By A Thread by Hannah Stait
She floated through the school halls. The lives around her were still being lived and her own was hanging by a thread. A thread that gripped like a vice of cruel whispers flowing from cruel mouths into her ears and around her throat. It felt like she was sinking deep into the ground and gasping for breath while dead eyes stared straight through her.
“Miss Elm, follow me to the office. I’ve excused you from next lesson.” The counsellor’s voice stormed the hallway and she couldn’t help but flinch at the swarm of eyes that swivelled towards her. She could feel the whispers tickling her skin like a hand gripping the back of her neck, forcing her head down and her eyes to the ground.
The office was cold and cramped, posters of the awarded football team scattered across every wall along with trophies from every school sports team you could imagine. Over one hundred and sixty pairs of eyes surrounded her, taunting. She might have been hallucinating but she swore they were blinking, each with a twinkle so dark they would deserve a spot in the night sky.
“Now Carolina, take a seat.” Mr Garrett's smile seemed false, and she could see the tension around his eyes. The photos on his desk were a cruel and vivid reminder of her worst nightmare laid out in front of her.
“I’ve been hearing some things around the halls this morning. I want to help make this disappear.” Hope glimmered in her chest at his words and she couldn’t help but let the tears begin to form in her eyes.
“Yes. How is it going to happen? Are the police coming here or do I need t-” She was cut off in her emotion, stifled by the voice of the man labelled as the ‘hearing ear’ of the school’s hallowed halls.
“No Carolina, they are not. When I say that this is to disappear, I mean that we need to extinguish this issue immediately. A drunken fumble between students is not something that needs to be made into a farce. It may not seem a lot to you, but our Warriors are one of the best teams in the country and we can’t let a simple… miscommunication affect their season.” The breath was knocked from her lungs and she feared she might choke on her own existence.
She stood, the chair floored from underneath her. Her hands began to shake as words fought to escape her.
‘Help. Please.’ But to no avail. Silence seemed to be her true enemy and her only companion. She turned to walk towards the door, but something stopped her. The flickering empathy she had seen in the counsellor’s eyes had her turning with a venom towards his desk. Before her eyes met his own they blinked towards the picture of him and his daughter that stood proudly in the centre of the desk.
“Enough.”
“Mr Garrett, if you were to have looked at those photos,” the word was spat with a fierce heat in his direction. “You would see that while I may have been intoxicated, that may be clear from the cups around my head, and the fact that I am clearly unconscious, this proves to you that there may have been a fumble as you so delicately put it, but I was not aware until it had taken place. This is not going to go away easily, Sir. Don’t go thinking it will. I know I’m one girl against a number I don’t even know myself yet, but you can bet I’m not letting it go. I hope your daughter is proud of you, Counsellor.” And with that she left, the door slamming harshly behind her.
In reality the door clicked shut slowly as she shuffled into the deserted hall. She left with those unspoken words twisting over and over like a blade in her head, fused with phrases like ‘no further’ and ‘out of my hands’.
Useless, worthless phrases that swirl the blame around like a metal spoon in a china cup, noisily around until it’s a useless pile of words that leave people stained with stories of torment that will survive them long after they have disappeared. Did I agree? What was I wearing? I encouraged them. I drank too much. I didn’t say no. It’s my own fault.
For weeks she imagined the vicious words she should have spouted. She walked the hall like a ghost, trying her hardest to ignore the snickers and whispers. The more she blocked them out, the louder they got. They saw the purple stained skin below the eyes of the pale ghost that haunted the untarnished reputation. The guilt made its ways into her pupils and burnt them until even the sympathetic stares looked like snarls. A gentle hand on the arm as a murmur of ‘You okay Lina?’ became a vice grip and low growl. Everything was tarnished, because they too soon became bored of trying to save the girl that didn’t want to be saved.
Lives around her were still being lived and hers was hanging by a thread. A thread that gripped like a vice of cruel whispers flowing from cruel mouths into her ears and around her throat.
Written by Hannah Stait
Hannah is a writer from South Wales. She has her Bachelors in English Literature and Creative Writing from Cardiff University. She is an advocate for mental health and loves music, theatre and performs in shows with her local theatre group.
Find her work @ clippings.me/hannahisfragile
And her socials @hannahisfragile (twitter and Instagram)