They Broke Her, I Broke Them

They Broke Her, I Broke Them

Gavin

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My twin sister, Olivia, lay terrifyingly still in a hospital bed, her pale face a stark contrast to the sterile white sheets. An IV dripped fluid into her arm, and chillingly, thick bandages covered her wrists, a silent testament to her desperate act. She had tried to end her life, driven to the brink by the relentless, sophisticated cruelty of Brittany and her followers at Northwood High School. Their audacious arrival at the hospital, complete with smirks and chilling taunts, twisted the knife deeper into our family' s raw wound. My parents, Mr. and Mrs. Peterson, stood helpless, their attempts to rid us of the tormentors dismissed with scornful indifference. When the police finally arrived, their response was infuriatingly inadequate: a dismissive "warning" for minors, prioritizing Brittany' s influential family over Olivia' s shattered life. Then, the ultimate humiliation struck: a raw, brutal video of Olivia's locker room torment, her clothes torn and her pleas mocked by Brittany's cruel laughter, exploded across social media. My fragile sister, seeing it, whispered that she was "so weak," her spirit visibly drained from her eyes. A mere warning for such psychological torture, for driving my twin to attempt suicide, was a grotesque joke in their broken system. But a familiar darkness, a dormant, predatory instinct I had suppressed for years for Olivia' s sake, began to stir within me. Olivia had always been my anchor, soothing this other side, but now, she was the very reason to unleash it. That night, I made a decision that would redefine everything: I was going to Northwood High. They thought they knew Olivia Peterson – but they had no idea who was truly coming for them. They had broken my other half; I would break them in return, and the Peterson family had unique ways of ensuring justice.

Introduction

My twin sister, Olivia, lay terrifyingly still in a hospital bed, her pale face a stark contrast to the sterile white sheets.

An IV dripped fluid into her arm, and chillingly, thick bandages covered her wrists, a silent testament to her desperate act.

She had tried to end her life, driven to the brink by the relentless, sophisticated cruelty of Brittany and her followers at Northwood High School.

Their audacious arrival at the hospital, complete with smirks and chilling taunts, twisted the knife deeper into our family' s raw wound.

My parents, Mr. and Mrs. Peterson, stood helpless, their attempts to rid us of the tormentors dismissed with scornful indifference.

When the police finally arrived, their response was infuriatingly inadequate: a dismissive "warning" for minors, prioritizing Brittany' s influential family over Olivia' s shattered life.

Then, the ultimate humiliation struck: a raw, brutal video of Olivia's locker room torment, her clothes torn and her pleas mocked by Brittany's cruel laughter, exploded across social media.

My fragile sister, seeing it, whispered that she was "so weak," her spirit visibly drained from her eyes.

A mere warning for such psychological torture, for driving my twin to attempt suicide, was a grotesque joke in their broken system.

But a familiar darkness, a dormant, predatory instinct I had suppressed for years for Olivia' s sake, began to stir within me.

Olivia had always been my anchor, soothing this other side, but now, she was the very reason to unleash it.

That night, I made a decision that would redefine everything: I was going to Northwood High.

They thought they knew Olivia Peterson – but they had no idea who was truly coming for them.

They had broken my other half; I would break them in return, and the Peterson family had unique ways of ensuring justice.

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I was four months pregnant, a photographer excited for our future, attending a sophisticated baby brunch. Then I saw him, my husband Michael, with another woman, and a newborn introduced as "his son." My world shattered as a torrent of betrayal washed over me, magnified by Michael's dismissive claim I was "just being emotional." His mistress, Serena, taunted me, revealing Michael had discussed my pregnancy complications with her, then slapped me, causing a terrifying cramp. Michael sided with her, publicly shaming me, demanding I leave "their" party, as a society blog already paraded them as a "picture-perfect family." He fully expected me to return, to accept his double life, telling his friends I was "dramatic" but would "always come back." The audacity, the calculated cruelty of his deception, and Serena's chilling malice, fueled a cold, hard rage I barely recognized. How could I have been so blind, so trusting of the man who gaslighted me for months while building a second family? But on the plush carpet of that lawyer's office, as he turned his back on me, a new, unbreakable resolve solidified. They thought I was broken, disposable, easily manipulated – a "reasonable" wife who would accept a sham separation. They had no idea my calm acceptance was not surrender; it was strategy, a quiet promise to dismantle everything he held dear. I would not be handled; I would not understand; I would end this, and make sure their perfect family charade crumbled into dust.

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