The walls were dark, the corridors winding like a maze—and behind every classroom door, a secret waited to suffocate someone.
It was a place where the reputation of rich children was protected, where they were admired the most, where they were given the most rights.
It was possible to catch random traces of their wealth even in their grades or exam scores.
I always found it difficult to describe their situation.
Some girls were richer. Prettier. Smarter. Some boys were more admired. But the ones who ruled the school—were always the richest.
They were the ones who got asked out the most in high school. The most flattered.They organized the most events and, last but not least, invested a lot of money in game setups for elective courses.The children of parents who contributed generously to laboratory equipment, computer rooms, or canteen costs were already high up in the hierarchy.
Below them, I was like a drop of water at the bottom of the heights.
The lack of money—or worse, the lack of a family I could call "good"—was the cornerstone of my suffering.
After I came to that school, I suffered deeply, including the beatings I received from my father in the evenings.But the greatest pain had started earlier—when I was still with him.
My mother had witnessed my father's violent behavior from a young age. Nevertheless, she gave birth to me.Because that tendency to violence hadn't manifested in the early stages of their relationship—it had remained calm, like a tumor.
At first, it wasn't even possible for anyone to make sense of it. Or to notice it during the loving, tender months.Of course, I couldn't blame my mother for not recognizing my father's true face early on.She had secretly reported him to the police many times. My father had been suspended from seeing his child, alongside divorce proceedings.
His irrational nature frightened me.
I began to develop a kind of clairvoyance—not because I thought he would watch me constantly,but because I was always thinking about which hand he would use to hit me.
"Now he's in the kitchen," I'd whisper to myself—and then, as if following some terrible rhythm, his movements wouldn't slow down for a moment,but would continue with an ever-deepening inward impulse.
The floor would shake as if it couldn't bear the weight of his unrestrained power.
It felt like an earthquake beneath my feet, like he would drag me from my hiding place and crush me until I ceased to exist.
I had to admit that the blows of his belt or fists—or even his drunken nights alone—had shrunk me, made me into something lesser.A bug.
It was as if his fists weren't meant to kill or torment me, but to make me small.
My shoulders slumped, my breath grew heavy, my veins more sensitive and visible with each passing day,and the image of a father gradually vanished from every picture.
As I grew older, I believed that even if one couldn't choose their parents, one could at least choose their school and friends.I held on to that belief with all my heart. But fate—as if determined to prove otherwise—struck its sword of justice upon me.
My misfortune began when my father forced me to sit at the head of the classroom to show me off, and got me into that high school.
At that time, I studied without breathing, with nosebleeds, headaches—even toothaches. A piercing sensation ran through my body, making every limb tremble from head to toe. My muscles would contract completely, but forget how to relax. My arms and legs were exhausted. And my smiles—missing from every photo frame.
None of these were problems the school ever tried to fix.
My problems only multiplied. Exponentially.
I had entered the school wearing an ideal badge, branded as the most successful student. I had scored full marks on the exam. I was someone who had no choice but to succeed—this was the only secondary school I could attend after running away from home. Naturally, if there was a lesson or concept to be understood, I would grasp it quickly.
Also, the things I saw in my dreams came true.
It sounds ridiculous now, but I had dreamt of everything I would later experience at that school.
On the first day, I made a girlfriend.
Zenan was a pretty girl with curly, blonde hair.
We took ordinary photos together, and one day, I even went to a restaurant with her using the last of the money in my pocket—even though my father had beaten me that morning. It was daytime. Zenan gave me some clothes I had never seen before. To me, they felt like a capsule of transformation. Then she took some photos of me. The dresses weren't short or revealing. But they would inevitably be rejected by certain corners of society.
According to my father, a girl wasn't supposed to be pretty. She was supposed to remain crushed, forever bowing before the family's patriarch.Maybe that's why, even when I took the clothes off, folded them back into cardboard bags, and returned them to Zenan—the feeling hadn't changed: bow your head as low as you can.
When Zenan and I broke up, I still felt lucky that on my first day of school, I hadn't been bullied. I thought high school was going to be a good place.
But the next day, everything changed.
As I walked into school, everyone seemed to be running past me, not even glancing at my face. For some reason, they were pointing and laughing. Crumpled papers littered the corridors. On the boards, someone had drawn mocking symbols and childish crosses.
As a ninth grader—someone either just stepping into puberty or barely out of it—I was shaken by their sudden, alien behavior. I searched for Zenan. I wanted to understand what was happening.
Just then, I saw her at the entrance to the classroom. Her soft pink stockings under her short skirt caught my eye for a brief second, but I had no time to admire them.
"What happened, Zenan? Why is everyone running around like that?" I asked, my voice trembling with fear.
For the first time, I dared to lift my head—expecting support. Hoping, even.
In response, Zenan wore an expression I hadn't noticed the day before. Her brows were narrowed, her lips curled into a smile.
"The outfit you wore last night didn't suit you," she said—and a photograph appeared between her fingers.
I snatched it from her hand with trembling fingers.
It was a cropped version of the photo we had taken together. Only my body remained—but it had been digitally manipulated. My body appeared completely naked.
I collapsed to the floor, hand over my mouth, clutching the photo.
Around me, everyone was dancing. Laughing. Their voices pierced through me like needles. I tried to stand up, to support myself, to breathe—anything—but I couldn't.
As brutal as those days were, I finally understood one thing:
This had all been a cruel initiation—a vicious joke played on the new girl.
It was an outrageous joke.
Maybe their parents would only give them a light scolding, but if my father ever found out, he would have killed me.
At that time, I hated everyone from the bottom of my heart.
Even Zenan's shoes, standing in front of me, made my blood boil. Maybe not that day, but on many others, they had locked me in the toilet. After a full day at school without food or water, I would go home and be beaten half to death by my father.
My mother had been very sick during that time. She had gone to stay with my grandmother to get away from him—at the cost of leaving me all alone. I was completely alone in that house.
That didn't lessen the violence. If anything, it only increased the frequency of the beatings, if not their severity.
The school administration didn't respond to any of it.
Over time, I lowered my guard against the behavior of those monsters who were still considered my "friends." Throwing things at my face. The cut on my cheek. Chopping off my blonde hair. Stealing my clothes and spray-painting them. Excluding me from gym classes. Swearing at me. All of it.
Letting my guard down had been the worst mistake I could have made. Because the more I did, the more they came at me.
While I was lost in those thoughts, I suddenly noticed someone running toward me. He slammed into my shoulder as he passed.
"Stand guard in gym class," he barked.
He was a tall guy—one of those who took turns dating the popular girls. I flinched at his touch.
"Huh?" he said, raising an eyebrow. Then he grabbed my upper body and shook it. "Can't you hear me? I thought you were into guys like me."
"I'm talking to you," he added with a wicked grin. "Wasn't that you in that photo? You're a pretty girl—if you didn't dress so vulgarly."
What he meant by "vulgar" was that I preferred my school skirt long.
"You're disgusting too," I muttered, squeezing out the last drop of strength left in my voice. "I hope you get everything you deserve."
I was sickened by people like him. Even if an insect had crawled across my skin, it wouldn't have disgusted me so deeply.
That was the first time I had ever raised my voice to someone like him—and it electrified me.
"What's that supposed to mean?" he said, curling his lip with mock offense.
"What does it mean?" I said. "It means you're a terrible person. Sorry—no, you're not even a person."
For a moment, silence fell. Then people began to gather around us.
Despite what I had said, they laughed. They cheered and clapped sarcastically. As their taunting voices echoed in my ears, I had no choice but to hug myself tightly. My back and forehead were slick with sweat. I was shivering.
I didn't know what to say next. All I could feel was a burning desire to gain power over them—to take revenge.
Out of the crowd came a girl. I recognized her from a photo I had seen on social media—posing with the boy who now stood in front of me. She was probably his girlfriend.
"Are you messing with him?" she said, glancing at the boy and winking. Then she turned to me. "He's a wh*re. He's not even human," she sneered, resting her hand under my chin.
He looked down at me with calculated cruelty. He lifted my chin—then dropped it with a snap.
Everyone around us seemed to be enjoying the spectacle.
In that moment, I could feel my humanity being stripped away.
Sometimes, physical violence was just a whip across the soul.
At first, we think the pain is spiritual. But later, we fail to notice how our bodies begin to erode. Our bodies betray us when they can no longer represent us. Just as mine had, now.They wear out—just like everything else.
"You're a girl! How can you be so merciless?" I shouted.
In the middle of the crowd, Zenan's eyes were fixed on me. I couldn't see a trace of emotion in them.
I felt so guilty for having trusted her that her blankness terrified me.
My lips trembled."Huh?" she said. "You don't act like a girl. What can I do?"
A teacher passed by in the corridor, but no one stopped the stationing. The teacher just shut the door behind them and entered the classroom.
"Nobody's going to class!" said the monster standing over me.
I was disgusted with everyone there for watching this scene unfold—with laughter.
"You are terrible people. Inhuman. Savages. You'll all suffer what you've done!" I shouted. I hiccupped at the end—like a loser. Damn it, those last syllables had exposed my weakness to the core.
As I writhed helplessly, I heard the corridor door creak open. A wind rushed in through the windows, brushing past everyone. The door slammed shut.And the laughter… paused.
Someone must have entered. All eyes turned toward a spot behind me.
Out of the corner of my eye, I looked up.I was no longer the center of attention—and although that brought a flood of relief and gratitude, when I dared to raise my head, I saw two bullies standing before me, their brows furrowed.
"Kale, who is that?" asked the girl beside him.
That's how I learned the name of the harasser: Kale.
"Go home, Gizem," Kale muttered, and Gizem slowly dissolved back into the crowd.My curiosity tightened. Who was behind me?
Footsteps echoed, slow and steady, accompanied by a restless shadow cast onto the floor. A shadow that didn't shake—but spoke with a kind of confidence even silence couldn't contain.
Kale walked past me, backwards now, watching.
When every pair of eyes was locked in that direction, I finally turned my head—and saw a male student standing by the wall, a backpack slung over one shoulder. The cover of a book peeked out, a single die illustrated on its face.
What caught my attention first, though, were his eyes—grey, deep, filled with a restrained fury. His brows were drawn together like a judge about to pass sentence.
He spoke:"What is going on here?"
His voice cut through the air like the crack of a whip.Silence fell again.The words were swallowed.The handle of his bag changed hands.The picture of the die grew larger.
His steps slowed, then stopped.When my eyes met his, I instinctively wanted to look away.I fought it.The handle of his backpack slipped in his fingers, and two tense lines etched into his forehead.
They were carved by the rage of someone who had learned how to aim it well.
My pupils shrank.I swallowed.His jaw was clenched.I pressed my lips shut, trapping my breath inside.
Hell was about to break loose.
The focus had shifted. And when the target shifts, someone always gets uneasy.Time sped up, leaving wreckage behind.
I shrank inward as Kale stared at this unfamiliar student—someone he had never seen in this part of the school.
The boy tore his gaze away from Kale and walked toward me. Calmly. Casually. He extended his hand.
"Are you all right?"
His voice settled into a quiet place inside me, like an answered prayer. It was the softness of hope, wrapped in a hardened voice.
I shook my head quickly."I'm fine."
He met my eyes. As soon as he did, something flared behind his pupils."You don't look fine. What did they do to you? Why are they treating you like this?"
The murmuring crowd behind him stirred my heart like thorns.
"I-I… it's a long story," I whispered.
"You must be new here!" Kale's voice boomed.
I flinched.The boy lifted his ID badge, which had been tucked under his sweater. The chain slipped through his fingers with deliberate calm.His lips were dark, like they'd absorbed every silence.
"Ayaz," he said. "I'm a new student. Class 12-B."
"Welcome then," Kale sneered, offering his hand. The band of his watch caught the light.
Ayaz didn't shake it. Seconds passed."You play golf?" he asked instead. "We could try sometime."
Only those in the school circle knew Kale played golf. If Ayaz was new—how did he know?
Kale's expression darkened. He lowered his hand and clenched it.The last thing he wanted was to look defeated.
Ayaz turned away and looked at the classroom sign where the teacher had gone in. Then his gaze returned to me.
"Did you hurt yourself? Why aren't you getting up? The floor's cold—and dirty."
He studied me. The crowd around us scattered, muttering.
"Okay," Kale said coldly. "Text me if you want to play."
Ayaz didn't answer.
Instead, he crouched down. His eyes caught the scar on my leg where my skirt didn't reach.
"Looks like this one still hurts," he said softly.
He opened his backpack, pulled out a band-aid, and a small tube of cream.Unscrewing the cap, he gently dabbed my wound with a clean applicator and placed the bandage over it.Then, he offered his hand again.
"Come on. Let's get you on your feet."
I didn't know how to respond. I felt like my voice had been washed away.
His gaze urged me to move.He helped me up, making sure I didn't touch the floor.Now I was standing—with a band-aid on my leg and a storm in my chest.
His fingers had been cold. Their chill lingered on my skin.
For a moment, all I could do was breathe.
"What class are you in?" he asked.
I rubbed my arm with my other hand. My head was still slightly down.
"12-B," I said shakily.
There was no way he could know what this number, this letter—this school—had done to me.
"Why did you transfer here? T-this place... it's not a good one..."
My voice shrank again, as if someone might yell at me for speaking.My chin was bruised. My body was bruised.I didn't want him to see.I even tried to hide my hands.
"I've heard some... unflattering rumors," he said, like it was nothing.
"What kind of rumors?" I asked. "They're all bad, aren't they?"
I lowered myself again, ashamed for even asking. Then I caught myself—and tried to lift my head.But my instincts dragged me back down.
"Not exactly nice, no," he admitted."But I believe even in the worst places, good things can happen. Don't you think?"
He met my eyes again. There was a quiet gleam behind his words.
"No. This isn't that kind of place."I rubbed my arm again.
"Shall we go to class?" he asked."I'm curious about the classrooms here. By the way..."He blinked slowly, shielding part of his face with his hand."I'm sorry. I didn't even ask your name."
My entire body heated up.
My voice was fragile. But I wanted him to hear it.
With a breath I barely had, I whispered:
"İpek."
His eyes lit up again. He extended his hand.
"Nice to meet you, İpek. Seems like you're going through something rough here. If anything ever happens… talk to me, okay?"
I swallowed dryly and nodded.
"Okay?" he asked again, gentler this time.
"Okay," I said.
And just like that—with a single nod—our friendship began.