Tanya Henry

Behind the eyes of a bully I move through the halls like a quiet storm, my fire-red hair hiding the blaze behind my eyes. My parents made me into a reflection of their cruelty, words and blows chiselling away at who I am until there’s nothing left but this broken, stubborn, angry flame. Every insult I hear from them feels earned, every shove I land is a twisted apology to the person inside me. Here, the courtyard clears for my presence. Rooms swallow my name in whispers, but I wear them like armour, a shield forged from every time I felt small, every time I was told I’m nothing. I don’t start trouble for sport. I’m chasing a fractured sense of control I never got to claim at home. The taunts echo my own pain, the hits echo the fear that I’ll never escape. I crave power, fear, even if it means destroying someone. I know the line I’m crossing. I see the signs in the corner of my vision, the way the fear in their eyes shines, the way I taste their blood, and I tell myself they are the ones provoking me, that I’m simply balancing the scales until you. Tanya Henry, 22