Enough | ✔️

+ 28 +

⚠️ TRIGGER WARNING: SEXUAL ABUSE ⚠️
(I will asterisk the specific part of the chapter, but it's not very detailed and I didn't write the whole scene because I think it would upset me too. But just in case, heed my warning and look out for asterisks).

Every step of mine shakes like an earthquake.

Every breath scratches its way down my throat.

I step down the final stair and sweep my wary gaze across floor G. The last time I was here, things did not end well.

Dragging my heavy feet out of the stairwell, I inhale an uneasy breath and continue towards room G9. I try to think happy thoughts. I try to think about the hours Hannah and I just spent together, talking about entirely useless yet entertaining topics. I think about our friendship.

I hate knowing that Grant is sitting there arrogantly in his room, seated at his desk and just waiting for me to turn up - knowing that I have no choice but to turn up and knowing that I care too much about Slater to put myself before him.

Students pass by in small crowds of laughter, none giving me a second glance. They don't know what's about to happen. They don't know what I'm voluntarily signing myself up for.

Then again, neither do I. Could I be jumping to conclusions? Grant is a bad guy, but is he really that ignorant of others' feelings? That he would stoop that that level? Surely, he isn't. I hope he isn't.

Hope only gets you so far, I remind myself.

I'm standing in front of his room moments later, tense hand raised in a helpless fist.

One.

Two.

Three.

I freeze with my fist a millimetre from the wood.

I don't want to do this anymore.

I'm sorry, Slater.

I turn on my heel, heart hammering in my chest, but the undeniable sound of the door opening behind me is enough to send it plummeting to my feet.

"Quorra. It's relieving to see that you made the correct decision. Come on in."

I look down at the ground, feeling the colour wash out of my face.

What am I doing? This isn't right. This is so, so wrong.

And yet, defying every single gram of logic in my body, I turn around and enter his room.

As he shuts the door behind us and traps me into the confined space of his room, I thread my fingers together and remain still.

The atmosphere of the room is dead cold, the lack of cosiness accentuated by the limited decoration and bland colour scheme. It only makes me more nervous. A chill skitters across my spine, crawling over me until I'm coated in worry.

It's as if he smells my dread: as if I'm his prey.

"No need to look so stiff," he laughs, sitting down in his chair and leaning back carelessly, "I just wanted to talk. How's studying going?"

He gestures to his bed for me to sit down. Hesitantly, I do so, more afraid of what he might do if I disobey his orders.

My fear fuels my anger towards myself further. Dammit, why am I so scared? I must stay strong. He won't lay a finger on me. Besides, this is fundamental to make sure Slater's job remains intact.

"Actually," I start, satisfied with the deceiving strength and lack of fright in my tone, "It's not. Slater suggested I hold back a little on the studying and focus more on improving my health for a while."