Slut.

That’s what people called her these days.

They jeered at her in the halls, they shoved her while she was trying to walk home from school.

She loathed it with all her heart.

And it was all because of that damn quarterback.

He had tried to sleep with her, get her to get a little dirty. She resisted. He was persistent. Too persistent. She really, really didn’t want to. He did. He got what he wanted, and left her in the dust. The dust of the middle of the forest, where all the good drug dealers hung out.

And then he made it into some kind of twisted tale. But come on, he was the star quarterback! He had to be telling the truth, he could kick a ball! Right?

She was the one that had come, wanting sex. He didn’t want her, a slut like her.

No sex involved, whatsoever.

And then she got pregnant.

Well, that was a setback.

He had to choose a certain time to rape her, didn’t he!

But I mean, come on guys, she was a slut. It really could have been anyone. Right?

Well, you see, the star quarterback had to get a paternity test.

Well, I bet everyone sees this one coming. He forced her to get an abortion.

Or close to it.

She yelled, cried, resisted. He shoved her down her stairs.

I really hope everyone out there’s hoping for a happy ending.

Look in another story.

The doctors said it was a stillborn. A simple mistake, she was nervous, tripped down the stairs, which led to complications, which led to premature labor, which led to a little boy whose life was ripped away from him.

But you know what happens when you assume.

You turn a violated girl to desperation.

And you make a perfect ass out of that damn star quarterback. Well, you let him get away with his being an ass.

And the people in the halls just kept jeering. They “cleaned” out her locker; they “did” her homework.

And she started cutting. Hence the “you turn a violated girl to desperation.”

Well, she was cutting.

Cutting for the little boy she had lost.

She had gone to visit his grave once.

She just bled and bled, all over the engraving.

“Here lies a sleeping angel who never had a chance to live: James Michael Hart, son of Cassidy Leigh Hart.”

No part of him had the damn quarterback in him. No part that was evil. No middle name from his beloved father (James Dean Sorph), who’d cried desperately at his little boy’s funeral. No father who’d have been loyal to her for two years, and on their anniversary, both had decided they were ready, resulting in her angel. And when she’d told this father about the pregnancy, he’d held her close and told her everything would be alright. This was the phantom father.

The people at the high school never found out about James. They never saw his grave; they never saw how Cassidy had sobbed heartbreakingly after she’s lost him. They just tortured her, calling her the worst things they could think of. Little slut wanting attention, lesbian looking for cheap sex to prove everyone she was straight. But all of these, when read between the lines, meant slut. Cold, heartless bitchy slut.

And for that, she found that one special vein. She tore at it and tore at it, trying to escape life.

She only succeed when that same star quarterback found her, hung with a rope in the boy’s locker room, her wide blue eyes blaming him.

And the exhilaration that had fed his ego slowly yet surely wore off as he processed the scene in front of him, with the blood that was still dripping from her once bleeding wrists covering the floor.

He ran out, screaming like a little girl.

And she looked down on him and laughed.