Page 8 of Quiet Rage (Wicked Falls Elite #5)

Tamson

“Why is this happening?”

There is nobody in my bedroom to answer that question. Nobody to hear the anxious tremble in my voice. Nobody sees the tears filling my eyes and threatening to fall.

I’ve only been awake for half an hour, but it’s been the longest half hour ever. I’m pretty sure I have experienced every human emotion since I woke up, then picked up my phone to scroll through some social media stuff for a while. My way of slowly getting into the day.

It was weird when I found that I was logged out of my accounts, since I never log out. I figured it was an app update thing, no big deal.

Things got a little worse when my passwords didn’t work.

And by the time I requested reset links that never made it to my inbox, my heart was starting to pound.

Now I look back at the bed, where I left the phone once I got up to try on my desktop.

I don’t know what that was supposed to accomplish.

I guess I was still trying to tell myself there was something wrong with the phone.

The way you flail around sometimes when the situation doesn’t make sense and you have to add everything together.

A fresh wave of bitter tears sting behind my eyes and threaten to come rolling down my cheeks while I stare helplessly at the computer screen. Why? Why can’t I log into my damn accounts? Why can’t I reset my passwords?

I mean, it’s pretty easy to figure out. Somebody hacked me. I understand the logistics of it.

I don’t understand why.

Just like I don’t understand why, after I created a dummy account just for the sake of logging in and seeing if there’s anything up with my page, I found the most heinous, vile meme imaginable. A meme featuring my face, dead center.

That awful, ugly picture! The thought of it makes me gag on hot, acrid bile.

How is there a photo of me kneeling in front of a guy with his dick in my hand?

I know it’s not real. I’ve never done anything like that, for starters.

I’ve never touched a dick, much less smiled while somebody took a picture.

But whoever set it up did a disgustingly good job of making it look real. Who has that kind of time?

And why me, dammit? Maybe I’m focusing on the question more than I should but it’s sort of important.

Why? I’ve never done anything to hurt anybody.

I don’t even know that many people. I don’t have any real friends, since having to pretend to be happy and normal for more than maybe an hour at a time—if that—is absolutely exhausting.

Nobody wants to hang out with the girl who is always feeling down.

I never learned how to be like the rest of them, and at this point in my life, I doubt I ever will.

In other words, my social circle is more like a pinpoint. There is, like, no opportunity for me to hurt or offend anybody when I never talk to anybody.

But still, there are people at school going out of their way to do this.

That’s who it has to be, right? Like that vile girl who tripped me in the cafeteria—Tiana something, I think is her name.

And not a single person came to my defense.

Even the ones who didn’t laugh just sat there and did nothing, said nothing.

How am I supposed to win when I have no allies?

The clock is ticking. I need to get ready for school.

How am I supposed to show my face there today?

That post has been shared twenty-three times in the past hour.

I’m sure somebody from school has to be behind it, and that other people are the ones spreading it around, encouraging each other to humiliate me.

All because I had the audacity to show up in their otherwise perfect world.

Slowly, that painful bit of reality sinks in. That’s the only problem here. I entered their world, and they don’t think I belong, so they want to push me out. It doesn’t matter that I’ve never actually done anything to hurt any of them—I exist, that’s the problem.

And what am I supposed to do? Let them win?

You need to pick your battles, Tammy . I hear Jason in my head while I push myself out of my chair, forcing my body to move through the crippling dread that’s taken hold of me.

He used to shake his head and click his tongue at me before tugging on my ponytail.

Because sometimes, I end up having to fight them for you later on.

He always fought for me. He was by my side, no matter what, the kind of big brother every kid dreams of. He always understood. And if anybody messed with me, he messed with them right back.

I would give anything, literally anything at all, to have him here.

I would give up years of my own life if it meant giving him more years with me.

Because as grim as life could be sometimes, it was nothing compared to existing without him.

I never knew how crucial he was to keeping me safe and sane.

I am completely alone without him, with nobody to bring me back from the brink. I can only rely on myself.

I get in the shower, wishing I could wash away all of the shame that’s already clinging to my body and soul.

I might not have done anything wrong, but that won’t matter to the vultures I’m about to face.

They’ll probably know it’s not me in the picture and make a big deal about it, anyway.

I didn’t know it was possible to be ashamed over something I didn’t do.

Who knew going to college would mean getting this kind of an education?

A sob bursts from my mouth while I’m washing my hair. Once again, there’s nobody to hear it but me.

It doesn’t hit me until I park in the lot closest to the library that this could be a setup.

What if it is? What if the email I got about the study group tonight was only another way of humiliating me?

Today went pretty much like I expected: lots of laughs, lots of stares, more than a few high-pitched whistles.

A couple guys made jokes while I walked past about enjoying my work—one of them even grabbed his crotch, because I guess he wanted to make sure I got the message he had already expressed loud and clear.

They’re all a bunch of idiots. It’s no surprise they figure I’m an idiot, too.

But maybe they’re right, because I’m actually here, having made the conscious choice to return to campus hours after my final class of the day.

Why am I doing this to myself? Oh, right, because I’m supposed to be here to get an education, and there is a group project requirement in Lit class.

I’m going to have to work with my classmates eventually.

It would be different if there was no such project on the horizon.

Showing up if that was the case would be unforgivably stupid, so I guess climbing out of the car is only mildly stupid.

If not stupid, risky. I’m taking a real risk of being introduced to further levels of humiliation.

But my stubborn streak is deep and wide. I’m not walking into this with my eyes closed, but I will walk into it. I’m not going to risk ruining my chance for a good grade by hiding in the house. I’m not going to let them win.

It’s eerily quiet at this time of night.

I almost feel like I have to walk gently, carefully.

The paths are all well-lit, so I don’t feel unsafe.

I mean, I don’t exactly feel comfortable, what with everything that’s already gone on today, but there are still some cars in the lot and most of the buildings have lights shining through the windows. Campus isn’t exactly deserted.

So why do I feel so skittish? I guess it’s a sense of being someplace after hours, the way I would feel when we’d go in for parent-teacher conferences when I was a kid. It’s funny when you first realize the world doesn’t stop moving just because you’ve gone home for the day.

The library is still well-lit, though at first glance, it doesn’t seem like there are many people in there.

In fact, as I approach, I don’t see anybody at all.

We’re supposed to be on the second floor, though, and the main door is unlocked when I test it.

So far, so good. There is an elevator that leads up there.

I don’t know why, but the idea of taking the stairs makes me nervous.

It’s the overwhelming quiet in here, I think.

Being alone in the stairwell, maybe. I don’t like the idea; it makes me uncomfortable, so I take the elevator instead.

No sooner have the doors opened and I’ve stepped out of the elevator car than I know I made a mistake.

Because I’m everywhere.

Somebody printed out pictures of me they must have found online and taped them up all over the place.

Regular pictures like one of me in braces on my thirteenth birthday, looking like an awkward nerd in front of my cake.

There’s one of me with a terrible sunburn I got after falling asleep in my backyard, another one of me screaming on a roller coaster with my hair flying back behind me and my eyes as wide as saucers.

Not the most flattering, but they’re normal at least.

It’s the others that make my heart thump and bile rise in my throat as my gaze darts around, taking in the sight of them. There’s the one from earlier, the one that posted this morning, but there are so many others. They’re all graphic, sexual, fake. But at a quick glance, they look real enough.

For a second, I’m frozen, with only my eyes able to move around the room to take in the ugly, humiliating images somebody took the time to print and plaster all over the place.

They’re taped to bookshelves, chairs, there are even some that hang from long strips of tape attached to the ceiling, dangling like perverted party decorations.

I need to take them down.

I need to get out of here.

My body is still frozen in indecision before the nausea churning in my gut forces me to take a step back, like putting more space between me and the nightmare in front of me will do anything to fix it.