A Better World. Tatiana Bazhan

      Tatiana Bazhan

      A Better World

      Chapter 1: Alex

      Night. Alex lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Sleep wouldn't come. Not tonight. Not any night, really. A heavy weight pressed down on his chest, a constant companion these past months. It felt like a stone, cold and hard, lodged right behind his ribs. He sighed, the sound swallowed by the darkness of his room.

      Depression. That's what the school counsellor had called it after Alex's last breakdown. A fancy word for feeling… utterly broken. He hadn’t gone back to that school to tell him he felt worse.

      He closed his eyes, and instantly, they were there. The voices. Whispering, then louder, sharper, crueller.

      “GINGER FREAK!”

      “CARROT TOP!”

      Each taunt echoed in his head, amplified by the silence of the room. It had started innocently enough, the odd comment in the corridor. But it had escalated, day by day, turning into a relentless barrage of insults, snide remarks, and outright mockery. And with the digital age at hand, there was no going back.

      The teacher, Mr. Davies, just seemed to look the other way. Did he not hear? Didn't he care? Probably not. Alex was just another kid in a classroom full of them.

      His parents? They had no idea. He couldn't bring himself to tell them. His dad, a university professor, always seemed so… preoccupied. His Mum always too busy with the house to listen. He didn’t want to burden them. Besides, he was sixteen. He should be able to handle this, shouldn't he?

      He’d tried. God, he’d tried everything. Ignoring them. That didn’t work. Fighting back. That only made it worse. Trying to befriend them? Hopeless. They weren't interested in anything beyond their phones, their stupid online stories, and the latest viral trend. They didn't know what a book looked like, let alone that a guitar could move your soul. They just liked tormenting him and filming it.

      Alex rolled onto his side. Maybe he should just get a new place. Switch schools? What would it help? This was the third school in two years. Always moving houses with his people. It was always the same. The whispers, the stares, the relentless pursuit of anything that made him different.

      He remembered the last time. The hand-drawn caricatures plastered all over the school corridors, his face twisted into grotesque shapes, accompanied by vile captions. Photos of him taken without his knowledge, uploaded online, attracting a torrent of hateful comments.

      He just couldn't face it anymore. Every morning, getting out of bed was a battle. Walking through the school gates felt like entering a war zone. The weight in his chest grew heavier with each step.

      His mum kept saying, “You have to finish school, Alex. You need to go to university. Your father’s a professor, you can’t let him down by flunking your exams.”

      “But Mum…” he started last week, only for her to cut him off.

      “No buts, Alex! We just want what’s best for you.”

      He knew they did. But what was the point of a good degree if he was completely destroyed by the time he got there? Alex closed his eyes once more, the darkness closing around him like a suffocating blanket. A single tear escaped and traced a cold path down his cheek. He was so tired. So, so tired.

      Alex opened his laptop, searching for the answers. “How to stop bullying at school?” and “How to overcome depression?” he typed, hoping for solutions. He stumbled upon a website offering help to teenagers in tough situations. He read:

      “YOU ARE NOT ALONE!”

      The words caught his eyes.

      “YOU WERE BORN TO MAKE THE WORLD A BETTER PLACE!”

      A message followed:

      “You can help those who need you. Meeting tomorrow at 6 PM in the abandoned house.”

      Alex hesitated, a mix of fear and hope welling up inside him. Could this be the answer he was looking for? Or was it something else entirely?

      Chapter 2: Emily

      Emily was running away, trying to escape from herself and the illusion of her family.

      That evening the kitchen light cast a harsh glare on her father. He was slumped at the table, a half-empty bottle of whiskey glinting beside him. Crumbs of bread and bits of chicken lay scattered on the newspaper in front of him, though he wasn’t eating now, just drinking. Mum had moved into her room weeks before, and every night the girl could hear her muffled sobs through her dream.

      He hadn’t always been like this. She remembered… well, she tried to remember better days. But the alcohol seemed to have washed them away, leaving only the ugly present.

      The dam broke last Tuesday. Mum couldn't take it anymore. Emily understood now that it was dangerous, too dangerous to confront the drunk. But her nerves snapped. She stood in the doorway, her voice rising with each word.

      “I wish you were dead, you monster!” she screamed, her face red and blotchy. “I hate you! You've ruined my life!”

      He exploded. He kicked the kitchen door off its hinges with a sickening crack. Then he swept his arm across the table, sending glasses and plates crashing to the floor.

      “Dad, please! No!” Emily begged, but he didn’t even seem to see her. He was lost in his own rage, a beast unleashed.

      The horror of that night was never to be forgotten. The people who were supposed to be Emily’s safe place had become something else. That staggering, slurring man was not her dad. And her mum’s face that streaked with mascara and tears was not the face of the calm, strong woman she knew. They were strangers, monstrous versions of themselves.

      Fear and shame became Emily’s constant companions. There had been times, back before Mum moved into her room, when Dad would wet the bed. Emily was so ashamed. At first, Mum would pull off his wet trousers and underwear, her face tight with disgust. Then, she just stopped. In the morning, he'd strip off the soaked clothes himself, a look of weary disgust on his face before shuffling towards the bathroom. The heavy, acrid smell of urine would linger in the big room for days. Sometimes, he wouldn't even make it to the bathroom, and the hall or the living room would be stained. He'd vomit in the bath, leaving Mum to clean it.

      His binges would last for three or four weeks, turning the house into a living hell. He gave his wages to Mum, but when he needed money for a drink, he would first beg, and then force it out of her. The gentle giant, slowly dissolving into a monster.

      Emily just wanted him to stop. She just wanted her mum to smile again. She just wanted her family back.

      Chapter 3: Jessica

      Jessica's stomach rumbled, a loud, embarrassing groan that echoed in the otherwise silent library. Her head swam, and the edges of her vision began to blur. Black spots danced before her eyes. Five days. That was all. In five days, she’d managed two oranges, a single boiled egg, and a handful of leafy greens. There was also the chicken, but she didn’t count that. She’d bolted to the loo and brought it right back up.

      “I need to lose weight”, she thought, clutching the edge of the table for balance. “I'm too fat.”

      The numbers flashed in her mind, a brutal, unforgiving equation: 54 kilograms. 169 centimetres. It was disgusting. Ann, from her form, was so much better. She floated through the halls, a wisp of a girl at a mere 49 kilograms. The older lads noticed her. Everyone wanted to be her boyfriend. Jessica? Invisible. She was always on her own.

      A wave of nausea washed over her, and she closed her eyes, willing it to pass. This had to work. She needed to be thin. She’d even bought a pair of jeans a size too small, stuffed in the back of her wardrobe. A goal. Motivation.

      The bell rang, jolting her back to reality. Another lesson. More staring, more whispered comments she could only half-hear, more loneliness.

      She stumbled out of the library, fighting to keep her head up. The corridor was a blur of faces, all laughing and chatting and belonging. Jessica felt more invisible than ever.

      Later that day, during break, it happened. One minute