Bella had never shown any particular desire to be a beloved member of society. She rarely cared what other people thought about her, or at least she tried to convince herself of that. She could count the number of opinions she cared about on two hands, but this was different. If she were to do anything (namely, report her father for this), she wanted society's sympathy. She didn't want to be labeled a traitor, nor did she want anyone telling her she should have learned to cope. People were mean — especially to a no-good, trouble-making girl like her.

"I should just disappear. Everyone can think I'm dead," she sobbed, burying her face in the palms of her hands (one of the only parts of her body that had remained unscathed). "That's what they always wanted anyways. Let Witch Weekly have their field day." In her despair, it didn't dawn upon her that anyone would care, as silly as it sounded. She'd felt like a burden as long as she could remember, and it was all too easy to convince herself, in this moment, that she was even a burden to those who would openly claim her as their friend.

At least it was only Tilda who had to witness her pity party. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯