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I follow my usual routine on Monday morning. It is raining hard today, which makes shifting the cows and goats for milking unpleasant. I keep well clear of the sheep. Not only do I find the smell of damp wool unpleasant, I usually end up on my bum sitting in the mud. They have a nasty habit of running into me and knocking me over. My legs are soaking wet by the time I need to leave for school and I don’t fancy changing just to get soaked again on my bike.

My working coat is a wax-covered short trench style that comes down to the top of my thighs. It keeps the top half of me dry, but the section of exposed trousers between the bottom of my coat and the top of my boots gets wet. I keep my head dry under a waterproof kangaroo-skin cowboy hat.

I do own a pair of waterproof leggings that I can wear over the top of my trousers. They are okay for cycling in, but I find them uncomfortable when working, as they are slightly bulky.

Instead of changing I put my school uniform in my bag and ride off out of the farm in my work gear. I tell my parents that I will change when I get to school. This is actually allowed. One of the things covered in the introductory lecture was that the school is trying to promote fitness by encouraging cycling. They therefore unlock the changing rooms and allow students who arrive by bike to shower and change before registration if they wish.

The changing room showers consist of a corridor with spray hoses along one side in which you can line up. One of the end nozzles can be operated independently of the others. Therefore, you can run one shower instead of all of them. During lessons, the entire system is used, but for other times, such as before school, the single nozzle can be switched on.

I unfortunately need to take my hat off to put my cycle helmet on instead, which means my head gets wet while riding and water trickles down my neck and soaks my back underneath the coat.

I stop at the bunker briefly to swap the uniform and pack my wig. I then cycle most of the distance to school before stopping at the local supermarket. After checking nobody is watching, I dismount and remove my helmet.

I am round the side of the building near the recycling point. There is a large overhang, so I am not being rained on. I dry my head with a towel I have in my bag, and then put on my wig and Australian hat. I pop into the supermarket for some feminine supplies. I have P.E. again today and don’t want to be caught out again if I start bleeding. I manage to smile in embarrassment at the woman overlooking the self-service tills as I leave.

I’m early today, as I haven’t stopped yet to change clothes. I decide that as I’m not wearing my helmet I will walk the rest of the way pushing my bike. I arrive as the doors open and put the bike in the sheds. As I am one of the first to arrive, I have the choice of stand.

I make my way over to the sports block as Mr Morris is unlocking the changing rooms. Seeing me turning up soaking wet, he opens the girls changing room door for me and lets me in. I thank him and head inside. With my wig in place, he doesn’t question my gender. My coat is bulky so the lack of any chest development isn’t an issue.

I do wear a padded bra, but obviously, the other girls know that, having had to take it off to use the showers.

I am alone in the room so I am able to glue my wig on for safety. I do this in a toilet cubicle just in case somebody comes in. My caution proves to be well founded as I am soon joined by several other girls. I almost have a heart attack as I come out of the cubicle and recognise Wendy. She is in a higher year and is the daughter of one of the farmers in our consortium.

This is very bad. Luckily, she is talking with one of her friends and not looking in my direction. I quickly slip over to a bench and put my bag down, hanging my coat and hat from a peg on the wall. Keeping my back to Wendy I strip out of my soaking clothes and don a shower cap to keep my wig dry. Laying a towel on the floor, I go to the single shower and start it up.

I notice Wendy giving me a funny look as I go into the shower. My wet weather gear is not typical for a person my age, and is masculine in appearance. She knows what I usually wear so I suspect she is surprised to find another person wearing similar clothing, especially a girl.

I quickly rinse myself, allowing the hot water to warm me up. I had become chilled from the cold rain. I deliberately turn my back to the shower so that I am facing out into the changing rooms. Wendy catches sight of my naked body and stops looking in my direction. Once again, my lack of visible male genitalia is working in my advantage to dissuade her that I am Simon.

I dry off and get dressed in my school uniform, putting my soaking clothes in a separate carrier bag so that nothing else becomes damp. Leaving the changing rooms, I head to my locker to dump my soggy outfit and swap out the books I need. There is a shelf in the locker so that I don’t have to put anything on top of the wet clothes. It is a tight fit to get my hat and coat in under the shelf.

I am still early to registration and have to wait for Mr Francis to turn up before I can gain access to our homeroom. I am one of the driest people in the class, as not many students take advantage of the changing facilities.

Mary, ever observant, notices that I’ve had my ears pierced. This leads to several comments from other girls complementing me on my choice of earrings. Julie and Josh both look at me in confusion as to how I’ve managed to pull this little stunt off.

At lunchtime, Julie is still giving me nasty looks, and I get the impression that she would like to talk to me alone. This time I am ignoring her. I get to the common room before she does and I’m already involved in a game of chess with Anne by the time she turns up.

I then get talking with Mary and Alison so Julie is not able to get near me. As it is still raining nobody wants to venture outside so the building is crowded. There is nowhere where we can go for a quiet chat.

After afternoon registration, we head over to the sports block trying not to get wet. The teachers send us straight into the changing rooms so that we don’t get too damp and instruct us to dress in our indoor kits. I follow the same routine as the first PE lesson, changing into my kit while keeping turned away from Julie.

We are led into the slightly smaller gymnasium while the boys go into the larger sports hall. They will be playing basketball, a sport that I don’t particularly enjoy. The girls get to play badminton, a game I much prefer.

Julie is still not happy and gives me nasty looks throughout the lesson. I don’t think it helps that I am actually quite good at this activity. I think she perceives that I have an unfair physical advantage. I don’t think this is the case as testosterone is a large factor in sporting advantage and I haven’t been able to produce much for nearly six weeks.

We rotate round in competition and it is not long before I am against her. Every single opportunity she has she smashes the shuttlecock directly at me. While this is a valid tactic as it is often tricky to return, I do get the impression that she is deliberately trying to injure me. I might be getting paranoid, but I’m not the only one to notice.

Mary comments, “What’s her problem?” at one point in the lesson. I shrug in response.

At the end of the period, we all file back into the changing room. I start stripping my t-shirt off as soon as I’m inside, aiming once again to be the first girl undressed and in the showers. I think I’m safe after last time, but I want to make certain that there are no problems.

I have been wearing a sanitary towel in my underwear and I check it before I remove my knickers. This time there is no blood, and I’m thankful that I won’t be having a repeat of last lesson.

Once stripped I don’t bother wrapping my towel round me as some girls do on their way to the showers. Instead just carrying it by my side as I saunter across the room, keeping my eyes focused on my feet. This allows anybody who cares to look to see me naked, without me seeing much in return.

For the second time today, I let the water from the school showers rinse me. I don’t spend long as I know Julie will be waiting for me to exit before she enters. I half expect her to do something, for example barging into me and knocking me over, but our teacher isn’t leaving the room and instead is keeping a close eye on things.

I get the impression Mrs Hargreaves is keeping an eye specifically on Julie and I. However, I may just be paranoid that she suspects something about me. Perhaps she has noticed the hostility towards me and is staying to make sure that nothing happens between the two of us.

The lesson ends without incident and we head off to the final period of the day. Today this is English. We have just started reading a book in class set in the First World War, ‘All Quiet on the Western Front’ by Erich Maria Remarque.

At the end of the day, I pick up the clothes I wore this morning from my locker and deposit my P.E. kit. I will take it home to wash tomorrow, as I know my mother will be out meeting the other farmers’ wives. They take it in turns as to where they use and today I think they are at the vicarage. The vicar’s wife is also one of the women in the group.

I walk out of the school grounds wearing my kangaroo cowboy hat to keep my hair dry. While most people rush off due to the weather, I push my bike slowly down the road. I have a dilemma about what to do. I don’t like to ride without my helmet, but can’t wear the helmet and hat at the same time. It is still raining and I don’t want to get the wig wet. I’m wearing a skirt, so taking the wig off and wearing the helmet would reveal my short hair. I would look like a boy in drag, something that is too risky.

I do have a pair of trousers in my locker, but forgot to pick them up and can’t be bothered to go back for them now. I walk until I am out of the busy traffic. Once I reach the country lanes and the end of the pavements I decide to take the risk and ride without my helmet. I take things slowly and make my way to the bunker. I am drenched by the time I arrive. My legs are soaking wet from the spray off the front wheel. Cycling isn’t a very practical means of transport in bad weather, as you have to spend extra time constantly changing outfits. It is a good job I have a spare uniform for tomorrow. I hang my clothes up and change into a dry boy’s uniform.

Having changed to the mountain bike and now without the wig I put my helmet on and slowly ride home. This time I remain dry as I have a pair of waterproofs that I can wear over trousers. Unfortunately, I can’t wear them with my skirt.

As soon as I get home, I head upstairs to the bathroom, grabbing a nice warm fluffy towel on the way. I take a short hot shower to warm myself up and then dry off.

Tuesday the weather is a lot dryer. There are a few showers left but I am able to get to and from school without getting wet. Thankfully, the day was uneventful. Julie was being her usual distant self and I spent most of the day conversing with my new friends instead.

I know that my parents will be out when I get home. Mum will be at her coffee afternoon, and my father is helping to do vaccinations at a neighbouring farm. I therefore bring my actual P.E. kit home to wash, as well as my spare school uniforms. In addition to the one I am currently wearing, which will last me for the next few days, I also have the one that got soaked yesterday and the one I wore for part of last week.

My first job on getting home is washing my girl’s clothes and get them into the dryer before my parents arrive back. This is the most risky part of my operation, as I have no way of explaining why I am washing girl’s school clothes. I don’t bother with the washing machine, as it’s too slow. The shortest wash takes over an hour and I simply don’t have the time. I therefore fill the utility room sink with hot water; add some soap powder and swiftly hand wash my skirts, knickers and bras. The tops are unisex and I can wash them anytime.

I shove them in the machine for a quick spin before ironing them almost dry. I cut it fine, but manage to get the items to my room before my mother arrives home. I then proceed to cook the evening meal while she sees to the animals, joined half an hour later by my father.

My parents may be homophobic, but they are not sexist. Therefore, no task on the farm is seen as gender specific, and this includes the traditional feminine roles of cooking and cleaning. We all take turns were needed to get the work done. As I can’t do a lot of manual labour due to my size and age, I tend to get the domestic duties more often. I like cooking and have no issue taking the traditional housewife’s role.

I’m drying my hands on a towel after finishing the washing up when there is knock on the back door. My mother, who is drying the dishes, calls out for our visitor to come in. I get a scare when Wendy comes walking in the door carrying a sack of potatoes.

Wendy saw me in the changing room yesterday before school, and did a double take until she saw me in the shower. I am now in boy mode, but my earrings are still in and uncovered. The only time I have covered them is during P.E. on Monday. I don’t need to cover them at school, and as my parents know I have them, it’s usually pointless at home.

“Nice earrings, Simon,” Wendy states, “There is a girl who wears a pair just like them at school.”

She is giving me a funny look. I don’t know how to react, as she is obviously suspicious. The earrings, while not unique, are rare. The only thing markedly different between my modes is the wig.

“Thanks,” I reply cautiously, “I got my ears pierced at the weekend.”

Wendy looks puzzled, wondering why I am wearing girl’s earrings. I also catch her looking over to my coat and hat, which is hanging from the hooks in the utility room. They are visible through the open door. I get the nasty feeling she is putting two and two together and making four.

“Thanks, Wendy,” my mother says, “we were almost out of spuds. Thank your mother for me. Do you fancy a cuppa?”

“Yes please,” Wendy replies, taking a seat at the table.

Susan, Wendy’s mother, has a sideline growing potatoes. She doesn’t grow enough for a commercial crop but she supplies all the farmers in our consortium with potatoes year round and also sells a few from the local village shop when she has a surplus.

“So, I hear you are now going to Brahms High,” Wendy states, turning back to me. “Who have you got as a form teacher? I haven’t seen you about.”

I fill the kettle and switch it on as my mother prepares the cups and teapot as I reply, “I’m in 9JF, Mr Francis’s class. I’m up the other end of the school from you, so our paths don’t cross much. I’ve seen you in the corridors but you were in deep conversation with your friends, so didn’t want to interrupt.”

“I bet your earrings have caused a stir, I assume you must be wearing them to school,” she states.

“I can’t take them out. I’ve had a few comments, but the novelty soon wore off. Most of the girls seem to think they’re cute,” I reply.

“Are you in a class with anybody from Porterhouse? There doesn’t seem many in this year’s intake,” Wendy asks.

“Josh Wilkinson and Julie Phillips are in my class,” I cautiously state. I don’t want to lie and get myself in a knot, but I’m also worried that it might make things difficult if she comes looking for me at school.

My mother pours the tea and hands the mugs round to us all. My father briefly comes into the room to collect his drink and say hello to Wendy. I take the opportunity to excuse myself saying I have homework to complete.

I escape to my bedroom and get my reading book out. I have to read the next chapter before the next lesson. It is several minutes before I hear the back door. Crossing to my window, I see Wendy cycling out of the farmyard. I wait for a few minutes and then sigh in relief. There is no screaming from my parents, so she mustn’t have said anything further about school. That was too close for comfort.

I may have no option but to admit the truth to Wendy. I don’t know what her reaction might be, if she tells on me then the results will be disastrous.

Putting it out of my mind as being something beyond my control, I continue with my homework, listening to some music to relax before heading to bed.

Wednesday morning the weather has turned back to rain so I repeat the routine from Monday. Having donned my wig in the shelter of the supermarket roof overhang, I walk into school with my bike and head again to the changing rooms. I am running later today as I helped with the milking and it took longer than usual. It is already twenty to nine when I arrive, and I still haven’t changed clothes.

I walk into the girls’ changing room in my coat and hat. Wendy is sitting on one of the benches drying her hair as I come in. She looks directly at me and grins as I go to a free bench and put my belongings down. I don’t have time for a shower this morning, and as I’m not doing P.E. I don’t need to glue the wig on. It is only at risk of coming off if I am shaking my head about, which may happen in times of physical activity.

I hang my coat and hat up and start to strip naked. I am soaked to the skin again and swiftly remove my clothes so that I can dry myself with my towel. Wendy comes and sits on the bench beside me as I towel myself down.

“Hi, I’m Wendy, what’s your name?” she asks.

“Jasmine,” I reply softly. I hope that by slightly changing the pitch and speaking at a lower volume I can disguise my voice.

“That is an unusual hat you have there,” she says as she picks it up and looks at the underside, “I know a boy who has an identical one, right down to the name label inside.”

Turning the hat round her finger is pointing at the label stuck on the inside that reads ‘S. Whittaker’ in small black letters.

“There is a stall on the market at Yarmouth that sells them,” I answer, “they aren’t that uncommon.”

I am starting to get scared. The five-minute warning bell sounds, the other few girls that were in the room dash out the door leaving Wendy and me alone. Seeing this, Wendy grabs my hair and gives it a sharp tug, pulling the wig from my head.

“Hey,” I shout angrily, snatching the wig back from her and putting it back on my head.

“Simon, what the hell are you doing in here pretending to be a girl?” Wendy asks angrily.

I drop my towel. I haven’t yet started to dress so I am now stood naked in front of her. I decide the best form of defence is to attack.

“Do I look like a fucking boy?” I snap back angrily, “I might not be Pamela Anderson, but I certainly don’t have a cock. I suggest you should have gone to Specsavers if your eyesight is that bad.”

I stand with my hands on my hips staring at her before grabbing my knickers and pulling them forcefully up my legs. I wrap the training bra round my chest, and swiftly fasten the hooks behind my back in a fluid and well practiced movement.

“You better keep the fact I’m wearing a wig secret,” I angrily, but quietly, state as I continue to dress in my top, sweater and skirt, “or you might find yourself needing one as well.”

Having finished dressing I sit down and slip my socks and shoes on my feet. Mrs Hargreaves comes into the room to hurry us up. Wendy gives me a menacing stare and storms out of the room. I collect my belongings and head to registration.

I make it into the room as the bell rings. Mr Francis is already reading the first name on the register. I swiftly sit down next to Alison. I answer my name when called. After the register is finished, we are instructed to head to the drama studio, as it’s our year’s turn for having an assembly.

Alison whispers in my ear as we walk out of the room, “Your hair is slightly crooked.”

I whisper thanks and look in the reflection of the windows as I walk down the corridor. Once in the darkness of the drama studio seating, I feel my hair and straighten it out. I look to see if anybody has noticed and I can see Julie smirking at me from a few seats over. I haven’t told her that I wear a wig, but I assume that she has probably worked it out.

I am beginning to regret not gluing the thing on this morning. That way I wouldn’t have had the problem of it being pulled off. The glue is now locked in my locker, and I won’t have opportunity to do anything until break time.

We sit to a semi-interesting assembly by our year head talking about achievement and finding our true talents. He relates a story about a person who was regarded as useless at most sports, until he picked up a javelin and shocked everybody by throwing it twice as far as anybody else.

The assembly doesn’t last long and we are soon off to our lessons. The first lesson is French and its one of the lessons in which I’m separated from Julie, Alison and Mary. In this lesson, I sit next to Josh. The tables sit two people side by side in rows and columns. It is unusual for a table to be mixed gender, but as neither of us know many of the other students, we decided to use this arrangement.

The second lesson is maths. There is a lot of whispering and giggling going on from Julie, Lisa, Rebecca and Anne as I enter the room. I get the impression that something is up. I take my seat next to Mary, who is looking annoyed.

“Julie’s been spreading rumours about you wearing a wig,” Mary warns me. She is aware of my fake hair from our swimming trip although isn’t familiar with the reason for it. I deliberately left it vague as a farm related mishap that resulted in my head needing to be shaved.

As I feared, Julie is starting to become a problem. I suspected that she might try something. At least Julie is not openly trying to out me as a boy. All the girls we share lessons with have seen me naked, so she doesn’t have the confidence to openly accusing me of being something other than I appear. I can defend that too easily and make her look petty and stupid. Instead she has realised I have another weak spot and is focusing on my hair.

The giggling and whispering stops as Mrs Bannister enters the room to start the lesson. We spend the next hour practicing trigonometry.

As we pack our books away at the end of the lesson, I whisper to Mary, “I better glue my hair on before someone else tries to pull it off.”

She nods and we leave the room together. We are closer to the door than Julie and her friends so make a swift exit. Alison has been in the next room, and meets us outside in the corridor. She tags along as we head for the lockers, walking as fast as we can get away with.

“What’s the rush?” Alison asks.

“Bad hair day,” Mary says under her breath pointing in my direction. Alison twigs the problem.

They stand behind me guarding my back as I retrieve the glue bottle from my locker. I also pick up the bottle of solvent and slip it into my bag as a precaution. I never take one without the other, as I never know when I might need to change gender and don’t want to be stuck without being able to remove the wig.

We are close to one of the girl’s toilets so we quickly flock into the bathroom. I find one of the empty cubicles and lock myself in. I hear Mary and Alison go into the stalls on either side of me. There are five stalls in total and we are now occupying three of them. I drop my knickers, lift my skirt and sit down. While I relieve myself, I might as well while I’m here; I glue my hair in position.

I flush the toilet and exit the stall. I wash my hands and then brush my hair while I wait for my friends to finish washing. Mary was quicker than I was, but Alison has taken longer to come out. From the rustling of plastic wrapping, I guess that she has an extra problem to deal with today.

We leave the toilets and head to the canteen tuck shop for some refreshments. I take a plastic cup and fill it from the cold-water dispenser. Lisa, one of Julie’s friends, comes and stands beside us. She is holding a can of coke at arm’s length and pulls the tag to open it. The can explodes into a fountain as the pressure is released and the majority of the liquid is aimed in my direction. My head and shoulders are covered in the sticky brown liquid.

“You bitch!” I shout, throwing the contents of my now half-drunk cup of water in Lisa’s face in anger.

“Jasmine Whittaker, Lisa Matthews, what is going on here?” Mr Court states loudly from part way across the room. The room falls silent and all eyes turn in our direction.

“I’m sorry it was an accident,” Lisa states, still holding the dripping can.

“No it wasn’t,” states Josh from behind me, “I saw her shaking the can deliberately to cause it to explode.”

“Both of you go stand outside the staff room door in silence! Now!” Mr Court instructs.

We both comply and head through the door into the corridor outside the staff room. Mr Court disappears inside and a few minutes later one of the female teachers emerge.

“Lisa, you look damp. Jasmine, you’re soaked. Do either of you have spare clothing, P.E. kit for instance?” Mrs Garwood asks.

Lisa shakes her head indicating she doesn’t. I reply, “I have a spare set of clothes in my locker, may I change into them.”

“Yes, please go fetch them and return here,” Mrs Garwood instructs, “I believe there is a sweater in lost property that you can borrow, Lisa.”

I return to my locker and pick up the bag with my spare boy’s uniform that I keep in case I have to do an emergency gender change. I am back outside the staff room within a couple of minutes.

Lisa is still standing waiting outside the staff room door and Mrs Garwood emerges carrying a sweater as I return. “Follow me,” the teacher tells us and we follow her to the changing rooms.

As soon as we are in the relative privacy of the changing room, I take my soaked top, bra, and skirt off. I go to a sink, wet a paper towel, and start to wash myself down. The coke has soaked through to my skin and left me feeling sticky. Looking in the mirror, I can see that my wig is also soaking and will need a wash.

“Take that top off and dry yourself off,” the teacher tells Lisa.

Lisa crosses her arms in front of her chest and states, “There is no way I’m getting undressed with that pervert in the room, staring at my tits.”

“I am not a pervert,” I state angrily, “I don’t know what you have heard, but it’s wrong. I have no interest in seeing you naked. The only lustful stares you will get from me are of jealousy, not from sexual attraction. I’m not a lesbian. If you are that paranoid turn your back towards me or use a toilet cubicle.”

Lisa has the most well developed chest in our year as far as I am aware.

“Jasmine, you might be better off taking a shower,” Mrs Garwood states, “you can then wash your hair. I have some ribbon if you need to tie it up while it dries.”

“I wish things were that simple,” I state as I fill a sink full of warm water. I dab the solvent on the small glue spots holding my wig in place and ease it slowly off my head. I remove the hairpiece and place it in the sink, letting the water soak the stain.

“As you can see, I choose to wear a wig, something that Lisa found out this morning. I saw Julie and her commenting and laughing behind my back. She deliberately staged her ‘accident’ so that I would be forced to remove it and embarrass myself,” I state, putting a sarcastic emphasis on accident. “I have to wash the wig, and I can’t practically wear it while wet. I’m therefore well and truly screwed.”

“Is this true, Lisa? Did you deliberately soak Jasmine to embarrass her?” Mrs Garwood asks.

“It’s about time she got her comeuppance,” Lisa replies sarcastically, “The pervert is a complete and utter fraud. It is about time everybody started see what Jasmine really is.”

“And what is that Lisa?” I shout angrily, “What vile, bigoted, twisted misconception have you been told?”

I take my fresh clothes out of the carrier bag. I don’t have a spare bra, so slip the spare top on without one. I pull the trousers up my legs and fasten them. It feels exceedingly weird getting dressed as a boy while in the girl’s changing room. Clothing doesn’t usually bother me and I’m not normally uncomfortable wearing male garments, but something about the current situation doesn’t feel right.

“That you used to be a boy called Simon,” Lisa states coldly.

“You’ve seen me naked. Do I look like a boy?” I ask.

“Take a look in the mirror, Simon,” she laughs sarcastically.

I turn and look at my reflection. She is of course correct. My knickers being the only bit of girl specific clothing I’m wearing, the rest is either male or unisex. With my wig off, the only thing giving anything of a feminine appearance are the earrings, and they just look silly against my obviously male buzz cut.

“You are certainly looking like a boy at the moment,” Lisa states, rubbing the point in.

I stare in the mirror, the image becoming blurry as my tears escape down my face. I feel like curling up in a ball and crying. My charade is falling down fast, as is my resolve to carry on. I close my eyes and fight back my emotions. I can feel the tentacles of depression wrapping their darkness around me. Swallowing hard I force my embarrassment and sadness to turn into anger to motivate me in one last fight.

Turning and staring at my opponent, I work myself up into a tirade of pure aggression, “Do you think I enjoy looking like this! Why do you think I wear the wig in the first place? I hate looking like I do. I can barely stand seeing my own reflection. It was not my choice to have hair this short. I had to have it cut off, and I can’t wait for it to grow back. That is why I go to so much trouble to hide it, you try shaving your head and seeing if you get laughed at.”

I am now shouting myself horse. Lisa has taken a couple of steps backwards in fear and Mrs Garwood is looking on worried by my emotional outburst.

“I am not a boy, and I never have been,” I state.

If you regard ‘boy’ and ‘girl’ as descriptions of gender, and ‘male’ and ‘female’ as descriptions of physical sex, then my statement is correct. Using those definitions, I am a male girl.

“I’m neither a pervert nor a lesbian. I have told you before I’m not interested in girls sexually,” I shout. “Would you rather I use the boys’ changing room and ogle the guys in the showers. I’m sure they would get a kick out of seeing me naked. Just what do you want from me? What are you trying to do, get me beaten up? Expelled? Killed? Why do you hate me? I have done nothing to you!”

My voice is breaking under the emotional strain and I can no longer see clearly because of the amount of tears falling down my face. I slump to my knees and roll up into a ball on the floor sobbing hysterically. The sounds of the room are drowned out by the pounding of my heartbeat in my ears as I feel my head throbbing from the pressure.