Everything blurred, and I was small again—back in every hallway, every schoolyard corner where they'd closed in on me just like this.
The only difference was that Ernest, the one who used to protect me, was now the one leading the attack.
Then one of Maggie's friends pulled out her phone and announced: "I've got a video right here."
"Her getting an abortion. Go on, everyone—take a good look."
They all crowded around.
In the video, I was screaming for help, writhing in pain.
But not a single face showed sympathy. Only disgust.
One of them finished watching and kicked me hard: "A filthy woman like you thinks she can seduce Ernest Sanchez?"
Someone else said: "Put it online. Let everyone see exactly who she is so they know to stay away."
I panicked.
I lunged for the phone, but a kick caught me out of nowhere and I hit the floor.
Fingers clawed at my clothes, ripping fabric, while more phones rose around me, filming. And then the chant started, ugly and rhythmic: "Beat the mistress! Beat the mistress!"
I threw my whole body into the crowd, tore free, and ran.
I made it to the hallway before they closed around me again—fists landing, cameras shoved inches from my face.