Chapter 2: Payback in the Girls’ Bathroom

Thief. The word echoed as the back of my head slammed against the tiles—dull and jarring. Their laughter was sharp, cruel, the kind that sticks with you. Fists, knees, laughter—every hit meant to break me. I tasted iron, my knuckles scraping against the dirty grout. Girls who’d always played nice letting loose like a pack of hyenas.

“Look at him squirm. Like a little worm, right girls?” Brittany Turner sneered, grinding her spotless Nike Airs down on my hand. Pain shot through my fingers. I saw the scuff mark—probably bought with someone else’s money.

I curled up in the damp corner, pain at the back of my head throbbing in waves. It overlapped perfectly with the agony from my last life. Time folded in on itself—hospital lights, shame, Brittany’s laughter, all stacked on top of the pain in my skull. Only then did I realize I wasn’t dreaming.

A bar of soap shoved in my face—fake lavender, glittery nail polish chipped on the left thumb. I looked up and saw the faces I hated to my core. In my last life, I’d dreamed of tearing them apart. They said it was about “justice,” but really, it was the thrill of beating someone up.

My long-suppressed rage snapped. With a roar, I hurled the soap straight at Brittany’s face. Smack—the bar hit her hard, swelling the corner of her eye. Before she could react, I lunged at her like a wild animal.

Brittany Turner—queen bee, TikTok prankster, her locker covered in stickers and Sharpie signatures. Everyone either wanted to be her or stay out of her way. She hung out with older guys who smoked behind the 7-Eleven and bragged about getting in fights.

In the past, we were all scared of her. Now? I couldn’t care less. I raised my fist and smashed it into her face. Everyone else in the bathroom was a girl, but in my fury, even three or five together couldn’t hold me back. When students fight, it’s all about the ringleader. The rest are just here for the show.

Brittany was all I could see. No matter how the others tried to drag me off, I kept pounding her. One hand on her collar, the other raining blows on her head. My fist connected with her cheek—hard. The smack echoed off the tile. Someone screamed. I barely noticed. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice screamed at me to stop. But I couldn’t. Not after everything she’d done.

Her face changed—malice, then resentment, then something softer, until finally, through swollen eyes, I saw pleading and fear. From now on, if anyone tells me violence can’t solve problems, I’ll show them Brittany’s eyes. Isn’t this effective? Her face was puffy, cheeks streaked with tears and snot. My heart thudded—not with pity, but with triumph.