The Truth of Me - Chapter 4
The Black Sheep
By the end of the week, Ella’s transformation was the talk of the school. Wherever she went, she could feel the eyes, hear the whispers. The girls in her homeroom no longer passed her notes or invited her to group conversations. In the cafeteria, Tara and the others would talk over her, their laughter too loud, their jokes too pointed.
“Ella, where’d you get those boots? From a dumpster?” Becca said one afternoon, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. Chloe snorted into her smoothie, not bothering to hide her grin.
Ella ignored them, focusing on her tray. Her appetite had all but vanished since Monday.
“That’s enough,” Tara muttered, her tone half-hearted. But she didn’t defend Ella, and her silence spoke volumes.
Ella stood abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. Without a word, she grabbed her tray and left the table.
As she passed other students, she caught snippets of cruel jokes and stifled giggles. Someone muttered the word "freak."
By the time she reached the bathroom, her chest was heaving. She locked herself in a stall and sat on the closed toilet seat, her arms wrapped tightly around herself.
They had labeled her the black sheep, which might have been alluring given her love for all things dark—if only it didn’t come with the sting of their cruelty.
Is this worth it? The thought crept in unbidden, sharp and insistent. She could go back to her old self tomorrow. Wear pastel. Smile at the right times. Laugh at their jokes, even the ones that weren’t funny. It would be so easy.
But the idea made her stomach churn.
Instead, she reached into her bag and pulled out her journal. She hadn’t opened it since the first day she’d exposed herself to the school. Her pen hovered over the page, the blank lines taunting her.
Finally, she wrote:
They don’t know me. They never did. And maybe they never will. But I know myself now, and I won’t give that up—not for them, not for anyone.
The words steadied her, the act of writing anchoring her in a sea of doubt. She closed the journal and leaned back, breathing deeply.
The bullying didn’t stop.
By the following week, her locker was defaced with sticky notes: “Lighten up, emo” and “Don’t cry too much, Dracula.” Someone even drew a crude sketch of her in a coffin. Ella ripped them down with trembling hands, her nails digging into the paper.
But not everyone was cruel.
One afternoon, as she sat alone on the bleachers during gym class, a girl from her art class approached her. Ella vaguely recognised her—quiet, always doodling in the margins of her notes. She was clutching a sketchbook to her chest, her dark brown hair falling in waves over her shoulders.
“Hey,” the girl said softly, sitting down a few feet away.
Ella raised an eyebrow, bracing herself for another snide comment.
“I like your boots,” the girl said, her voice hesitant but genuine. “I’ve been looking for a pair like that.”
Ella blinked. “Thanks.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the sounds of basketballs thudding and sneakers squeaking echoing in the background.
“I’m Mia, by the way,” the girl said, flipping open her sketchbook. She held it out to Ella.
The page showed a stunning charcoal drawing of a moonlit forest, shadows dancing between the trees. It was hauntingly beautiful.
“Wow,” Ella said, her voice soft with admiration. “That’s... incredible.”
Mia smiled shyly. “I was thinking of adding a figure. Someone standing at the edge, like they’re deciding whether to go in.”
Ella stared at the drawing, something inside her loosening. For the first time in days, she felt understood.
“I’d love to see that,” Ella said.
Mia nodded. “Maybe I’ll show you when it’s finished.”
That small interaction gave Ella hope.
The next day, she wore her black leather jacket over her dress, letting it hug her like armour. When someone snickered in the hallway, she didn’t shrink away.
Her journal entries grew longer, her resolve stronger. Each time she felt the weight of their cruelty, she reminded herself of the girl in the mirror, the one who refused to blend in just to avoid being different.
The black sheep, after all, wasn’t a weakness. It was her strength.