Trapped (Bullied Book 4) (Bullied Series) Vera Hollins (best large ereader txt) 📖

“Don’t touch me!”

I backed away until I hit the cabinet next to the table. All my insecurities rushed back to me, my self-loathing topping everything, and tears sprang to my eyes. Never had I felt uglier or fatter than under his hateful eyes in this moment.

“You’re hideous from the inside out.”

I whimpered and lowered my gaze to the floor. My hair wasn’t enough to hide me from him—nothing was ever enough to hide me from him—and shame pushed away all the self-esteem I’d managed to gain these last few months with the help of my therapist.

He snorted. “Just like I said—you’re all tears and nothing else.”

I couldn’t take this anymore. I darted for the exit, blind with tears. To hell with detention and everything. I was about to reach the door, but I remembered too late I’d left a packed box near the doorway to dump it later. I tripped over it and crashed down on the floor, my knees taking the biggest hit.

For a moment—just for a moment—I allowed myself to close my eyes and wallow in utter humiliation. My knees hurt badly, but I didn’t stop to inspect them. I picked myself right up without even turning to look at him. I was just giving him more reasons to hate me. I was giving myself more reasons to hate myself.

I took two steps toward the door, limping.

“Jessie, wait…,” he said in an unbelievably soft voice that was laced with regret, and I halted, unsure if I’d just imagined it. Warmth spread through my chest, spurring me to stay.

Of course I didn’t acknowledge it or him.

I just got out and never looked back.

I spent hours in my car parked in front of my empty house, the dark sky gradually enveloping me in shadows. I wished my tears had dried a long time ago, but they kept coming, and my chest ached under the onslaught of self-denigrating thoughts.

I shouldn’t have been complaining about his cruelty. I’d asked for the truth, and I’d gotten it. I couldn’t expect anything else from him, because who could love me like this?

My mind raced back to the two-year relationship with my ex-boyfriend, which had ended a year ago. Rory was the son of my mom’s best friend, so we’d known each other since we were in diapers, but we’d never been particularly close. Not until I went to his birthday party in ninth grade.

That night we danced, talked, and then talked some more, and something changed between us. We ended up kissing on his porch, and he asked me out on a date. Rory was pretty, but he wasn’t quite my type. He was short and had a few too many pimples on his face, but he was sweet and good-natured. As someone who had been invisible to boys, I was hungry to be seen, and I basked in his attention, so I wanted to give us a shot.

If I could explain our relationship in one word, it would be plain. He was a nice guy, but there was no spark. Despite that, I gave him my virginity because I felt comfortable enough around him and believed he wasn’t going to mention anything about my weight or criticize me.

He never said a bad word about my body, but he rarely complimented it, and he generally avoided any conversation that touched on the topic of my weight. He would say I was cute, but I had eyes and I noticed the way he looked at slim girls. It wasn’t the same expression he had when he looked at me.

I’d acted like I was okay with it—like that was something I had to accept—but month after month, it just created a bigger dent in my self-confidence until the harsh truth was drilled into my mind. No one could like me like this.

I gripped my steering wheel and leaned my forehead against it, closing my eyes.

How I envied them. How I envied the girls who didn’t have to worry about the next calorie or those who could easily slip into their bikinis without worrying about their fat or cellulite. How I wanted to be thinner. To actually be noticed, and not for the bad reasons. I wanted a day when I would be completely satisfied with myself and didn’t have to suppress this inner dissatisfaction that hounded me each day.

Now, all those words about self-love and self-acceptance my therapist had fed me felt fake. They seemed like a wrapper that was supposed to hide the real thing inside, which was my ugliness. This wasn’t only about my looks. This was about my cowardice and weakness. There wasn’t actually anything good about me, was there?

I closed my eyes and wished that when I opened them, I would magically be skinnier. I wouldn’t have this overlapping stomach fat. I wouldn’t have cellulite. I wouldn’t be this unhappy.

All those years, I went on diets, tried eating only healthy food and limiting my food intake, and a few times, I even exercised, but I was miserable because I wasn’t cut out for it. It just wasn’t my thing. I wasn’t Sarah. I didn’t think much about healthy living or being in good shape, and I found it unfair that I had to submit myself to something I hated in order to change myself. Why did I have to change myself? Why couldn’t the world accept me the way I was?

The whole world was built upon the standards of beauty that movies and TV shows forced on us constantly. All those pretty, slim actors parading across our screens. Then, all those fat jokes and harassment. I couldn’t even count the number of times people had stared at me in disapproval, their faces telling me I wasn’t fitting into the labels our society put on us.

So I was stuck between loving myself the way I was and wanting to be someone I was not. I was stuck between