Page 17 of Lucky 14

That’s it. I’ve lost it. Things have never been right in my brain. I slow even more, latching onto the idea. I used to feel crazy, until I got diagnosed with depression, anxiety, PTSD, and PMDD. But now maybe I’ve tipped over the grippy-sock threshold.

I try as hard as I can to catch my breath.

Am I running through the woods because some hallucination said I had to survive till the end of some game to live? No. I’m having an episode. I’ve checked another unknown mental health box. That’s all this is. Psychosis. There’s an explanation because this is not happening.

It can’t be.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Sixteen Years Old

The bathroom by biology is notorious for fights. How do I know? ‘Cause this is the second time I’ve gotten cornered here.

Today, Harley has recruited Bethany and Hannah to the bullshit brigade. They aren’t even in my class, so how the hell did they know I’d be in here?

“You think you’re just everything, don’t you?” Harley sneers, her fake blonde hair piled into a perfect messy bun. It’s always so perfect, and it makes me mad. Everything about her is always so perfect. I tried to do my hair in a messy bun today, but it’s looking more messy than bun.

“I just need to go to the bathroom.” I shift from foot to foot, eyeing the stall. I don’t normally have gut issues, but after that burrito at lunch today, things are getting serious.

Harley doesn’t care. “The fuck did I tell you about Connor?”

I can feel my bowels rumbling. She’s on this still? I need to get in the bathroom and quick, but Bowel Blocker Bethany is standing in front of the pale pink door.

“You think turning yourself into a princess and joining the team will make him want your loser ass?”

Annoyance bubbles up in me. She’s referring to my hair. I have vitiligo on a patch of my forehead that goes back into my scalp, turning the small patch of hair white. People always talk about it like it’s the most interesting thing about me when in reality, it’s the least. I snap my gaze to Harley. “It’s genetic. And I don’t want your loser boyfriend. Now let me pass.”

Harley and Connor aren’t dating as far as I know, but Harley has practically pissed on him.

The hatred in Harley’s eyes makes my stomach turn. She’s pretty. Unfairly so. If only she weren’t such a cunt. I don’t like dealing with her, and I don’t want her fucking man. I joined cheer cause I like the athleticism. Sure, is it a perk to see hot guys grunting and fighting each other? Yes. But I’m not after her man.

I just want to go to the bathroom before I shit myself.

Harley notices me shifting, and a cruel smirk crosses her face. “What? Need to take a shit?”

“Yes, now get out of the way.” I motion to Bethany, who smiles at me, and I can see her crooked front teeth. It takes a second for my brain to catch up. How did she know I was going to be here? None of them have the same classes. Unless…

I stare at all three girls. Bethany and Harley look pissed. Hannah looks ashamed.

Come to think of it, Hannah did bump into me at lunch and spilled my drink. I had to go get a new one. Did they do something to it?

Harley smirks.

I want to groan. Oh my god. She laced my drink. She fucking laced my drink? No man is worth all this. If I push through Bethany, I wonder if I can make it to the toilet before they give me another shiner? Mom and Dad were pissed about that last time.

My stomach grumbles.

Fuck it. If it’s shitting my pants in front of them or shitting my pants while knocking Toothany into another dimension, I’ll take the latter.

I launch forward, throwing a fist straight at Bethany’s smile. My fist makes contact, immediately exploding in pain as my knuckle bashes into her teeth. There’s a scream, then chaos. A hand grips my hair and yanks so hard my head snaps back. I thrash, but there are hands on me, ripping and clawing, destroying my attempt at a bun.

I throw my own fists, getting a moment enough to realize that their hair isn’t even messed up. I make weak contact with a chin because the bitch behind me hasn’t given me enough room to make a full swing.

Suddenly, my head is grabbed and shoved forward. It knocks off the toilet with a crack, and I groan, but not before my head is being shoved inside, and splitting pain rocks my world.

I growl, struggling to break their grip, but three sets of hands are on me, holding me down. My face is shoved down to the bottom of the bowl, knocking my chin and forehead against the porcelain and dipping my nose in the cold water. My escaped hair is plastered to the bowl.

Fear fills me, and I really struggle now. If they push hard enough, I won’t be able to breathe.