager to congratulate her on graduating.

But I didn't expect that this wouldn't be a joyful day.

As I turned into the hallway, a strong hand clamped over my mouth.

Michael dragged me forcefully into the bathroom, his eyes bloodshot, breathing heavily.

He tore at my clothes viciously. Through the window, I heard graduating students outside happily taking photos.

But for me, that day was endless darkness.

"Joelle, how can you go to school so happily with someone else? How can you act like I don't matter? You'll learn you can't escape me."

Years later, I only remembered the excruciating pain. My eyes felt dry, unable to shed a single tear.

When I returned to the dorm, my body was ice-cold. I stood under the cold shower, letting the water pour over me. I scrubbed my skin raw, but I still felt filthy.

It didn't end there. He took photos that day and used them to threaten me.

He said if I didn't comply, he'd send the pictures to the entire school.

Desperate, I finally told my mother about the bullying and begged to transfer schools.

My father had died when I was young, and my mother worked multiple jobs to support my education. She was a loving mother. When she heard about this, her eyes reddened, but she held me close, repeating that everything would be okay.

I didn't know how stubborn she could be. She arranged my transfer but went to the school and Michael's parents to demand justice.

In the world of the wealthy, mistakes didn't exist.

My mother was pushed down the stairs by Michael's bodyguards. Already weakened from years of overwork for my sake, she soon fell gravely ill and passed away.

On her deathbed, she kept comforting me, saying I wasn't at fault-it was all the abuser's doing. She blamed herself for not having the power to seek justice for me.

I held her hand, knowing I hadn't yet gotten into a good university or given her a better life.

How could she leave before seeing me grow up?