He told the whole school. He told them everything. That night we shared—the passion, the love we made—he told everyone about it. He actually bragged about it. Like it wasn’t special to him, like I was unattainable and he finally attained me… had me.

Everyone in school looked at me like I was some kind of slut. I wish I would have told them off, but what would I say? That I didn’t make love with him? I did. But I’m not a slut. He made me feel special; he told me I was beautiful, that he’d never hurt me…

He lied to me, and I guess that’s what hurt the most. I thought about suicide once or twice… something that would take the pain away forever, but instead I started cutting my wrists. Cliché isn’t it? I thought so too.

After a while, the rumors started getting worse. I finally did something about it and told him off. Told him that he was bad in bed anyway—he wasn’t, but just to humiliate him. It felt good.

The rumors stopped. But I didn’t stop cutting. I guess humiliating him wasn’t enough.