1 Concrete angel (o/s)

This story deals with child abuse. It also includes bullying, suicidal thoughts, and vulgar language.

She walks to school with the lunch she packed

Nobody knows what she’s holdin’ back

Wearin’ the same dress she wore yesterday

She hides the bruises with linen and lace

2011

Sixteen-year-old Jade West drove through the quiet, pre-dawn streets, the city just beginning to stir. School would start at 8, but she always arrived by 7:45. The extra time gave her a chance to mentally prepare, to put on the armor she’d need to get through the day. Today, it was English class first—The Great Gatsby, a book she had already devoured and picked apart, much like everything else in her life.

Few knew this about her, but books had always been her sanctuary. Since she could recognize letters, she would lose herself in words, the only thing her parents allowed her to do without criticism. By twelve, she had moved on to Poe, finding solace in the macabre. By sixteen, she was addicted to Miller and Williams, re-reading them until the pages blurred. Sometimes, she ventured into Maud Montgomery’s world, but only because a certain Canadian boy had insisted she was like that fiery, red-haired dreamer.

She craved something deeper, something that mirrored the chaos inside her. Relatability was rare, and these days, her life felt more like a soap opera than a novel.

As she stepped inside the school building, what should have been a safe haven turned instantly hostile.

The insults came quickly, like arrows loosed in the dark.

“Gank!”

“Bitch!”

“Monster!”

“Freak!”

It had been like this since the breakup. February 14th—Valentine’s Day of all days—forever etched in her mind as the day she lost the one person who had seen past her walls. Irony had never been crueler. Jade hadn’t realized the depth of her feelings for Beck until long after that day, until after her life had flipped upside down. It was the breakup that tore her world apart, but it wasn’t the only thing.

She tugged down the sleeves of the red-and-black plaid button-up she wore, a shirt she had practically stolen from Beck. These days, his clothes—along with the leather jacket he had given her for her sixteenth birthday—were her makeshift armor. She wrapped herself in them like a second skin, trying to shield the parts of herself that she hated.

There was nothing underneath the shirt but her body—the body she despised. She hated her chest, the same chest her mother had cruelly remarked was “too developed” when she was only thirteen. Thirteen, a child just beginning to understand womanhood, and already her mother had shamed her for something she couldn’t control.

I’m sorry, Mommy, for going from an A to a D!

She had tried everything to escape the image her mother had cast onto her. Overplucked eyebrows, dyed hair—none of it helped. Instead, it had only added to the pile of issues she carried. She looked at herself and saw nothing but flaws: her face, round and cherubic in a way she despised, her thighs, her stomach. Everything was wrong. Even the black clothes she constantly wore, meant to make her look thinner, failed to do what she wanted.

Her mother’s words echoed in her head, cruel and biting, “as plump as a partridge.” The same words that Vivien Leigh—or Ann-Margret or Jessica Lange—spat in that scene from A Streetcar Named Desire. She couldn’t even watch it anymore without feeling that sick, familiar twist in her gut. How could her mother use those words, hurl them so carelessly as though they didn’t scar? As though Jade wasn’t standing right there, absorbing each blow like it was nothing.

But it wasn’t just her mother’s words that left marks.

Scars. Jade had scars that no one—not even Beck—had seen. Not yet. He wouldn’t discover them until years later, when they were living together in a New York loft, both in their twenties. She would drop her bathrobe one evening, ready to show him everything—her skin, her vulnerability. He would see them then, but not now. Not even Cat, her first true female friend, knew they existed. She had become a master at hiding them, covering them with clothes, with attitude, with sharp words.

Her scars were her secret. Her pain was her own, locked away behind layers of sarcasm and deflection.

The teacher wonders but she doesn’t ask

It’s hard to see the pain behind the mask

Bearing the burden of a secret storm

Sometimes she wishes she was never born

The English teacher barely acknowledged the taunts that had sliced through the classroom just moments before. After years of standing in front of teenagers, one would think he would have developed a better sense of when something was wrong, when a student was silently screaming for help. But no—he carried on as if nothing had happened, focusing on his lesson, his gaze barely brushing past Jade unless she raised her hand to answer. And, of course, she always answered flawlessly.

The rest of the class jeered at her, mocking her for being a “teacher’s pet.” They hated that she made it look effortless, but Jade knew the truth. If they worked even half as hard as she did, they’d be up there too, nailing every question, sitting at the top of the honor roll. But they didn’t see that. They didn’t see the hours she poured into her work, the late nights spent with textbooks and her inner demons. All they saw was a target, someone they could antagonize.

And they did. They always did.

This antagonism followed her like a shadow, and Jade knew deep down it wouldn’t stop. Not here, not later, not even when she grew into a woman who had surpassed them all. They would still see her as a freak, still cling to the past, throwing their insults because it was easier than facing the reality of their own mediocrity.

It wasn’t just the English teacher who chose to look away. The other teachers had noticed the change in her too. They had seen how sharp edges dulled into silence. How her voice, once quick and biting, had softened, her tongue now kept in check. At first, they all chalked it up to the breakup with Beck. After all, the entire school had been buzzing with gossip ever since Valentine’s Day. Everyone knew they had split, and most assumed that was the cause of her sudden shift. But that was two months ago. It was already April, and life for most people had moved on.

Beck certainly seemed to be fine, spending time with their friends, working on new projects as if the world hadn’t crumbled beneath them. As if he hadn’t left a crater in Jade’s chest, still smoldering with the pain of loss and rejection.

So why hadn’t she moved on too? The teachers thought they knew Jade West—strong, fierce, unbreakable Jade—but none of them understood. None of them could see the storm raging just beneath the surface, the burden she carried every day, hidden behind sarcasm and indifference.

No one knew the real Jade.

No one had seen her collapse in private, when the weight became too much to bear. No one had been there in the dark moments when the mask fell away, when she couldn’t hold it together anymore. Only a few had glimpsed that side of her, but even they didn’t understand the full extent of it.

Not yet.

Through the wind and the rain

She stands hard as a stone

In a world that she can’t rise above

But her dreams give her wings

And she flies to a place where she’s loved

Concrete angel

If only people knew who Jade West truly was, they would see past the biting remarks and sharp exterior. They would see the girl who, in public, lifted her chin and swallowed the pain, always forcing herself to hold it together. Always sucking it up. But behind closed doors, she shattered, piece by piece.

In the school bathrooms, she faced insults scrawled across the walls—“Amy Lee”, “The Twilight Vampire”—mocking names that clung to her like thorns. She’d see them every time she went to wash her hands, every time she looked into the mirror. In her car, the songs she once loved cut her open, the lyrics echoing her own sense of isolation. At home, alone in her bedroom, she buried herself in the softness of her childhood stuffed bunny or curled up with her real pet bunny, both offering more comfort than any human ever could. And in the shower, she stood under the scalding water, letting it burn away the cold ache inside her. It was the only warmth she could feel anymore—the only warmth she believed she had ever deserved.

Once, she would scream, shout, throw chairs. She’d threaten with a pair of scissors, unleash her fury on anyone who dared cross her. But after Beck had left her, after the bullying became a constant chorus in her life, she closed off. She kept her mouth shut. She didn’t fight back. Instead, she poured herself into her work—straight A’s, flawless scripts, playing the piano until her fingers ached. Her days turned into a cycle of silent suffering, of walking through the halls like a ghost. Breathing, but not living. Merely existing.

Her friends noticed. They watched from a distance, concern written across their faces. They couldn’t understand why Jade had built a wall around herself, why she refused to talk unless absolutely necessary. They saw the graffiti, too—how it mocked “Amy Lee’s” voice, how it sneered at “The Twilight Vampire,” telling her to lose weight, to disappear. Tori and Cat were in disbelief, but they never connected the dots. They never realized the cruel words written on the bathroom walls were aimed at Jade, or that the rumors whispering about “the freak” selling herself to fix her car were about their friend.

And Beck… Beck was breaking. He didn’t fully shatter until May, after the PMAs. Seeing Jade, the girl he had always loved so fiercely, collapse in the hallway was too much for him to bear. That night, alone in his room, he stroked his dog’s fur, his tears falling uncontrollably. Everything had spiraled out of control, and he had stood by, watching, powerless. He should’ve fought harder for her, should’ve stood by her side when things got tough. He realized that now, too late.

That moment changed him. In conversations with Lane, and in his own heart, Beck learned that life required fighting for what you wanted—fighting for who you loved. Not just standing on the sidelines, hoping things would work themselves out. He had always known it, but now he understood it on a deeper level. He would carry that lesson with him moving forward, shaping the man he would become. Most importantly, it would shape how he rebuilt his relationship with Jade.

Later, he would always be the first to defend her, jumping in before she could even lift a finger to fight for herself. Not because he thought she wasn’t capable—he knew she was—but because he couldn’t stand to see her hurt anymore. Not again. Never again.

But Beck didn’t know everything. No one knew about the wounds Jade carried beneath her armor—the jabs from her mother and side glances from her father, the way he would always choose his work, his new wife, and their yappy little dog over her. Jade had been born into a role, nothing more. An actress long before she ever stepped on stage.

Jade August West wasn’t a product of love. Neither was her parents’ marriage.

In the world she had been raised in—old money, the elite—it was all about appearances. The Sinclair and West families of Los Angeles had groomed her to continue the family legacy. Their children’s marriages were alliances, not partnerships of love. Jade had been sent to the finest private school, the one where all the other privileged but neglected kids went. A place for the offspring of Bel Air’s and Holmby Hills’ wealthiest, where no one talked about what really went on behind mansion doors.

There were advantages to this life, of course. Jade’s education secured her a place on the top honor roll year after year, from the time she was eleven until she graduated as valedictorian in 2012. But it came with a cost—one that left her hollow. Her life had no authenticity. She couldn’t trust people. How could she, when her entire existence was built on playing a role?

This lack of trust infected her relationship with Beck. The toxicity of her home, the words thrown at her like daggers—“fucking idiot,” “bastard”—had seeped into her bones. She had internalized them young, and even now, even as she grew older, she fought to purge them from her vocabulary.

“You little bitch! You can’t do anything right!” her mother would scream, the words ringing in her ears for years to come. Jade had only been nine at the time, trying to help her mother after her brother was born. She hadn’t meant to break the vase that day. She had just wanted to help, to be a good daughter. She had been so excited to have a little brother, thinking he might bring some happiness into their fractured family.

He didn’t. The divorce came, not long after. Jade, ten years old, and her baby brother, only three months, were split between parents who couldn’t stand the sight of each other. The arguments never stopped—they only grew worse. Child support, custody battles, the endless strain of pretending to care about Christmases and birthdays. And all the while, her father barely looked at the son he had so desperately wanted.

Little Jade had sat sobbing on the floor that day, her voice caught in her throat. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t defend herself.

Years later, at sixteen, she would repeat her mother’s venom, spewing it at people she barely knew, accusing Tori Vega of being “a bitch who can’t do anything right.” Beck had hated it. His face would darken whenever she lashed out, the anger simmering beneath his calm exterior. He didn’t blame Jade—he blamed her mother, for corrupting her, for planting those seeds of cruelty in someone who had always been so full of potential.

Beck loved Jade. Some might even say he worshipped her. Watching her become twisted by her upbringing, by her mother’s unrelenting cruelty, was agony for him. But every time he tried to reach out, to break through the mask she wore, she would shut him down. Until she turned seventeen, until she finally learned how to let herself be vulnerable, Jade couldn’t let anyone see the cracks in her armor. She had to stay strong. She had to be untouchable.

“I didn’t mean to break the vase,” she had cried once. Alone, always alone. No one could see her break. No one could know the victim hiding beneath the tough girl mask. If they did, she feared, she would never survive it.

Somebody cries in the middle of the night

The neighbors hear, but they turn out the lights

A fragile soul caught in the hands of fate

When morning comes it’ll be too late

Jade had spent six long hours—six excruciating, goddamn hours—perfecting herself. Meticulously applying makeup, choosing and re-choosing the perfect dress, coiling her hair into artful curls that took far too much time and effort. All for nothing. For absolutely nothing.

Validation. That’s all she wanted—just a little bit of validation. For someone to look at her the way Beck once had, with warmth in his eyes that made her feel beautiful. For someone to make her feel seen again. But ever since the breakup, ever since she’d distanced herself from everyone she knew, all she found was pain. Chaos. The emotional storm she had tried so hard to shelter her friends from now raged uncontrollably within her. It was why she pulled away in the first place, why she cut herself off. Jade August West didn’t just do things without reason. Deep down, she hoped her friends would understand that. She hoped they knew her well enough to see the truth.

But the truth didn’t come with friends. It didn’t come with those she once trusted. Instead, it came from a screen, from social media, where Jade found a dark kind of refuge. MySpace had become her escape—her way of expressing things she could never say aloud. It was there she found images of beautiful girls, girls who seemed to effortlessly exude confidence, and she tried, over and over, to replicate them. She craved the validation they seemed to have. She just wanted to be desirable.

But then, the comments flooded in.

Slut. Whore. She’s just begging for attention. Training to be in porn films? I heard she has an STD. No wonder Beck dumped her. Who does she think she is? Why does she even try? Oh, my God, go kill yourself already. No one will miss you. No one will care.

Life will go on without you. As it should.

Jade had always been terrified of death. The very idea of it haunted her, the thought of leaving this world without making her mark, without leaving something behind. It terrified her to the point of obsession. That was why she pushed herself so hard—why she worked relentlessly to excel in everything she touched. Because if she disappeared, what would be left of her? Why do you think she had so much anger when Tori Vega showed up? Tori, with her perfect cheekbones, her effortless charm, and her girl-next-door appeal, threatened everything. To Jade, Tori wasn’t just a new student. She was the protagonist in some cheesy teen fiction novel, the kind where the sweet, shy girl ends up stealing the cute guy, even if the cute guy is already in a relationship.

And Beck was the cute guy.

Take a hint.

It all came back to that desperate need to be seen. But every time she tried, every time she made an effort, there was her mother’s voice.

“You look like an underage prostitute!”

Jade’s mother hurled the words at her without hesitation, without remorse, her voice full of disgust as she looked at her daughter sobbing on the floor. Even now, the words burned in Jade’s mind like a brand.

As an adult, Jade would see her mother’s point—she could rationalize it, understand the harshness behind the critique. But at sixteen? At sixteen, all Jade wanted was to prove something. To herself. To the world. To feel like she belonged, like she was just as normal, just as desirable as everyone else. It seemed cruelly unfair that while the rest of the world moved forward—happy, unbothered—every single thing Jade posted, from a status update about her favorite music on TheSlap to a relatively tame photo on MySpace, was met with judgment. Criticism. Always, always criticized.

And the criticism wouldn’t stop, even into adulthood. The world never tired of tearing her down. The cultural wars, the spiritual battles—everything Jade did seemed to ignite a firestorm around her, no matter how hard she tried to stay above it.

At home, the house felt even colder. The maids and the butler heard the arguments, heard the cruel exchanges between mother and daughter. They heard Jade’s teenage voice breaking as she cried, heart-shattered, after yet another insult hurled at her without warning or reason. But no one did anything.

No one defended her. Not anymore.

If Martha, the old housekeeper had still been there, Jade knew she would’ve fought for her, stood up for her as she always had. But she wasn’t there. And now, Jade was left completely alone, in a world that was freezing, indifferent, and utterly cold.

Like every other night.

Did they have any idea? Did anyone have any clue about the pills Jade had quietly stolen from her mother’s drawer? The ones she had been hiding in her nightstand for weeks now? The little secret she kept, just in case?

If they did, would they even care enough to stop her from ending it all?

Through the wind and the rain

She stands hard as a stone

In a world that she can’t rise above

But her dreams give her wings

And she flies to a place where she’s loved

Concrete angel

By the time May arrived, Jade thought she had seen the worst. She thought she had weathered the storms, steeled herself against the endless barrage of insults and isolation. But then her locker was vandalized.

That was it. The last straw.

The sight of it broke something inside her that she hadn’t even realized was still intact. She had held herself together for so long, so tightly wound, that when she saw the spray-painted words, cruel and mocking, scrawled across her personal space, the dam broke. She cried. Hard. And she didn’t care who saw.

Her friends—except for Beck—stood in shock, frozen by the sight of Jade West, the girl who never seemed to break, completely unraveling in front of them. They had never seen her like this. Jade had always worn her “tough girl” mask so perfectly, so convincingly, that even the people closest to her believed she was invincible. But in that moment, it all came crashing down. It wouldn’t be the last time they saw this side of her. As the years passed, as she grew older, she would learn how to shed that mask, slowly, carefully. But on that day in May, the vulnerability was raw, unfiltered, and undeniable.

The shame of it would stay with her. Jade would never forget that day, no matter how hard she tried to push it out of her memory. The way Lane had drafted a letter to Principal DuBois, outlining a plan to “help” her. The way her friends suddenly rallied around her, trying to make her feel included again, even though she had kept them at arm’s length for months. They didn’t understand why she had pulled away, but they tiptoed around her now, walking on eggshells as if afraid she might shatter completely.

After the locker incident, the teachers and staff checked in with her constantly, a parade of concern she hadn’t asked for. The school even held an assembly on bullying, as if a speech could erase the months of torment she had endured. And Beck—always Beck—took things into his own hands. He created an anti-bullying committee in the lead-up to the premiere of his movie, his semester project. He wanted Jade to feel safe, to know that someone was fighting for her, even if she had stopped fighting for herself.

But none of it mattered. Not really.

Lane had suggested therapy, starting with sessions in his office. Jade had never been one to open up, not even to Beck, not really. Sure, she’d confide in him, but there were parts of her story, parts of her pain, that she never let him see. How could she? How could anyone understand the shame of being torn down, not just by strangers, but by the very people who were supposed to love you unconditionally?

The therapy sessions were brutal. Jade wasn’t used to talking about her feelings, wasn’t used to being vulnerable on purpose. The idea of laying herself bare, of admitting to someone else the weight she carried, felt like a betrayal of the image she had built her whole life. She was Jade West, after all. She didn’t break. She didn’t need anyone.

But Lane had insisted. And with summer break approaching, he recommended that she join a support group for teens. Just one session, he said. Jade had agreed reluctantly, but when she got there, when she stood outside that door, the panic took over. The idea of sitting in a circle with strangers, sharing the deepest parts of herself, was too much.

She couldn’t do it.

She turned and walked out, never even making it past the door.

Jade wasn’t ready to bare her soul like that. Maybe she never would be.

A statue stands in a shaded place

An angel girl with an upturned face

A name is written on a polished rock

A broken heart that the world forgot

2025

Jade West-Oliver, now thirty years old, stood in front of her parents’ grave, the cold air biting at her skin. She wore her best black dress, a familiar piece of clothing she had grown accustomed to since the day she lost them. In her hands, she held a bouquet of roses—red, the kind her mother had always liked, though they had never really shared those moments of warmth. Her free hand rested gently on her swollen belly, a silent acknowledgment of the life growing within her, even as she stood in the shadow of death.

Jade was no longer the girl she once was. She was a force, a name in the art and culture world, someone students would study in textbooks for years to come. A woman who had made her mark, who had defied the odds—valedictorian, Juilliard graduate, a stage actress turned director by twenty-two. Oscars and Tonys lined her shelves, symbols of success she had once craved so desperately. Yet, standing there, among the gravestones, she couldn’t help but wonder.

Had they known?

Had her parents known about any of it? About the woman she had become, the life she had built with Beck—the man she loved deeply, her new Richard Burton. Not like Liz and Dick, though—no, much healthier than that. She and Beck had laughed about that once, agreeing that the tumultuous love stories of the past were toxic, a relic of another time. They weren’t like that. They were different. Stronger.

But in these quiet moments, alone with her thoughts, Jade couldn’t help but wonder if her parents ever truly saw her. Not as the angry, misunderstood girl from their world of old money and perfect appearances, but as the woman who had broken free from it all. Did they know she was happy? Truly happy? Did they know she was capable of love, capable of building something lasting?

The child inside her, the one she had attempted to bury so long ago under layers of sarcasm and steel, would never fully die. That little girl still lingered, just like the girl with the braids and the linen dress she had written about during her time at Juilliard. Jade had felt a deep connection to that image—a girl innocent and free, yet weighed down by the world’s expectations. It had resonated with her, stayed with her. Years later, she had dedicated a play to that very same little girl, a tribute to something lost in herself, something fragile but enduring.

But even now, standing in front of her parents’ grave, clutching roses and the weight of her grief, that little girl felt as far away as ever.

Jade looked down at the polished stone, her parents’ names etched into the rock, their legacy reduced to dates and a few words. A part of her felt numb, as though she had lost the ability to mourn them properly. The complicated relationship she had with them still left raw scars on her heart. They were gone now, forever, but the emotional distance had always been there. It wasn’t just their physical absence that stung—it was the fact that they had never truly known her.

Her mind drifted to the moment she had found out, that evening in late 2024, when her whole world had shifted with a single phone call. The quiet laughter she had shared with Beck, the lightness she had felt in that fleeting moment, snatched away by words that carried the weight of finality. Her parents were gone. Just like that.

The following days had been a blur of numbness and tears. She had worn black ever since, a silent tribute to the mourning that had become a part of her. She tied a black scarf around her neck, a nod to a tradition she hadn’t fully embraced but found herself drawn to nonetheless. People around her had asked her who she was mourning, and she would answer softly, “My parents,” the words feeling distant, like they belonged to someone else.

Beck had been by her side through it all. His quiet strength, the way he had held her through the long nights of grief, had been her anchor. He had admired her resilience, though she hadn’t felt strong at all. And now, here she was, standing over the final resting place of two people who had shaped her life in ways she was still trying to untangle. She was a successful woman, a tycoon even, but at this moment, none of that seemed to matter.

Jade’s gaze shifted to the future—the life growing inside her, her first child. She didn’t know if it would be a boy or a girl, but part of her heart hoped for a daughter. She wanted to love her child the way she had never been loved, to be the kind of mother who would never hurl cruel words, who would never make her daughter feel small or unwanted. She imagined herself holding her child, whispering words of love and encouragement, being the kind of parent she had always longed for.

But that was the future. Right now, she was still here, standing before the past, her parents’ grave, wondering if there was any part of them that had ever truly seen her.

Through the wind and the rain

She stands hard as a stone

In a world that she can’t rise above

But her dreams give her wings

And she flies to a place where she’s loved

Concrete angel