Chloe collapsed forward onto her hands and knees.

The vanity, the cruel arrogance, the superficial entitlement that had defined her entire teenage existence was instantly, permanently incinerated.

She was no longer the popular queen of the high school; she was a terrified, broken six-year-old girl waking from a decade-long nightmare.

She crawled across the hot concrete, ignoring the scrapes on her knees, until she reached my bare feet.

The crowd of teenagers watched in stunned, weeping silence. Boys who’d mocked me hours earlier were wiping tears from their faces. Girls in designer swimsuits were covering their mouths, sobbing openly, ashamed of their own shallowness.

Chloe looked up at me, her flawless face completely distorted by grief and horror. She reached out with shaking, manicured hands. Her fingers, trembling violently, gently and reverently touched the thick, raised burn scars on my shins.