Isabela Part 3

The jerk, Vitor, is having sex with a busty girl, forcing himself against her body, which is already pressed against the stall door. His jeans are around his ankles, his ugly, dark ass showing the tan line from his swimwear, while he licks the neck of the girl I saw hanging onto Nate the other day. When his dark eyes fall on me while Cristina's ex is thrusting into her, he gives me a seductive and cheeky smile, his red lips creating a perfect contrast with his straight white teeth.
“Unless you want to join in, redhead, you better scram!” she moans, rolling her eyes and biting her lower lip.
“I would never participate in this tragedy!” I scoff, drying my hands with a piece of paper, laughing at the situation, still in disbelief.
I bet the moron, Vitor, has no idea it’s me witnessing his little porn show. I don’t even know who’s more pathetic: him for having sex in a bathroom or her for sleeping with this jerk. I’ve never understood what Cris saw in him—he’s annoying, ugly, and dumb to boot.
“Oh, you’re gonna act all high and mighty? I bet you’re wet, babe,” the woman says, letting out a drawn-out moan as she digs her nails into Vitor’s back.
“Sweetheart, I’m drier than a raisin, believe me! Now, keep at it with your pathetic little romp. Just be careful not to catch anything, babe! I heard this guy’s been spreading it around!” I lie, chuckling at the look of horror on her face.
I exit the bathroom, relieved that Cristina has gotten rid of this man. She deserves someone much better than a loser like him. I won’t lie; there’s also a certain lightness in my heart now because I see that Nate didn’t have anything serious with that girl from the bathroom, who I learned is named Fabiana.
I walk quickly, dodging excited, drunk people along the way, still trying to go unnoticed by Nate before he decides to bother me. I bet he wants to finish me off even more after what I did to make him leave my room.
As I’m in the middle of the dance floor, I’m approached by a strange, stocky, sour-looking man who hands me a piece of paper. I take the flyer, suspicious of his heavy, clouded eyes, as he walks away. Even drunk, I can see a lot of people holding identical prints in their hands.
It’s dark, and the space is lit by colorful beams like any nightclub. But when my eyes scan the flyer, straining to understand the illustration, my whole body itches, and my eyes seem to be engulfed in a red smoke that blinds me. I almost feel a shadow starting to swallow me, climbing up my body in slow motion until it devours me whole and turns me into a monster eager to destroy Nate.
I’m going to kill that idiot!
The flyer has a ridiculous collage of my face on the body of a poodle. It’s pathetic on so many levels... Man, he’s the worst kind of man there is. Nate is definitely a pig. To make things worse, the huge red phrase at the top of the flyer reads “Wanted: disobedient and lost little dog.”
I spin on my heels, seeing distorted faces laughing and staring at me as a huge beam of light engulfs my body. I’m a bright spot in the middle of the hall, as if I’m being illuminated by a spotlight. I try to cover my eyes with my hand.
I can no longer hear the music. Only silence screams against the dark walls, being defeated by snickers or whispers. I try to see, to dodge the light and adjust my eyes to it, but all I notice is everyone staring at me. At this moment, I’m a spectacle, a complete joke. Everyone is laughing at my face in the most outrageous way.
I truly feel like an aberration. Automatic triggers from my first day at school after Nate left parade before my eyes. They scream and echo in my head, repeating in a maddening rhythm. They remind me of how humiliated I felt, that I had to become who I am to survive. Those mocking looks, filled with judgment, remind me of how they sharpened me, forging me to explode, making me decide that I wouldn’t take it anymore.
There’s a thin line between being a victim reacting and becoming an aggressor.
And how do you recognize when you’ve crossed the line?
How do you see that you fought so hard not to get hit but ended up striking those who didn’t deserve it? How do you pull back?
I don’t know how to do that anymore.
My mind sets off red alarms screaming “danger,” so I arm myself to the soul to avoid suffering. And I don’t care if the thorns that rise around me to protect me will pierce my skin. They are my shield.
I feel humiliation taking over me. My eyes burn, but I’m forcing myself not to cry, crumpling the paper, feeling my nails tearing it apart. When that familiar voice emerges, amplified by the microphone, my eyes finally adapt to the glare.
Nate is on stage, right in front of the hall, staring at me with a triumphant smile. My heart is pounding so hard it could stop at any moment and kill me. But I’m sure that if I die now, I’ll still come back to face this idiot to the bitter end.
“Oh, there’s my little dog. I was starting to worry, Isabela,” he says, causing uproarious and traumatizing laughter to spread throughout the place.
I think I might faint. However, I smell my skin burning from the fire of rage. I have no idea what I’m doing; all I know is that I’m not going to let this go. All I feel are my thorns tearing away every part of me and spilling out to hurt him too.
No!
I won’t back down for any man.
I won’t bend to any bastard!
I see red.
My body is possessed by the urge to retaliate and hurt him, even knowing I’ll hurt myself in the process. Before I know it, I’m on stage. Nate is still laughing, his delicious and infuriating scent invading me, bringing rebellious memories.