Excerpt of Jessie's Story by Bella Christian

PROLOGUE

Jessie Angel’s hand balled up in a fist beneath the bedclothes. Her heart thumped. Her mouth was so dry it hurt to lick her lips. She drew the blanket up to her face until only her eyes peeked over the pink, satin-bound edge. She stared at her phone, unable to look away.

She should be stronger than this. She should be able to put the damn thing away, forget about it, even for just a night. But she couldn’t. It drew her like an addict drawn to the next fix. She hated herself for her weakness, but there was nothing she could do about it.

Taking comfort from the blackness of the night that surrounded her, she scrolled through the countless nasty Instagram messages posted by kids from school. There were so many, she’d be up half the night reading them. She should just switch her phone off and go to sleep, forget about the maliciousness that waited for her on her screen. That would be the sensible thing to do.

Yeah, right. As if I can do that.

It was something her dad would urge her to do or even her therapist, Holly. Jessie had been having regular sessions with her child psychologist for six months now, almost from the day her father became aware of the trouble she was having at school. And then there was the other stuff with her mom…

Most of the time, Jessie was glad she’d hinted to her dad about the bullying. It made it easier to bear knowing that an adult knew some of what was going on. She’d done her best to downplay the worst messages—the vicious taunts about everything from her weight to her gender. It was not only hurtful, but embarrassing. Too embarrassing to share the worst with anyone she cared about. With people she wanted to like her. To say those terrible things about herself out loud might nudge them to think about her that way too… So she shared the minimum. This evening, three girls had found it fun to post messages wondering if someone who went by the name of “Jessie” was even a girl.

Veronica slyly posted: 

Do we even know 4 sure if she’s a girl? I mean just b cause she has long hair doesn’t mean anything. She could b one of those things that aren’t one or the other

Some other girl responded: 

Yes! I thought that 2.

Veronica’s best friend, Lucy Jones, hastily joined the discussion: 

I’ve heard about people like that. They’re not a girl or a boy. Something in between. Do u think she has a dick or a vagina? Maybe both!

The comments on the Instagram post continued. There were also copious emoji symbols showing the girls falling over with laugher. Even some of the boys joined in. It was such a joke to them. A big fat joke. Jessie’s face burned with humiliation and she groaned in anguish at the thought of what they’d say and do to her at school the next day. They didn’t care that their words and actions tore her insides to shreds, like a hollow-nosed bullet piercing her heart and blowing it to pieces. They didn’t care that she was weighed down by so much blackness she didn’t know if she’d ever see the light of day again. Sometimes she researched “ways out” that tantalized her and offered a kind of relief she only dreamed of… Not that she’d ever do it. Her dad would be devastated. She loved him so much. She couldn’t do that to him. Still, the thought of escaping the daily agony was so tempting sometimes…

She squeezed her eyes shut tightly against the hot tears that slid slowly down her cheeks. She didn’t want to think like that, like how it would feel to do something to ease the pain inside so she could simply drift away…

Holly had talked to her about feeling like this and what to do when it struck. Jessie was to close her eyes and pretend she was in a place where she felt safe and happy. She was to cling to that feeling and remember there had once been a time when life had been fun and joyful and that good times like those would come again. But with vicious attacks coming at her from all sides, almost every hour of the day, it was hard to believe anything good would come her way. Ever…

With tears still sliding silently down her face, she read through the last of the messages. More of the same. More hate. More disgust. More blame. It was her fault she was the way she was – skinny, ugly, weird. Everyone said so.

With a heavy sigh, she wearily switched off her home screen and placed her phone in the charger on her nightstand. Her belly felt hollow. Her heart ached. Reaching into the shoebox she kept under her bed, she felt around for her diary and a pen. Flicking on the switch of her bedside lamp, she sat up and opened the diary to a fresh, clean page and stared down at it.

Fresh tears filled her eyes and overflowed. She swiped at them, angry at herself. I’m such a crybaby. Why do I let them get to me? Fury coursed through her. With a death grip on her pen, she filled the pages with her anguish until at last, she collapsed, exhausted, against the pillows.

She shouldn’t have looked at the messages; she should have remained oblivious to the hate. Her father and Holly were right: She should simply ignore the bullies; ignore their snide and pointed remarks; ignore their maliciousness; ignore the feeling of blackness inside… And focus on the positive.   

It just isn’t that easy.