In the end, I just typed back, "Just exploring. I'm fine."
I shut off my phone and, forcing down the lump in my throat, found a black trash bag. I began to stuff the ruined canvases, tubes of paint, and shredded clothes inside, one heartbreaking piece at a time.
As I cleaned, the tears I'd been holding back finally fell.
Night fell, cloaking the apartment in a deathly silence.
I huddled on the cold sofa, clutching a box cutter.
Then I heard it: metal scraping against the door, the sound of labored breathing from the other side. The doorknob rattled violently as someone worked on the broken lock.
The first class the next morning was "Sociology."
Exhausted, with deep shadows under my eyes, I entered the lecture hall. The chatter died instantly. All eyes turned to me, filled with a universal, palpable disgust.
"Ugh."
"Can't believe she still has the nerve to show her face."
"Heard she had a busy night. Wonder which old man paid the bills."
I stared straight ahead, walking toward my usual seat.
But I stopped short. The seat was drenched in a sticky, foul-smelling liquid. On the desk sat a filthy ashtray, "WHORE'S PERSONAL ASHTRAY" scrawled on it in permanent marker.
Troy lounged in the back row, chewing gum with his feet propped up.
"Like it, Ophelia? Your very own exclusive ashtray, courtesy of the class." He whistled. "A girl who sells her body only deserves to use trash, right? Need a lesson on how to fill it with your mouth?"
The room erupted in laughter.
I stalked over and swiped the ashtray off the desk, sending it crashing to the floor. Sticky cigarette butts and ash splattered, some of it landing on Troy's pristine, limited-edition sneakers.
"Oh, shit!" Troy shot to his feet, his pupils dilating in fury as he grabbed me by the collar.
A wave of pure, violent menace rolled off him, so intense my knees felt weak.
"What's all this commotion?" a sharp voice demanded from the doorway.
Professor Julian Croft strode in, a stack of textbooks tucked under his arm.
Tiffany immediately jumped up, pointing an accusing finger. "Professor Croft, Ophelia's gone crazy. She threw the ashtray, made a mess, and ruined Troy's expensive sneakers!"
Professor Croft's gaze flickered from the mess on the floor to me. He waved a handkerchief in front of his nose as if to ward off a bad smell.
He frowned, his voice dripping with condescension. "Ophelia, sociological theory suggests that individuals from lower socioeconomic backgrounds are prone to destructive impulses and a lack of self-control. But this is Blackwood, an institution for the elite. I suggest you reserve the savage behaviors you learned in the slums for your own time."
I stared at him, incredulous. "Professor Croft, they put the ashtray on my desk. They were bullying me."
"Quiet!" He slammed his textbooks onto the lectern. "How dare you talk back? Is this the sort of defiance your family taught you?"
He clicked open a PowerPoint, pointing to a slide titled "Class Stratification."
"Perfect timing. Today's lecture is on social parasitism. Ophelia, come up here. Stand by the lectern. Let everyone witness a textbook case of a social climber's failure, a living example of the dependency ingrained in your very nature."
