They call me names – emo, goth, slut. They tell me to go kill myself. They see old scars, criss-crossing up my arms, subtly hidden by bracelets. I try to ignore them. Try to tune out. But it doesn’t stop. I sit with my lunch, alone. I hear their giggles. The pointing fingers. The whispers. The phones angled towards me. There will be memes by the end of the day. Social media will be buzzing and I will be the reluctant star. When I walk through the corridors, they slam against me. Whoops is all they can say. The bruises mean nothing. The laughter around is worse. My parents finally speak to the school staff. They will investigate, I am told. Two weeks later, they tell us there is no truth to the matter. There is no evidence of the words. There is nothing online to indicate I am a target. That I have been seeking attention and making it all up. Blood rushes to my face. My chest is tight. Bile rises up my throat. The look on my parents’ face tells me I have failed them. The stern look in the teachers’ eyes makes me want to curl …