Scarred

Chapter 1.

Sometimes it's easy to walk by because we know we can't change someone's whole life in a single afternoon. But what we fail to realize is that simple kindness can go a long way toward encouraging someone who is stuck in a desolate place. - Mike Yankoski

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Theo

My body's disobeying nature against my mind reaches full force as it shoots upright, exempt from any permission from myself, and complete with the brisk wind striking me against my cold face. This part of the day serves to obey the procedure that always follows - unwanted eyes digging into me, generously concluding amongst themselves what personality trait has furiously ridden my soul today. Violent? Crazy? Weird? Or all of the above?

"What the fuck are you looking at?" I shout, like clockwork, and they scatter away like ants on a chalkboard, but I know they're not scared. It is the same recycled process every dooming day that falls upon us, and while my body shakes with unkempt furore, a part of me cannot help but think that this excites them. This is what they want to see. My eyes jam together at the most unexpected moment; my realities haunt my sleep and cause a deflated reaction in my body. They stare. They whisper. They laugh. All it takes is a look - the kind of look that could send people to their graves - or a question spouted from a violent tongue, and my solitude pursues.

I'd rather people saw a deep immovable shade of red when they look at or think about me, as opposed to the rise of a pitiful feeling within their fingers.

I take a deep breath, then lie back down again. I scowl at my black, tattered cashmere coat that, just like every other night, proves to be the worst blanket. Fury and involuntary anger from my dream overtakes my hand as the coat is suddenly released from it.

"Um, excuse me, you just threw your-"

An unusual voice begins and ceases within just a few seconds, the tone carefully bringing a crease to my eyebrows. I find myself sitting up again to detect whether the sight of me caused her to scuttle away like the others. Instead, I become exposed to the image of a relatively tall figure looking down on me. She is dressed in all white, her jet black hair contrasting with her transparent presence, but her light brown eyes pierce so cunningly into mine that I feel something deeper than anything humanly explainable. As with anybody else's attention I manage to inescapably corrupt, I cannot help but wonder whether the representation of an angel that she clearly is masking is one that comes with an ulterior motive.

Despite my captivation by her trance, a sense of annoyance surrounds me on the fact that she is staring harder than anybody ever has. But, the more my eyes focus on everything that I can see on her, the more blatantly evident it becomes just the type of girl that is standing before me.

Rich, spoilt, pretty girl.

She seems like the type to stay indoors and demand people to run the kind of errands she might be running today, for her.

"Sorry. About the coat," I say, in the hopes it will shatter her out of her intense stupor.

"It's okay. Here, take it back." She holds the object in front of my face, almost as if she knows the struggle I have faced with it, and is actively attempting to gain satisfaction from taunting me with it. I make no effort to take it.

"I don't want it."

"Still take it. You need it."

"No."

"I really think you should-"

"Listen, you spoilt rich girl," I hear myself snarl expectedly. It doesn't take a lot for me to snap. "I know you're not used to the word no, or people saying it to you for that matter, but it usually means the opposite of yes. If I am telling you I don't want the coat, I mean I do not want it. And if you could leave me alone too, that would be great. I'm not a pity party. And you're blocking the sun."