Outcast ✧ Phan

One

out·cast
noun
a person who has been rejected by society or a social group.
"made to feel outcast and inadequate"

I swallowed, walking down the hallway nervously. I always got to school quite early, before anybody else did, usually to avoid the general human population of this high school. Today, though, I was a tad behind, and there were already a few groups of kids littering the school. Needless to say, I wasn't pleased.

I was, and I'm speaking lightly here, an outcast. Its only the natural truth, and how things should be. Its how things always have been, and always will be. I don't want friends, and I certainly don't need them. All I would do is drag them down. Don't even try to argue off with the whole "everybody needs friends!", because the truth to that is about as existent as Santa Claus.

Don't get me wrong; I have nothing against people, I just don't fit or belong among them. I am a freak, not meant to be born and not meant to be wasted even a side glance's worth of attention. That's all I am, and I'm okay with that. Even my dad would agree.

My parents used to be happy, both loved me and my powers as a whole. Rarely fought, loved each other. I didn't know about my powers for some time, though--or at least I didn't know I was not normal for having them.

Things changed in our family near the time I realized they weren't normal. Parents fought frequently, dad beat me. My mum began to become depressed. I take that it was from the constant stress of hiding my powers, from me and everybody else. She got worse and worse and worse, and one thing led to another before she was dead, found, by none other than yours truly, in the bath, soaking in her own wrist slit blood.

This all happened when I was little, of course. Time has went by, the horrifying image of her lifeless body tattooed into my brain no longer scared me, hell, It barely made me flinch anymore. Even now, with my own wrists scarred pink and raw from the cuts I made with the blade I took from my mother's room, that woman, who used to tuck me in and whisper soothing words in my ear, and who would hug me whenever I cried, and who I would hear sobbing her heart out in the other rooms at night, and who I watched slowly sink further and further into depression, and who whispered how sorry she was into my ear one night, and who I found bloody in the tub the next morning, and who made my heart ache with grief years after the funeral--that woman no longer was my mother; she was dead, gone, and rotted in the cemetery grounds, as I should be.

Alas, instead of that, I was here, at school, my hell away from hell.

I made my way down to the library, the usual place I went when given the chance to, during the mornings and lunch periods.

I pushed the doors open, finally feeling the ability to relax a little and lifted my head up, flipping my fringe from my face and tossing a soft smile at the librarian. As I was a frequent visitor, she smiled back, waving. I don't talk to her, but she's the only person I can say I trust. No, not trust, I'd say more as am comfortable around. Trust is a word I don't take lightly, and I have never used it on a person anytime after my mother died.

I hopped to the back corner, where I was well hidden from the rest of the room, two large unused, empty shelves squaring the small clatter of three cozy beanbags, a couch, and two coffee tables. I think the area was supposed to be a comfortable reading area, like the ones in a few other corners of the library, but this one seemed to have been forgotten about, given I'm the only person who ever comes back here, no matter how full the room is.

I took out my phone, falling down into a beanbag and letting my bookbag flop beside me. I let my body sink into the soft fabric, opening up the tumblr app to scroll for a bit, grinning at a few funny posts, liking and reblogging along the way. I think this may be my favorite part of the day, where I can just sit and enjoy myself, no interruptions. For twenty minutes, at least.