𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙍𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙐𝙨

(30) Tacenda

Edward Scissorhands.

A man who very much wanted to be friends with everyone yet struggled because of one thing: his hands. They were scissors, sharp ones, quite shiny if you asked me.

Well, maybe he didn't want to be friends with everyone (he was fairly awkward).

Everyone had an attraction to him since his hands were different. But no one understood that he could hurt someone. He could kill by accident.

In the society he lived in, he was considered a freak. Categorized an outcast simply from looks and without any other arguments against it. No person attempted to get to know him and it started only by curiosity.

Though someone tried to love him, he couldn't love them. He couldn't hold them for too long, couldn't give the affection they deserve. The fear of accidentally hurting them, scratching them for what would be permanent.

I feel like I could understand Edward, relate to him.

Being a caster naturally had its up and down.

It could have been because I was a caster or because I wasn't necessarily ugly. Maybe it's narcissistic but it's hard to believe that after all the shit I've gone through that I'm still this attractive.

The mirror would agree with me.

Back to the point, I spent most of my life alone. Even if I had siblings, my mom, and the few friends who I wouldn't call friends. I somehow always felt alone.

It's a dark feeling, loneliness.

I've tried coping through avoidance and it doesn't help but during those moments it just feels so good. I'm sure Edward felt the same.

Before you say I sound like I'm insane, I'll make it forward now and say I am a type of fucked it.

I have a pretty happy personality but a heavy soul. Sometimes it gets weird, out of order honestly. It gets confusing when sometimes you don't even understand how you're supposed to feel but sometimes I do?

Anyways...

Villain was what I had always been called. A creature that was not fit into society because I didn't have a quirk and because of that, I would not be accepted. I was human but just a different kind.

Of course, it made it ten times better that my dad grew to be the person he is: a villain.

He scratched that name into our skin to where everyone and everything could only see us as that. No blink of pity or guilt laid in a person's eye because all they saw was evil.

But we weren't that.

We were tired souls that roamed around just looking for a place to rest. They didn't know what we went through so I understood their fear, their rush to say away from us.

But it built up to where I kept a shield to protect myself from the monster that they saw. I never cleared my name because I didn't know-how.

I was bad at words, bad at emotions.

I could only feel emotions, theirs, that spilled out horrors of pain, fear, and much more toward me. But once again.

I hated that.

Being title without argument to what I could be pissed me off. The act of judging another just because of a related relationship. Because I was my dad's daughter.