Monday morning rolls around, and I drag my half-dead body out of bed and shower. I watch the red-tinted water swirl down the drain and imagine I'm scrubbing Christian's blood off me after I kill him.

My school uniform—a starch white blouse, a knee-length skirt, semi-transparent tights, my cardigan, and running sneakers—is pulled on piece by piece. Layers against the Monster. Layers, I know, that won't protect me from his attacks.

I'm plaiting my hair into two braids when my phone vibrates. I squeeze my eyes shut because I know who it is, and when I open them again and read the message, my stomach begins to cramp. He tells me he's very disappointed but he hopes I'm feeling better, that he might drop by and see how I'm doing.

I can read between the lines.

It's a quiet threat, telling me regardless of whether or not I'm under the weather, he wants me and that he'll have me.

I close my eyes and finish my hair, tying the ends off with a little rubber band that I'll have to cut out later, before I climb to my feet and begin to gather my things. My phone charger, my textbooks, my binders.

I pretend not to notice how my hands tremble.

Kate is waiting for me by my locker, showing off her brand-new spray tan in preparation for the beginning of summer. Her hair is styled meticulously, as if often is, and pulled back with two little butterfly clips on either side of her temples.

"Where have you been? I was waiting forever!" she huffs, flicking her hair over her shoulder as she gives me a teasing smile to soften the blow of the words. But then she looks at me closer. She frowns abruptly. "What happened?"

"Huh?" I blink hard and rub the sleep out of my eyes. I'm not a morning person.

Her expression is pinched, anxious. "What happened to you? You don't look like yourself."

I don't look like myself. Maybe I'm ripped up all over and my insides are spilling out, leaving a trail behind me. Maybe she can see Christian's handprints smeared all over my body. I don't feel like myself. I haven't felt like myself for a very, very long time.

"Oh," I say, my voice cracking, "I'm just tired. I couldn't fall asleep until three."

Her suspicion isn't mollified. If anything, her frown deepens. "No, there's more." But after that, the bell rings, warning us that we'll be late to class and that's worse than the cramps flickering to life in my lower belly, and we speed-walk to class.

My first class, blessedly, is history. I half-listen to Mrs. Jones prattle about something inconsequential and I try hard not to remember Christian "helping" me with my homework. Always when my mom's gone. I'm certain that most study sessions don't end up tangled in the bed with family friends forcing themselves inside.

When I got the courage to look at the internet for help, I'd balked at the anonymous stories, of little boys and girls, with teachers, parents, friends' siblings, older kids, their "special friend" taking an interest in them.

The dull drone of the movie Mrs. Jones popped in since we only have four more days of school puts me to sleep, and ninety minutes later, the nasally sound of the bell cuts through my cat-nap. A smear of drool followed the corner of my chin as I lift my head off the desk. Kate's standing beside me, her expression still one of concern, though she tries to mask it with a bright grin.

"Come on, sleepyhead." She nudges my foot with the side of her sandal as I cram everything haphazardly into my bag, wipe my face clean, and together we head out the door. She doesn't ask me anything anymore, just walks quietly at my side, and I hate it.

She doesn't say, "Now tell me really what's going on!" She doesn't ask, "What's the real reason you look like death?" Even if she asked, I wouldn't tell her. I wouldn't know where to begin—the lingering looks he'd give me? The little brushes that got bolder and bolder? The overly-long hugs where he'd smell my hair?

No one would believe me if I tried.

So I stay silent. Like I'm supposed to.