When they shoved me hard against the wall, pain shot up my spine. Someone grabbed my collar, yanking me upright before their fist slammed into my chest.

A muffled sound escaped my throat, and tears spilled down my cheeks before I could stop them.

"You're always so cold, like a walking corpse. Everyone's upset, and you're still standing here smiling?" another said.

I wanted to tell them I wasn't smiling on purpose—that I didn't want to be someone incapable of showing sadness—but Mom's control left me no choice. All that appeared on my face was that hollow, mechanical smile.

I tried to shrink into the corner, but they dragged me back out, slamming my face against the wall until the skin scraped raw. A sharp sting burned across my cheek.

"Are you still trying to hide? You did it on purpose, didn't you? The whole school knows you're the one who bully that dog."

…

By the time evening came, my homeroom teacher, Aaron Throne, walked me home and briefly explained the situation to Mom.

The moment she saw my face, Mom exploded.

"Why do you always have to cause trouble? Did you feed that dog something you shouldn't have? Otherwise, why would your classmates accuse only you? You will apologize to them tomorrow. I want this matter resolved before you bring me any more shame."

I looked up at her, stunned. "I didn't do anything wrong. Why should I apologize?"

Mom snapped, "Does it matter who's right or wrong? Why do you think they're picking on you instead of someone else? Don't you dare claim you're innocent. I've worked tirelessly to maintain your skin and your looks, and you have no idea how much effort I've put into you.

"Did I say you could get hurt? Stay on your knees until you've reflected on your mistake. You're also not eating dinner until then."

Suddenly, my knees gave out, and I collapsed onto the floor as if something unseen had forced me down. My fingers clutched the seams of my pants, whitening with tension.

"Mom, I never wanted to be perfect," I thought bitterly.

…

"Hey, what are you wearing for the class party tomorrow, Elsa?" Myra Lincoln, my classmate, asked as we walked home from school.

I gave a weary smile. "Probably my gym uniform. It's the only thing I have."

"Oh, come on, that's so dull. Come here," she said, catching my wrist and pulling me toward a shop window.

Pointing excitedly at a soft, cream-colored dress on display, she added, "Look at this—you'd look beautiful in it."

I shook my head. "I've never worn a dress before. Mom says students should only focus on studying, so she chooses all my clothes for me."

"Students should look confident and full of life," Myra corrected me with a grin. "Besides, wearing something you love can actually lift your mood. When you feel good, you'd focus better.

"Trust me—wear this to the party, and everyone will see a different side of you."

Her words stayed with me long after. For almost 18 years, Mom had dictated every part of my life—from the amount of water I was allowed to drink to the school I was told to attend.

So, for the first time, I decided for myself—I bought the dress.

…

The party arrived sooner than I expected. For the first time, I felt light and truly alive.

The room was filled with laughter and music, and for a fleeting moment, I belonged.

And then, in the middle of it all, Mom appeared at the door. My heart froze, and I shot to my feet in panic.

"What on earth are you doing?" she snapped. "What is that outfit? And what's that nonsense on your lips?"

"Mom, it's just for the party…"

Before I could finish, she slapped me across the face.

"How dare you? I spent everything I had to make you perfect, and this is how you repay me? Running around with your little friends, wearing that ridiculous dress, embarrassing me in public like this?"

Mom yanked at my dress as she scolded me, as if wearing it were something shameful, something indecent.

The sting on my cheek spread all the way to my chest, burning deep. "Mom, they're my best friends," I pleaded. "Please stop."

Her anger flared. "You used to listen to me. You did whatever I said without question. However, ever since you started hanging around with them, you've learned to argue and lie to me.

"Tell me, how can a bunch of useless nobodies like them be called friends?"

I closed my eyes, my breath trembling as anger and humiliation clawed at my chest. The pressure caved in on me with such force that it almost suffocated me. Just as I was about to fight back, my body froze.

Maybe my emotions had spiked too high and triggered the microchip. Suddenly, all my sadness and anger vanished, leaving only a crushing emptiness. For a moment, it felt like resisting no longer had any meaning.

I couldn't remember how I got home that night.

…

After the party came finals week, and Mr. Thorne announced a parent-teacher conference.

Chris Sawyer, another classmate, and Myra called out to me mysteriously after class. "Elsa, come here. We got you something. You've seemed down lately."

He smiled as he pulled a hair clip from his pocket. "Let me put it on for you."

However, before he could reach me, Mom suddenly appeared out of nowhere. She shoved him hard. "What do you think you're doing? It's you, isn't it? You're the one corrupting my daughter! Haven't you ever been taught about proper boundaries between boys and girls? This is disgraceful!"

Then, she began hitting him repeatedly.

Mr. Thorne quickly stepped in, seizing her arm. "Mrs. White, please! This is a school. Don't humiliate Elsa in front of everyone."

"Humiliate her? She's already doing that herself!" Mom snapped, waving the hair clip wildly. "She's practically dating him. Can't you see?"

She then pulled out my diary and shoved it at Mr. Thorne, even beginning to read aloud in front of the entire class. "Read this! 'He stood up for me today, and he even spoke to me first.'"

A wave of shame washed over me, and my hands trembled. "Mom, that's my diary. It's my privacy."

Mom glared at me. "I'm your mother. I gave birth to you, raised you, and you're talking to me about privacy?"

"Mrs. White," Mr. Thorne insisted. "Education requires understanding. Children need their space and privacy too."

Mom snapped, "If that's your idea of teaching, then we need to have a serious talk. Elsa's been lying, dating behind my back, and her grades are slipping. Is this what you call good education?"

She grabbed at Mr. Thorne's sleeve, shouting, "You're not fit to be a teacher! Come with me to the principal's office right now. You should be suspended before you ruin any more students!"

The commotion drew the attention of our year's assistant principal, Anna Whitaker, who hurried over to see what was happening.

Mom yanked me forward. "Elsa, tell Ms. Whitaker what kind of teacher Mr. Thorne is. Tell her he lets you mess around with boys and doesn't even care that your grades are slipping."

I opened my mouth to speak, but Mom pressed something on her phone.

Suddenly, the world went white. My vision blurred, and pain exploded behind my eyes.

I stared blankly at the people surrounding me, unable to grasp what was happening.

Suddenly, fragments of memories flooded my mind—Mr. Thorne's cold stares when my grades slipped, and the mocking I faced whenever I got close to the boys in our class.

Thinking of all this, the words slipped out before I could stop them. "Yes, Mom."

She raised a brow. "See? A teacher like this should be suspended. I expect you to explain this today."