Chapter Text
The day began like any other for Ms. Holloway: wake before dawn, dress in silence, tug her daughter out of bed, and hurry to the train station.
The elite school waited for them both- Liora as a student, her mother as the cafeteria worker who bought her that chance. Ms. Holloway told herself this sacrifice would mean a brighter future, though she never asked what it cost her daughter.
The children in her class wore clean leather shoes and their uniforms fit their actual size. Unlike Liora, her shoes have cracks and press on her toes uncomfortably, her uniform is faded and is gradually becoming just a rag that remains.
But because Ms. Holloway was good friends with a highly regarded teacher, she let her connections play for once and she was able to send her daughter there, ensuring a nice future with endless possibilities. Oh what would Liora study if she was old enough, she wonders.
On the train, crowded and stale, Liora sat curled on the cold floor near the door. It smelled like expensive perfume, ones that her mother couldn't even dream of buying. On the ground it's not as suffocating- though it still smells like old metal.
February was her least favorite month. Not because it was ugly- it was white and clean, almost pretty- but because it felt like the longest month in the world.
She presses her forehead against the window and watches how quickly the trees fly past her. After an announcement from the conductor about the next stop, Liora notices that they don't have to travel much longer before they arrive. Anxiously, she starts to shake. Comforting herself, she says: "It's just the cold. You will be okay, Liora."
Yes, it's the cold, Liora. Today will be a better day than yesterday, surely. No one could promise you that, but you can pray.
The train screeched to a halt. Outside, the wind cut against their faces. Only five more minutes on foot.
,,Don’t be afraid, Liora. You’re in fifth grade now—you can handle it. Soon it’ll all be behind you.’’ Her mother said, trying to acknowledge Liora's fear.
,,I try, Mother. I really do… but they don’t like me. I’m not like them.’’
,,I gave up everything for you. So be thankful and study hard. It doesn't matter if they like you or not. You aren't there to make friends.’’
,,…Thank you, Mom. I’ll try harder. I promise.’’
,,Good, my dear. I believe in you, you are so brave for your age’’
After the short exchange with her mother, Liora wonders what destiny has in store for her. Does her mother really understand what she means when she says she hates this school?
But she doesn’t want to sound ungrateful. Making her mother proud has become a promise to herself, a goal she clings to—because she knows how much has already been sacrificed. Not only her mother’s future, but her dreams as well.
The closer they come to the school, the more enormous the building rises before her, looming higher with every step. The courtyard is filled with children gathered in little groups, playing. At a single glance it is clear: this is an elite school, a place where only the privileged belong. What a blessing that Liora, of all people, was allowed to study here.
When they arrive, their paths split—Ms. Holloway heads for the kitchen, while Liora climbs the staircase to her class.
The stairwell itself is vast, pristine, polished, its walls adorned with paintings. The air reeks of money and freshly pressed uniforms.
Each step feels like a descent into horror. Each step upward is one step closer to her own private hell.
Behind her, a group of girls rush past, giggling. One shoves against her shoulder, sending her stumbling forward. She crashes to her knees, ripping her tights.
It's as if she doesn’t exist at all—at least that’s how it seems to her—because the girls don’t even glance back. They keep running, laughter trailing behind them like ribbons.
“I won’t cry,” Liora tells herself.
“Maybe it’s meant to be this way. I don’t even like these tights anyway.”
She gathers herself and forces her legs to move again, faster this time. Her knee burns, but it doesn’t matter. She is a strong girl after all.
Ms. Holloway had always told her daughter that one misfortune did not define an entire day. So Liora tried to stay positive—after all, the school day had only just begun. Who knew? Maybe today she would finally be allowed to join in a game.
At last, she reached the top floor. Outside her classroom, clusters of students waited, some laughing, some whispering, some still half-asleep. Liora, brave as she could be, dared to join them.
But it began at once.
“Ugh, don’t get too close—we’ll catch something!”
“You smell like a wet dog. Do you even wash yourself?”
A few laughed outright, others whispered behind their hands, their eyes fixed on her like needles.
Liora didn’t fight back. She said nothing. Instead she smiled faintly and leaned against the wall, alone, clinging on to her backpack. She was used to this—it was nothing new.
The truth was simple: she had no clean clothes, her shoes cracked, and at home water had to be rationed carefully.
To them, she was disgusting.
It was a harsh world, but Liora clung to her mother’s words. She wasn’t here to make friends. She would make her proud.
It will be okay.
At least, she hoped so.
The school bell rang. Their teacher entered.
Ms. Bentley—her name sounded as expensive as she looked. Her hair was pulled back into a severe bun. She wore a black skirt to her shins, a perfectly pressed designer blouse. In her arms, stacks of books, and beneath them, the register of class 5A.
Everyone hurried to their seats. Liora took her place in the back by the window. The room itself pressed down on her—a cage of four walls, no escape.
The floor gleamed with polished wood. At the front, a massive chalkboard stretched wall to wall, above it the newest projector money could buy. No posters, no drawings, nothing to soften the space. Just pristine white walls, scrubbed until they almost hurt to look at. It smelled like chalk dust there.
Here she would remain for five more years. Soon she would move on to sixth grade—and then only four left. She longed for the taste of freedom, for the day when happiness would no longer be an exercise of imagination, but something real.
Ms. Bentley began the lesson. The first period was math. Everything went on as usual, she explained and drew numbers on the board.
Liora tried to take notes, but she had an uneasy feeling in her stomach, tearing a small pit that grew bigger and bigger.
In the last row, where she sat, quiet giggling and whispering that spread like a crackling fuse drawing closer, began. A note was being passed around.
A girl, Amelia, handed Liora a small, crumpled piece of paper.
Liora’s eyes opened wide when Amelia smiled at her.
Is today the day? Will I be allowed to play with the girls today?
Amelia was one of the popular girls in class. She was beautiful with long brown hair, neatly
braided into two plaits. Her blue eyes seemed to urge Liora to finally open the note and read what was inside.
For a heartbeat, Liora's chest lit up.
Amelia's smile was radiant, she seemed so excited to give this message to her.
Liora is the ugliest girl in school. Write “me” if you agree:
Me, Me, Me… Each scrawl in crooked handwriting crushed her further. Even Amelia had written it.
The thrill of hope collapsed into pure shock. She immediately crushed the note in her hands with trembling fingers. Amelia only giggled, and turned her head proudly back to the front.
It is so unfair.
Disgust surged through her—not at them, but at herself.
They’re right. I’m revolting.
Her gaze slowly sank to her notes. The world fell silent. She didn’t even hear the teacher in front of her anymore.
Looking out of the window, she saw how windy it was outside. The schoolyard was covered with white snow.
The trees swayed from side to side, their branches bowing as if they were whispering promises only she could hear. If she looked closely, it seemed they were waving patiently—waiting for her. It was comforting, and she wanted to believe they moved just for her.
I’m not alone, she thought.
And then the bell rang—sharp, merciless—pulling her back into the noise. Break time.
All the children hurried out of the classroom. While everyone in the hallway pulled on their coats, Liora still sat at her desk. She was always the last to leave. After all, nothing was waiting for her out there.
But eventually Ms. Bentley shooed her out—the rules were the rules, and it was time to go outside.
Liora walked down the stairs slowly, dragging her steps, trying to use up as much time as possible so that the break would feel shorter.
When she finally reached the schoolyard, she saw them all—children of every grade, even up to the tenth, filling the space. Some played, others sat on the benches, laughter and chatter spilling everywhere.
Liora walked past them all, shivering in her thin jacket. It was hardly a jacket fit for winter, more like one for spring or early summer. Yet she wore it with pride, because she had received it as a birthday gift.
She wanted to go to her usual corner, the spot where no one usually bothered her. But today seemed to be a day that drew misfortune to her like a magnet—at least it felt that way. For there they were, the meanest boys in her class, waiting for her.
She walked slowly through the crunching snow, leaving small tracks behind. Still, she didn’t hesitate to head toward her corner. The day can’t get any worse anyway, she thought.
“Liora! We’ve got an idea how you can help your poor mother make some money!” one of the boys shouted.
“Oh yeah? And what idea would that be?” Liora answered, not convinced but curious.
The boys stuck out their shoes, covered in wet snow and mud. One of them said:
“If you lick our shoes clean, we’ll give you five euros!”
“What?? No way, I’ll never do that. You’re disgusting!”
Outraged, she sat down on one of the cold, dry steps and glared at them.
“Disgusting? Just because we’re trying to help you? Want us to show you what disgusting really means?”
They moved toward her, and in an instant they were standing over her.
One of the boys grabbed her shoulders and shoved her down into the snow. Liora fell to the ground and tried to get up, but another boy pressed his shoe against her cheek, pinning her there. The others reached into her bag and pulled out her lunch—the sandwich her mother had lovingly prepared that very morning.
They threw it into the slush and stomped on it.
Liora wanted to fight back, but her voice was gone. For a moment it was as if she were mute, as if she had never learned how to speak. A lump formed in her throat and she just laid there, the snow beneath her colder than the hunger gnawing in her stomach.
“There you go, cafeteria rat. Bon appétit!”
“Hahaha, is that all you’ve got? Just some dirty, old bread?”
They walked away laughing, leaving her alone on the ground beside her ruined sandwich.
Slowly, she pulled herself up. Her eyes burned until salty tears filled them. They slid down her cheeks, warm against her skin—warmer than the snow, at least. They fell over her chin and dropped onto her lap.
Quickly, she wiped the tears away when she heard footsteps approaching.
The footsteps that drew closer sounded heavier than those of a simple fifth grader.
They sank deep into the snow, each step crunching with weight—slow, deliberate, suffocating in its precision.
Who would possibly come to her now?
Liora lifted her gaze. Her green eyes still shimmered with tears, her cheeks, nose, and lids flushed pink—not only from shame, but from the biting cold.
In front of her stood a boy, almost a man. He was taller than the others, his shoulders broader, his figure already carrying the outline of adulthood. Dark hair fell carelessly across his forehead. His uniform was spotless, his shoes gleamed as though freshly polished. His whole presence carried an elegance that didn’t belong in the schoolyard. But his eyes—sharp, brown, and merciless—held not a trace of feeling. They were fixed on Liora. Only her.
She forced herself to rise, trembling.
Victor Sterling.
A tenth grader. Everyone knew him. Everyone admired him. Son of a famous model and a world-renowned surgeon. His wealth was something you didn’t just see—you could feel it in the air around him. It clung to him like an aura, cutting as sharply as his gaze.
Victor had always enjoyed watching others being humiliated. He didn’t even need to join in—simply standing there, observing, was enough for him. But this time, he was alone. No classmates at his side, no teachers watching. No one nearby to witness. The perfect opportunity to create his own amusement.
He looked down at Liora, a smile curving his lips. Not sincere—mocking. He savored the scene before him.
“Well…”
He took a step closer. She staggered back until her spine struck the wall behind her.
“That was quite a show, Liora.”
His hand shot out, seizing the back of her head. His fingers knotted into her long, wavy hair, tugging so harshly her scalp burned with fire.
“But those children,” he said, his voice low and calm, “they don’t really know how to handle worthless trash like you.”
He jerked her head backward, forcing her to meet his eyes.
“You know you don’t belong here. The truth of your existence—” his voice sharpened to a hiss, “—is to be stepped on by those above you. That’s all you are.”
And with that, he slammed her down, her face striking the stone on the ground with brutal force.
“…and that’s beautiful to me,” he murmured, almost reverent. “God didn’t bring you here for nothing.”
Liora lay on the ground, dazed and motionless. Warmth spread across her face, wet and sticky, but she focused desperately on his words instead of the pain. From a distance, laughter of children echoed across the courtyard, sharp and cruel.
The snow beneath her felt like an icy shroud, wrapping around her, stroking her cheeks with its freezing wetness. But the pain above her left eyebrow was searing, louder than the cold, sinking into her bones.
Victor released her at last. He straightened his posture as if nothing had happened, then reached into his pocket.
“I’m not a complete bastard,” he said softly, almost amused. “So I’ll give you something.”
A handful of coins clattered down, striking the ground just above her head. They scattered across the snow, tiny silver stars gleaming against the red-stained white.
‘’Consider this your reward for today.’’
And then his heavy footsteps retreated, leaving Liora lying there—broken, alone, and wounded.
As his steps faded, silence and pain devoured her at once.
She noticed how weak she had become; even lifting herself felt impossible.
What a humiliation.
That day, Liora understood: God had not made her because He loved her, but because He despised her.
Everything that had happened was, to her, the undeniable proof.
The world dimmed, dimmed again, and then went black. Liora slipped under.
Around her motionless silhouette, a small halo of blood formed at her temple, dyeing the white snow red.
Someone would find her. She had to believe that.
Recess ended, and Liora still hadn’t returned to class.
Ms. Bentley began to worry. She stepped outside the school onto the schoolyard, heels clicking, combing through every corner, at last, she found Liora on the ground.
She called an ambulance; they said twenty minutes.
From the window of his classroom, Victor heard the sirens—as did everyone else—but he had watched the whole scene unfold. He saw them lift Liora onto a gurney and slide her into the waiting vehicle.
He felt no remorse. On the contrary.
He had never known a high like ecstasy the way he felt it today.
In that moment he understood why addicts give up their lives for another hit: nothing compared to the high of crushing someone weaker beneath you. He would never forget how thrilling it felt. Almost like art of his own, a taste of freedom, beauty and storm.
A smile tugged at his mouth as he remembered the white snow slowly turning red as he watched her lay on the ground.
He had left her knowingly. He knew there were stones lying there, sharp enough to scar her. That was exactly what he wanted.
Now he only wondered what she would look like tomorrow—or the day after—if she came back to school.
And so Liora woke up in the hospital, alone. Her mother had no car of her own, no money for a taxi. A bandage wrapped her face, and her left brow throbbed with unbearable pain.
Fragments of the day clung to her mind—shards of memory she tried to piece together. Until she remembered.
Victor.
Today she knew one thing: she never wanted to set foot in that building again. It was cruel. It was hell.
How could a boy, nearly a man, treat a girl like that?
Had she really deserved it?
At least, she told herself, it would only be a few months until he graduated. Then she would never have to see him again.
The doctor came in, ran a few checks, and finally wrote her a note excusing her from school for an entire week. To Liora, it felt like paradise, like a prayer answered from heaven itself. The words sounded holy in her ears.
She was grateful for the chance to stay home.
And the wound—yes, the wound would heal.
But the scar it would leave behind will mark her for a lifetime.
The ambulance doors closed. The siren wailed, then faded.
The snow kept falling, soft and slow, covering the stain.
By morning, it would look as though nothing had ever happened.