I am the stuff of nightmares. The serpent in the garden. The poison apple.
I see it in the invisible bubble of space around me as I walk the halls. The awkward side-step as the other students and even the staff shy away from me, followed by the apologetic half-smile. Nothing personal, their eyes say, not quite able to meet mine. We don’t hate you. We just fear you.
I can cover my body from head to toe, wear gloves every waking and sleeping moment, wind scarves around my neck -- it doesn’t matter. I am always on the alert, always careful to avoid the accidental brush, the slightest misstep, but no amount of vigilance can set them at ease. They can’t forget, and neither can I. Every moment of every day there is a reminder of what I am. In a school of freaks, I am still a pariah.
One person used to be different. Heedless of my curse, recklessly casual. Without caution or warning, he would pull me into a hug, or settle down comfortably next to me on a saggy couch. Pull me into the strength and warmth of his body as if I were someone else entirely. Someone normal. Someone touchable. But even that is gone now.
I don’t know why or even exactly when it happened. The insidious slide into avoidance. A casual wave instead of the hug to say hello. Sitting in a stiff chair instead of joining me on the couch. And then more and more, the feeling that he had left the room just before I entered. No solid proof, just a suspicion caused by a ring of sweat from a beer bottle on the counter, the slightest smell of woods and cigar in the air, a faint note of surprise in the faces of people in the room at what must have been a hurried exit. Using his heightened senses to be anywhere that I am not.
I decided to test my theory yesterday. I found him sitting on the couch, watching the hockey game. It’s not like the Wolverine to be cornered, but I guess the lure of television violence was enough to bait the trap. Other students were around, but the seat next to him was empty.
I casually sat there, feigning interest in the score, hoping he couldn’t smell the desperation on me, the pathetic need to please him, to find out how to make things right. Within moments, he was up, grumbling something about needing another beer, leaving his almost full bottle on the coffee table in front of him like an accusation.
I bit my tongue until it bled, breathing in through my nose to stop the tears stinging the back of my throat until I thought I could school my face into a reasonably calm expression, enough to walk past the other students and not let them see me break. I realized I was hugging myself tightly and had to force my hands to ease the grip. There wasn’t really a hole in my chest, it just felt that way. He can’t even stand the sight of me.
I am a parasite. A toxic slagheap. I am death.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Only my second fanfic. I can promise good grammar and spelling, but you'll have to let me know how I do with the rest of it. Thanks to RoseSumner who led me to this site a few weeks ago, and Blue Morpho, September, Jenn, and Artemis who have kept me over here reading voraciously.