THE SCARS OF THE PAST

META'S POV:

The coppery, rusty taste of blood flooded my mouth, thick and metallic, coating my tongue. My jaw ached, my cheek throbbed. "I said I didn't steal her money! Someone must have put it in my bag!" I tried to speak calmly, to explain, to make them understand, but the words felt like pebbles rattling in an empty tin. No one believed me. Not a single soul. Was it because my family was poor? Was it because of my face, sharp and shadowed, already deemed villainous, like something ripped from a drama? They just kept blaming me, piling accusations onto things I'd never done. A knot of cold despair tightened in my gut.

"Just tell the truth, Meta, and your punishment will be simple. Stop making it complicated." Even my teacher, Ajarn Malinee Srithara, her face a mask of condescending pity, didn't believe me. I was the one getting beaten, I was the one at fault. Why was the world like this? Why did no one ever believe me? Why was money always the center of everything, always the scales tipping against me?

"But I never did what you're trying to blame me for!" I tried to reason, my voice growing hoarse, but it was useless. I saw it in their eyes—the disgust, the judgment, the smug satisfaction of condemnation. They were ready to crucify me for a crime I hadn't committed. Hope, a fragile, flickering flame, guttered and died within me. I was utterly, devastatingly alone.

Then, a sudden, jarring sound. The heavy wooden door of the Principal's office was rudely flung open without a single knock, slamming against the wall with a deafening CRACK! I flinched, my bruised body tensing, expecting more punishment, more accusations. But then a voice, clear and unwavering, sliced through the stifling air.

"I know who the real culprit is!"

Every head snapped towards the doorway. I looked too, my vision blurred by pain and unshed tears, making the figure a hazy silhouette against the brighter hallway. It was a girl, with a sharp, short boy cut, standing there with an impossible defiance. I didn't recognize her. I'd never seen her before. My teacher, Ajarn Malinee, immediately went pale, her face draining of color as if she'd seen a ghost. Her previous composure fractured, replaced by a nervous, almost panicked tremor.

"What are you saying, child? There are a lot of students pointing at Meta! Stop lying in front of the school Principal! You will be punished for lying in front of everyone!" Ajarn Malinee's voice rose, shrill and desperate, trying her best to scare this unknown student. I saw the girl hesitate, her small frame rigid. She took a deep, shuddering breath, gathering herself.

Then, a sound like a thunderclap. "SMACK!!!" A loud, brutal slap echoed through the room, the sharp crack of her two hands hitting her own face, reverberating off the walls, silencing every gasp. My eyes widened. She had just slapped herself. Hard.

"Ouch!!! That hurts a lot!" She screamed while rubbing her cheeks that started to turn into a deep crimson hue. She then continued,

"I'm not lying and I have evidence in my hand!" she declared, her voice trembling but defiant.

Ajarn Malinee immediately stood, her eyes wide with fury, and practically lunged towards her. "Stop pretending you have evidence, child! You can now leave if you will not stop saying nonsense!" She tried to physically push the girl out of the office, her grip on the girl's arm tight, her face contorted.

"I'M NOT SAYING NONSENSE, YOU LYING BITCH!!!"

The words, raw and unfiltered, detonated in the quiet room. Everyone, including me, was absolutely frozen, utterly shocked. My jaw dropped. Did she just call the teacher a bitch? I whispered to myself, unable to believe what I'd just heard. The Principal, who had been observing the scene with a stern, impassive face, now slowly stood, her expression hardening, clearly dissatisfied with such blatant disrespect.

"WHAT DID YOU CALL ME?!" Ajarn Malinee shrieked, her voice reaching a crescendo. The girl, small against her towering fury, looked terrified. Her eyes were wide, her lips trembling, but she held Ajarn Malinee's gaze. She was trying her best to be brave. And in that moment, seeing this unknown girl stand against her, despite her fear, something shifted within me. She was the first person, aside from my family, who had ever stood up for me like that.

"I call you a lying bitch," she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper, yet it cut through the tension like a knife, "because I have a picture of you putting that money inside that boy's bag!"

Ajarn Malinee's eyes went wide with pure terror. She immediately clapped a hand over the girl's mouth, trying desperately to silence her and drag her out of the room. "What are you saying?!" she hissed, her voice frantic. But as she struggled, the girl, with a surge of unexpected strength, wrenched her arm free and, with a desperate, fluid motion, threw something towards me.

It was a small, chunky camera, and a glossy, rectangular piece of paper. The camera landed with a soft thud on the floor, but the paper fluttered directly into my lap. I knew that camera—it was called a Pol... a Polaroid camera. And the film she'd thrown to me was the picture itself: undeniable, stark proof of how my teacher, Ajarn Malinee Srithara, had, during breaktime, slipped a wad of money into my bag.

"Let me see," the Principal commanded, her voice dangerously quiet, extending a hand for the film. I shakily handed it to her. Her eyes scanned the image, and with each passing second, her face grew darker, a storm gathering behind her gaze.

"Ajarn Malinee Srithara!" The Principal's voice was now a thunderous roar, echoing the fury of my dream. "Let go of the child and explain this to me!"

My teacher immediately released the girl, her face crumbling. She started to beg, to babble excuses, tears streaming down her face. She claimed she did it because she was 'uncomfortable' with me, because I 'looked troublesome,' and that I 'always stayed alone' and even 'scared' my classmates. The Principal listened, her expression cold, then unleashed a blistering lecture. She reminded Malinee that as a teacher, she was responsible for making the classroom a safe and accommodating place for everyone, no matter their background or how they looked. She was a shame to all teachers out there, a disgrace to have the nerve to frame an innocent student.

The ringing of my phone's alarm, a stark, digital sound, sliced through the oppressive atmosphere of the dream, yanking me back to the sterile quiet of my university condo. I lay there for a moment, the coppery taste of blood still phantom in my mouth, the echo of that girl's defiant shout vibrating in my ears. I remembered her, not her face, but the overwhelming feeling of a sudden, impossible light piercing my darkest moment. I owed her. But then, the memory twisted. That day was the last I ever saw her. Rumors claimed she was hit by a car right outside the school, that she died. Gone, before I could ever thank her.

Then, like a splash of cold water, the image of Thyme, blissfully devouring food, barged into my mind. His uninhibited joy, the way he attacked his plate – it was so absurdly normal, so utterly present, that it ripped through the suffocating grip of the past. The lingering metallic taste in my mouth faded, replaced by a strange, almost sweet aftertaste of... something ridiculous, something real.

I forced myself upright, a cold sweat slicking my skin. The dream always left me hollow, that familiar, helpless rage churning in my stomach. The injustice, the whispers, the feeling of being condemned. My eyes flickered to the digital clock on my bedside table. 7:45 AM. Damn. Football practice. I'd almost forgotten, lost in the depths of that recurring nightmare.

I swung my legs off the bed, the familiar chill of the polished floor grounding me. My condo was always neat, everything in its place. I walked to my closet, pulling open a drawer to reveal my meticulously cleaned and arranged football cleats, laces neatly tucked in. The faint scent of leather and grass clung to them. I pulled on my practice gear, the familiar fabric a small comfort. Football, my studies, my carefully constructed walls – these were my defenses now. Anything to keep the past buried, anything to avoid feeling that helpless child again.