I’ll Make You Suffer Like You Made Me

My dad was a police officer, and he died in the line of duty three years ago, making me the child of a martyr.

I don’t like that title. Every time it’s mentioned, it reminds me that my dad is gone.

But there’s no denying that the school does treat me with a little more leniency because of it.

At the very least, when everyone competes for a position and the competition is close, with no clear winner, my chances are higher.

So, a while ago, the one and only spot that could send someone to Ashworth University fell to me.

It should’ve been a good thing.

If only that spot wasn’t already considered a given by someone else.

Corbin has a cousin named Nathan Sterling, and he’d already claimed that spot as his own. He’d made sure everything was arranged and was practically certain of his success, bragging about it in front of others.

But then the spot went to me, and Nathan lost face in front of everyone.

Nathan’s a proud guy, and when he found out that I got the spot, he came to me in advance, offering a condescending demand for me to give it up.

I refused.

I’ve always outperformed him academically, so there’s no way I would steal his spot. Why should I give up such an important opportunity?

Nathan, being petty, was absolutely furious when I turned him down.

Before leaving, he spat out a nasty threat, promising that he would make me "give up" the spot.

He didn’t specify how, but he sure made it sound like I’d regret it.

Soon enough, rumors about me spread all over the campus forum.

Not long after, Corbin and his group cornered me in a hallway and gave me a beating.

I painfully picked up my phone from the floor, brushing off the dust. Even so, I could still see the long crack stretching across the screen.

The screen suddenly lit up, and it was a message from my boyfriend.

— “Ivy, why aren’t you replying?”

— “Do you think I’m annoying?”

— “Cat crying.jpg”

...

The feelings of hurt and frustration came rushing in, as if I couldn’t hold them back anymore. The need to talk was overwhelming, and I wanted to pour everything out to my boyfriend, hoping to find some comfort from him.

But I hesitated.

I didn’t want him to worry.

And besides, I thought I could handle this on my own.

So my finger hovered over the screen for a long time.

Eventually, I deleted the message I’d started to write and rewrote it before sending it.

It was Ivy, not Zhi Zhi: "It’s just a little issue at school, don’t worry, I can handle it myself."

...Talking to a teacher might at least stop them, I thought naively.

Just as I was lost in thought, another message came through, this time a voice message.

My hand trembled, and I accidentally tapped on it.

— “If anything happens, remember you can always talk to me.”

A smiling voice echoed from my phone.

Some people prefer voice messages for chatting, while others like to text.

My boyfriend was one of those who preferred typing, and so was I.

That’s why he rarely sent me voice messages. But his voice was undeniably pleasant to listen to.

Whenever I heard it, I’d always space out for a moment.

But this time was different.

...The words that usually comforted me suddenly overlapped with Corbin’s cold, indifferent voice in my mind, and for a brief moment, I actually thought they sounded eerily similar, like... like they were the same person.

That thought struck me like a cold wave, making me break out in a cold sweat.

...How strange. People with similar voices aren’t uncommon, but why would I think something so unsettling? It must have been the shadow Corbin cast on me today.

— “Ivy? What’s wrong?”

Once I came back to my senses, I realized I had overreacted, but still instinctively, I changed the subject.

“You mentioned your little brother was being bullied last time. Did that get sorted out?”

Last time, he jokingly told me how his cousin had his things taken at school and came crying to him for help.

I never asked how old his cousin was. I just assumed, based on his story, that he was a young boy, maybe seven or eight.

When I asked, my boyfriend, who usually loved sharing his life with me, paused for a rare moment.

But then he quickly masked it.

— “That girl didn’t agree to my request,” he said casually.

— “But it’s not a big deal.”

— “I sent her a picture, and I’m sure she’ll change her mind once she sees it.”

He was trying to win that little girl over with a photo, so those two could make up, right?

The frustration I had felt earlier began to lift, and I even found myself lost in thought for a while.

But for some reason, the more I thought, the more I felt a chill running down my spine, as though there were a snake hiding behind me, just waiting for the right moment to strike.