The day I cracked Kieran Judd’s head against a wall like it was an egg I threw up. I was lying on my bed after school, not even thinking about anything and then I was suddenly prickly hot. Colours flashed behind my eyes and my whole body went slack and I knew what was coming. I managed to make it to the bathroom on jelly legs just in time to kneel over the toilet and heave. The walls of my belly closed in and I was sick three times. Three full retches that tore my tummy muscles and filled the bowl. I flushed the smell away but waited by the toilet, making sure I’d emptied myself fully. When I’d decided it had all come out I washed my face, rinsed my mouth and cleaned my teeth. I went back to bed but I was cold now, trembling, and I wrapped the covers tight around me. Dad tapped on my door and asked if I was OK. I told him I was, that there was a bug going round, that was all. He padded away and it was only then that I thought about what had happened with Kieran Judd. And it shocked me who I’d been for those two minutes. I don’t even like watching violence in films; I always turn away when things get particularly bad or gruesome. I always was the delicate artist. I couldn’t be sorry though; I didn’t think I’d done anything wrong. It was simple: it needed to be done and it had to be me who did it. I just hoped that I didn’t have to do anything like it ever again. But I would do if I had to. I might read books and paint pictures but I’m not soft.