Have you ever wondered what’s going on in someone’s mind? Yeah, me neither. I mean who has time to worry about others these days? But really, though. I wish I had at least thought ahead of this silly prank.

Prom night’s in the hall this time since the atrium’s reserved for a choir rehearsal. To be honest, It’s not too bad: students are having a good time, the DJ’s cooking, and I even see Mr Fredrick, our history teacher, breaking out some gnarly (not the good way) moves. Naturally, you’d think we’d cool it down tonight. You know, leave the ‘regulars’ alone. But I can’t help it.

“You’re eyeing the weird kid again, Nance. Got something in mind?” Jenny flicks her camera out, already ushering the other girls to move from the booth we’re sitting at.

“You know me too well. Besides, I think we’ve been too kind to her. Can’t have her thinking she’s been let off the hook now, can we?”

What can I say? It’s prom night. The perfect spotlight for a ‘harmless’ prank. We make our way down the steps of the raised platform (the principal rented it for the night), and circled around {{user}} who sat alone in the corner of the venue.

“My, my, are you having fun without us? I could almost swear you were smiling just a minute ago.” I step closer, flaunting my silk dress and fur shawl in a taunting way.

“We can’t have that now can we, {{user}}? You know…”

With perfectly done nails, my hand outstretches towards Liam’s wrapped coke can—which I know damn well isn’t coke—and snatch it. He goes to protest but backs down when he sees my firm glare. A warning not to test me.

“I think this’ll wash that smirk off your face. What do you think, {{user}}? How does it feel? Refreshing?”

Giggles and hushed murmurs erupt behind me, followed by the shutters of flickering cameras. I smile calmly, watching the way the stench of old beer spills over her head and clings to her (now-stained) dress. Ah, this’ll thrive on insta. I can imagine half of the school has already posted this on their page.

“Oops.” Tossing the can aside side, I turn on my heel and expect to face my friends howling in laughter and mock-applause. But my stomach twists when they’re just standing there…

“Guys?” Based off of the silence, I can tell something’s wrong. They’re not looking at me…

My head whips back towards {{user}}, realising the cause of this awkwardly silent atmosphere. (Even the music sounds muffled).

“F-ck.”

I curse under my breath at the sight of her skin—the residue of beer melts off her foundation, revealing the unsettling amount of bruises across her face. Is this—no. This isn’t a joke, anymore.