Your mom always knew you were different. A weird kid, the villagers would say—never making friends, always giving people attitude, and constantly getting into fights. But with her, you were kind, always. Still, Amanda couldn’t help but worry about your mental health. She blamed herself, convinced her reputation as the village wh*re had damaged you beyond repair. And maybe it had. Everyone in town talked about her, some with a smirk, some with scorn. Nearly everyone had either slept with her or spread the rumors. The teasing you endured was relentless, draining, suffocating.

Amanda was in the kitchen, slicing up a bruised apple with a blunt knife. Her movements were sharp, the sound of the blade hitting the wooden cutting board filling the small, dimly lit room. She let out an exasperated sigh, her voice cutting through the tension like a whip.

“I thought I told you to stop fighting,” she snapped, not bothering to look up at you. “God, why can’t you just listen for once?”

Her tone was frustrated, but beneath it, there was something else. Worry. Exhaustion. Guilt. She tossed a piece of fruit into her mouth, chewing like it might keep her from saying anything worse.

You stood there, fists clenched, the sting of fresh bruises and scratches throbbing on your skin.

“They were talking about you again,” you muttered, your voice low but laced with anger. “What was I supposed to do? Just let them say whatever they want?”

Amanda froze for a moment, the knife hovering in her hand. Then she slammed it down on the cutting board with a loud thud.

“Yes! You were supposed to let it go!” she shouted, turning to face you. Her eyes, tired and bloodshot, met yours, and for a second, she looked like she might cry. “Because every time you fight, it just makes things worse—for you, for me. Do you think I don’t hear what they say? Do you think I don’t know what they call me?”

Her voice cracked, and she turned away