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Olivia

"She broke my daughter's nose," seethes the woman.

I'm sitting in this cold, stiff chair with my hands clenched into fists on my lap, trying to get my mind to stop punishing me. My fingers dig into my palms, and I focus on the sting to keep the tears back. I don't want anyone to see me like this. Weak. Emotional.

The fluorescent lights overhead flicker and hum, the noise bouncing around the small, bare office, making my brain burn and my skin crawl. I keep my eyes down, locked on the scuffed floor, not daring to look up. Not at the woman who's yelling, not at my boss, not at anyone.

"You need to fire her!"

I flinch at the volume of her voice, a shot of pain quickly following, wishing I could cover my ears. But that only makes me look deranged. Well… more deranged. My chest tightens, but I won't look up. I won't give her the satisfaction of seeing me upset.

"Please calm down," my boss says, his voice strained but controlled. "We're handling the situation, but shouting isn't going to help anyone."

The woman's voice gets even louder, if that's possible, and I can feel the heat of her rage like it's a physical thing in the room. "Calm down? CALM DOWN? My daughter is bleeding because of that monster. Why is she even still here? Fucking waste of space…"

I suck in a sharp breath as she continues to call me all kinds of names, trying to ignore the sting her words bring. Like mother, like daughter, it looks like. Can't keep their fucking mouths shut.

I glance over at the blonde in the chair. The blood-soaked cloth held to her face makes me want to grin, but that will only inflame things. Still. She deserved it.

I know I shouldn't have hit the bitch, but she wouldn't leave my space.

She closed the distance by fifty percent… then ninety. That was uncomfortable, but manageable. People do that all the time. Sometimes you briefly get to one hundred percent with an accidental touch, but this one was no accident, at least judging by the other data.

When I told her we didn’t have her size in the back, thirty-two percent of her words became mean. Insults. Then sixty-five… but I was still holding myself back, forcing back thoughts of physical retribution, even though I knew it would feel good.

Then she snapped and wouldn't stop touching me and pushing her fingers into my chest as she screamed at me. Grabbing my arm so I couldn't escape. Still, I kept my hands fisted, but didn’t use them. I reminded myself that so far I’d been kicked out of ninety-two percent of jobs and schools.

It didn’t help. I lost control soon after when she called me a bastard. That word always takes me to one hundred percent rage. Nothing helped overcome the visceral way my body reacted to her touch at that point, percentages be damned.

Then there was blood. Just like always. And it felt just as good as every single time before it, and just as bad afterward.

Bastard . That word echoes in my mind, making me feel dirty, like there's something wrong with me just for existing. I didn't know what it meant when I first heard it and now people just throw it around like it's nothing. A bit of spice for their sentences.

I was seven the first time it was used as a weapon. I didn't respond well then, either.

Like usual, my stupid brain is more than willing to throw the memory back up. Just to make sure I've gotten yet another look at one of my many failings.

***

"She's just a child, Mrs. Harper," Mr. White says in a hard voice. "Nothing was broken. Just a bit of blood. We're talking about children."

"Where is her mother?" says Mrs. Harper, her voice dripping with disdain. I feel my stomach knot up even more. "Why isn't she here, taking responsibility for this? Or her father, that hor—"

"Enough! I will not abide by racial slurs," he barks out, then takes a deep breath. There's a heavy pause, and I can almost feel him wince before he responds. "Her mother has been informed and her father is… unreachable at the moment."

Unreachable. I hate that word. It means gone. It means not ever here. I lower my head, biting my lip so hard I taste blood, my nail scraping against my inner wrist over and over.

Mrs. Harper scoffs as she paces in front of me, her heels clicking on the tile floor. "Of course she's not here," she sneers, venom dripping from her words. "Some irresponsible, rich moll who opens her legs for anyone. No wonder the kid's a violent little terror."

Though I don't understand all her words, I feel like I've been punched. Her words are sharp, jagged things that cut deep, hitting a place inside me that I try so hard to keep hidden. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out her voice, trying not to let the tears spill over.

It's so hard not to break when every word feels like a weight crushing down on me. A physical pain that starts in my ears and stabs into my skull.

"Lily provoked the altercation by calling Olivia a… a deeply inappropriate name. It doesn't excuse violence, but it does explain why things escalated."

Mrs. Harper turns to me, face white, her eyes burning with some emotion I can't identify.

"People like you," she hisses, her voice low now, like she's trying to poison me with her words, "always end up just like their parents."

***

When I start paying attention again, the latest woman upset with me is no longer yelling and I've made a long, red line across my left wrist. I clench my hand, making myself stop before someone notices.

"You can contact the police, but her employment is my decision, not yours. If you would like to see the recording again where your daughter…"

The woman grabs her purse and storms out of the office, yanking her daughter behind her. Around the bloodied cloth, she gives me one last look before she goes, a little smirk on her face. It makes my skin crawl, and I know enough about her sort of person to know what it means. I clench my fists tighter. I wish I could wipe that look off her face all over again, but I know I can't. Not now.

When the door shuts behind them, the room feels too quiet. The tension lingers in the air like something heavy and awful. I can still hear Mrs. Harper's words echoing in my head, like a bad song that won't stop playing. On repeat for decades.

My boss lets out a long, tired sigh. "Olivia," he says softly, like he's exhausted. "Come sit over here."

I hesitate for a second, my feet feeling like they're glued to the floor. But I stand up, creeping toward the chair across from his desk. He gestures for me to sit, and I do, feeling small in the big, cushioned seat, mind distracted by the rough feel of the fabric and my attempts to get my skin away from it.

He looks at me for a moment then speaks, his voice not angry, just… tired. "You're not in trouble," he says quietly. "Well, not too much trouble, anyway."

I nod but don't say anything. My throat feels tight, like if I try to talk, I'll start crying, and I really don't want to cry. Not in front of him.

"Olivia," he says again, leaning forward with his elbows on his desk. "I'm not going to lie to you. What you did was serious. I don't tolerate violence. But…" He pauses, and for a second, he just looks at me, like he's trying to figure something out. "I understand why you did it."

That makes my head snap up. I stare at him, eyes skittering just shy of keeping eye contact, confused. "You… do?"

He nods slowly. "She shouldn't have touched you. That doesn't make it okay, but I get it."

I blink a few times, unsure of how to respond. Nobody's ever said something like that to me before. Usually, it's just “Violence is bad” or “You shouldn't have done that.”

No one seems to care how many times I have communicated that I hate being touched. That it makes me feel unsafe. Overwhelmed. Out of breath. And of course angry. They seem to like to ignore that one and then complain about not having a fully functioning body afterward.

I communicate just fine before it gets to that point.

In fact, telling people seems to make it more likely they will use it as a weapon, although I have made it a habit to tell anyone who is supposed to be in charge. Like my boss, who even asked if he should make a sign and put it up so people would know. I declined, though for legal reasons I can see now that it might have been a mistake.

"I don't want to fire you,” he says with a long sigh. “I mean, I think I should, but not for this. Not really. You're one of the brightest people I've ever met, and I don't know why you're wasting your time selling clothes."

I shift uncomfortably in my seat, unsure of how to react. I don't feel all that bright. Right now, I just feel like a mess. As always.

I frown at him, unsure why he's trying to make me feel better instead of yelling at me. "I'm not that smart," I mumble.

"Hitting a customer would be evidence, I guess. Please tell me that felt good, though? I've imagined hitting her a few times myself."

His blue eyes are unfocused. Is he's trying to imagine how good it felt? If he is, he’s probably remembering the dozens of times she's mouthed off to him or ordered him around.

"You better come to work with a sketch of that one tomorrow. Or better yet, go back to school and just drop it off as you go out into the world to do something better than this. Oh, that reminds me…"

Before I can ask what he means, he reaches into one of the drawers of his desk and pulls out a new sketchbook. He holds it out to me, and I just stare at it, confused.

"I got this for you."

I take it from him, still not sure what to say as I run my fingers over the glossy cover.

"I'm not all that good," I blurt out, my voice small.

He chuckles. "Stop lying to yourself. You're obsessed. You're good at that. Putting your heart into things, I mean."

I stare down at the book, unsure of what to say. I don't feel like I'm good at anything right now. But the way he says it… it almost makes me believe him. Almost.

A small smile creeps onto my face, and I glance up at him through my lashes. "Thanks," I whisper, my voice barely audible.

He nods. "You're welcome, Olivia,” he says in a soft voice. “You're going to be okay."

I clear my throat, confused by all of this. I thought for sure he would have tossed me out by now. "So, am I fired?"

"Will you go back to school if I fire you?"

A shudder passes over me when I remember the rigidity. The layers of social expectations that never made sense. Or how they related to grades.

"Absolutely not."

He lets out another long sigh. "Then you still have a job. Though we should keep you in the back, I think."

A snort escapes before I can stop it. "I told you that last week."

He scowls, but I'm pretty sure it's one of those ones that are fake. I think…

His tone when he speaks confirms it is and I let out a sigh of relief. "Get out of here, and when you come back, leave your cheek at home."

I stand up slowly, clutching the book to my chest, thoroughly confused. It’s a feeling I've grown accustomed to. People make no sense.

I turn to leave, but he speaks up again. "I know this isn't any of my business, but do you have anyone you let touch you? Don't you get lonely?"

I flinch. Of course I get lonely, though it bothers me less than most. I clear my throat, not sure what someone is supposed to say in moments like these, so I just let words pour out. "My mum used to give me the best hugs… but that's been years now. It's just too much and I just… lose it."

"Maybe someone you trust, then? I've read a bit about…" he stops himself, and his face screws up into another expression I don't have enough context to understand.

My body is rigid, waiting for him to tell me how messed up he thinks I am, but the words don't come.

"Sorry. I'm making you uncomfortable. I just wish… It doesn't matter. I'll see you tomorrow."

As nice as he's been, my desire to be alone is at a fever pitch now, so I scramble out the door.