CHAPTER 4
When Home Isn't Safe
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The bruises on his arms had turned a sickly yellow. The burn mark from the cigarette was red and raw, barely covered by the sleeve of his uniform. But it wasn't the pain that kept him up that night.
It was the laughter.
It echoed inside his skull—twisted, ringing, endless. He'd heard it every day, but somehow, today it wouldn't stop replaying. Especially hers.
Her voice.
Sharp. Cold. Smirking beneath that face mask like she was hiding something—but never enough.
He stared at the ceiling in the darkness of his room, unable to sleep. Outside his door, he could hear the faint clink of bottles, the mumble of the television. His mother was awake.
That should've been comforting.
It wasn't.
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The next day, he sat through class in silence again. The teacher's voice was just noise. The whiteboard a blur.
But he felt it.
The way they looked at him. Not just amusement now.
Anticipation.
They were planning something.
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Lunch came.
He didn't eat. He didn't have lunch to eat.
His bento had been stolen yesterday and tossed into the boys' restroom. His wallet—what little money he had—was long gone.
He stayed at his desk, trying to disappear. The others laughed and gossiped and took pictures of themselves like it was any normal day.
And then, a voice:
"Hey."
He looked up slowly.
One of the girls stood in front of his desk. She wasn't wearing a mask. But behind her was her—the girl with the mask, arms crossed, head tilted, eyes watching.
The girl in front held out a phone.
"Cute mom," she said, showing him the screen.
His heart stopped.
There it was. A photo. Grainy. Slightly tilted. But clear enough.
His mother.
On the street. Slouched on a bench. Holding a half-finished bottle of cheap liquor. Her eyes half-closed. Her blouse stained. Her legs spread carelessly as if she didn't care who looked.
"Recognize her?" the girl teased.
Another voice piped up from the group. "Man, she looks worse in person."
"I think she winked at me," someone added, laughing.
He tried to reach for the phone, but the girl pulled it back.
"Relax. We're not that cruel."
He could see the smirk in her eyes before she dropped the bomb.
"She's going viral."
They'd posted it.
Online.
His stomach dropped.
"She was outside the liquor store last night," another boy added. "Didn't even notice me filming her. Kept talking about how her 'son never talks anymore.' Kinda sad, don't you think?"
"She's pathetic," a girl muttered.
"No wonder you turned out this way," someone said.
He stood up.
Silence swept the classroom for a second.
But then—
A laugh. Hers.
Still soft, still amused, still behind the mask.
As if none of this mattered.
"Sit down," she said. "You're embarrassing yourself."
He didn't.
His fists trembled.
But he knew—one step, one punch, and they'd make it worse. They'd find new ways. New pictures. New scars.
So he sat.
And they laughed again.
---
After school, he ran.
Not home. Not yet.
He didn't want to see her. Not tonight.
He found himself back at the bridge, knuckles red from gripping the railing too tight.
Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes.
Not for himself.
But for her.
His mother wasn't perfect. She drank. She forgot things. She screamed in her sleep sometimes and cried when she thought he couldn't hear.
But she was his.
And they had dragged her into their game.
They'd made her part of the joke.
They made her shame a weapon.
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That night, he returned home. She was passed out on the floor, surrounded by empty cans. The TV blared static.
He didn't wake her.
He cleaned up, placed a blanket over her shoulders, and went to his room.
He opened the second notebook.
Crossed out a number.
Twelve.
And next to it, he wrote a single word:
> "Unforgivable."
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End of Chapter 4