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The young man, aged 15, sat by himself in the cafeteria, picking absently at the food on his tray. Agh, why does cafeteria food have to be so disgusting? He wore a black zip-up hoodie, with black pants and a gray shirt. He was decently tall and thin, with dark green eyes, dirty blonde hair and fair skin. His name was Evan. He had recently moved to a new public high school, his previous school’s tuition being too expensive for his parents to afford. He never had many friends at his old school, just a few people he would greet in the halls. He was never great with people, often not understanding a lot of social cues or norms. While all of the other kids would talk in groups or play, he would sit and daydream, or fidget with his clothes, or simply think about whatever his big interest was at the time. He was a big fan of a lot of books and video games, earning him the title of “nerd” or “geek”.
He slung his backpack over his shoulder, walked over to the cafeteria’s trash can, and scraped the food off of his tray. He couldn't be bothered to eat. When the bell to conclude lunch rang, free period would begin, the period just before the class all of his bullies also had. They would kick the back of his seat, tug at his hoodie’s drawstrings, and grab at his sleeves. He didn't quite understand why they disliked him. He never even said anything, but maybe that was a reason in and of itself. He stared blankly out the large window, his mind beginning to wander. Just as he was beginning to lose himself in his thoughts and daydreams, the bell rang.
Returning his tray to the lunch workers, he wandered out of the cafeteria, unsure of where to go. Maybe I could hang out in the bathroom. The far one, not the one near the cafeteria. That one is probably packed right now. Walking down the hall, he became aware of how loud everyone was. He never understood how anyone could stand being around so many other people, all yelling and bumping into each other. It was in times like this that not having friends was a bit of a relief to him. “Watch where you’re going, loser!” Someone called out as they ran into Evan. You bumped into me. It isn’t my fault you have jank balance.
He walked into the empty bathroom, choosing a stall to camp in for a while. He leaned against the side of the stall, hanging his backpack on the door’s hook. He pulled out a book titled Feline Fighters, written by author Sharon Gunther. He had been reading this series since he was in elementary school, loving it to the point of drawing original cat characters and writing stories about them in the book’s universe. He had always been somewhat of a creative, finding comfort in art where comfort from others was absent. He read about halfway through a chapter before he heard footsteps enter the bathroom. Well, that ruins it. He returned the book into his backpack, and flushed the toilet to convince the stranger that he wasn’t reading a kid’s book during free period like a loser.
He exited the stall, and made his way over to the sinks, where another boy was standing, seemingly making some touch-ups to his eyeliner. I hope I don’t have any paper assignments next period, Evan thought as he turned the water on. The feeling of paper on freshly washed hands often made him physically recoil in disgust. He looked over to see what the other boy was up to, noticing that he was wearing a shirt of his favorite metal band. I need to compliment him. I can’t pass up an opportunity like this!
“I like your shirt,” he blurted out. The boy startled a bit, but responded, “Thanks, I just got it at the mall yesterday. I didn’t know that anyone else with taste came to this school,” he joked.
“Haha, yeah, right?”
Evan, unsure how to continue the conversation, dried his hands and bid farewell to the boy. That’s the first person I’ve had a positive interaction with at this school. I should have gotten his number, he thought. He really hasn’t had anyone to talk to in a good couple years. After the early middle school grades, everyone seemed to be so focused on being “cool” that they never talked to a loser like him.
He walked down the hallway, unsure what to do with his time now that his reading plans had been ruined. He decided to just go to his next period classroom to work on some homework that was already multiple days late.
“Yo, Evan! Missed us?”
How could I not miss constant noise while trying to work, thought Evan sarcastically. “Go away, Zach,” he muttered, knowing it wouldn't do anything to convince them all. The group of bullies consisted of 4 boys. Their leader, Zach, was the worst of them all. He did most of the talking, while the other 3 sat back and snickered at the reactions he got. “Aw, come on, man! Cut me some slack, will ya? Don't you want people to talk to you? It obviously doesn't happen often,” Zach sneered. Evan tried to ignore him, despite the obvious emphasis on the word cut. Zach continued, “Why are you so quiet all the time? Is it because you’re thinking about your knives, you fuckin’ emo?” Ok, that sentence was wrong on so many levels. I would never use any knives from my collection to do what he is suggesting. There are much more practical tools. Also, I’m hardly emo! It wasn't worth it to provoke any of them further. But they persisted throughout the class, poking fun at him, and making it a point to play innocent when the teacher shot them a glance. Finally, after an hour of sitting through all of their stupid disturbances, everyone was dismissed to go to their next class. Walking through the halls, seeing all of the other people laughing and joking with their friends, he drowned out the noise as he had taught himself for so long. Evan felt a dark cloud of sorrow come over him.
Why do those guys hate me so much? Am I just an easy target, or is it personal?
Why can't I just be normal?
Evan walked home alone, as he always did. Despite it being September, it was typically still warm out, if not decently hot. Of course, this posed an issue for him, as he wouldn't dare take off his hoodie in public. As he crossed the street onto the sidewalk bordering the woods, he glimpsed a tall figure deep in the shadows of the trees. What was that? But, just as quickly as he saw it, it disappeared. He shook his head in an attempt to clear it. I'm probably just seeing things. I didn't get much sleep last night, he thought. In fact, he never got much sleep at all. His mind was too active, filled with too many thoughts to process, circling around and around. He usually only dozed off into a light sleep, not many hours before he had to wake up.
He arrived home to see neither of his parents’ cars in the driveway. They’re probably both working overtime again. He couldn't complain, though. He walked through the front door and made his way to his room. He took off his hoodie, throwing it onto the pile of clothes next to his bed. He examined his arms, his gaze slowly passing over the scars plastered across them, old and new. He ran his fingers along his left forearm, mesmerized by the texture and all of the intricate details of his work. He felt a twinge of guilt, staring blankly at his arm. Why do I do this? He pondered with shaky breath. He couldn't quite pinpoint what brought him here. It could be the fact that he never had many friends, or that he was always picked on for the things he liked and how he acted, or that his parents often didn’t pay much attention to him or his emotions. I shouldn't be… No. I can't stop now. All of this would have been for nothing. He had become reliant on the rush of pain. The sight of blood was familiar and beautiful to him, his only comfort after every horrible day. He could let out some of his rage by blindly slicing away at himself. It kept him from taking it out on others. People didn’t make sense to him. They were stupid, with all of these rules of how you need to act, or else you’ll be ostracized.
Exhausted, physically and emotionally, he laid down on his bed and held his blanket tight around him.
I haven’t done enough yet.
I need to get worse.
A single tear fell from his eye. And then another. And another. He began to sob uncontrollably, silently cursing the world that made him this way. It wasn't his fault that he was different. But he was beginning to think everything wrong with him was his fault. Maybe he simply drives everyone away with how strange he is. Maybe it’s his fault that he doesn't understand people. Maybe it’s his fault that his parents don't care about him.
I deserve this.
He cried until his eyes had run out of tears.
He slipped into an uneasy sleep, wishing he wouldn’t wake up.
The faint glow of the moon shone through Evan’s window. Shakily, he sat up in his bed. Shit, mom and dad are probably home. He hastily slipped into his hoodie and wandered out of his room. “Hey, Evan,” his father called to him. “Your mom is cooking dinner, it should be done in about half an hour.” Evan hadn’t realized how hungry he was. “Okay, I’ll be there.”
He ambled to the bathroom, almost as if in a trance. After entering and locking the door, he retrieved his blade from its hiding spot, in a cabinet under the sink. Nothing better to do. It probably won't matter soon, he thought, rolling up his sleeve. He put the blade to his skin, and swiped. Breathing heavily, he watched the blood start to form those small, perfect little droplets he had grown so fond of. His mind was a jumble of pain and satisfaction. He made another cut. Deeper this time, filling with red almost instantly. He felt a rush of relief, which was then overcome by the desperate urge to keep cutting. More, more, more. I need more. He made another cut. And another. And another. More and more cuts, until he didn't even know how many he had made. Blood dripped down his arm, into the sink, staining the clean white surface. It trickled down onto the floor, lovely pools of red on the tiles. I think that’s enough for now. Dinner should be almost done. I need time to clean this up.
He turned on the sink and ran his arm under the cool water, making sure to also wash the previous blood from the ceramic. Afterwards, he took cleaning spray from the cabinet and wiped down the floor with a piece of toilet paper. Suddenly, a noise sounded from behind him. What? He whipped around to see that the window was slightly open, a cold breeze blowing toward him. I did not open that window, I'm sure of it. As he stood up to close it, he felt an odd sensation on his hand. He looked down, and saw some sort of strange black slime crawling up his arm, over his scars, into his fresh cuts. All he could do at that moment was stare, terror spreading through his body. Snapping out of it, he rushed back to the sink and tried desperately to rinse that stuff off of his arm. It didn't work. In a panic, he rushed out of the bathroom, through the hall, and into his room. He heard his dad call out questioningly, but he couldn't be bothered with that. Not right now.
Locking his door, he watched in the dim lighting as the slime seeped into his cuts, eventually fully disappearing into them. I must be hallucinating. This can't be real. It just can't be. I must be going insane. Finally, after all these years. I expected this. But he realized with a start that he could still think about as clearly as before, his mind only hazy from the rush of cutting himself. What is happening to me? What am I going to tell my parents? What if they find out? They’ll send me to the hospital. They’ll keep me there. I can’t go there. Please.
Becoming frantic, he realized that he could see the slime dripping slowly out of his cuts. The area it covered only became larger, and larger, until it consumed his entire arm, turning it pitch black. He realized that he now had claws, sharper than any blade he’d ever used. What am I becoming? His arm felt cold, almost a freezing temperature. He felt the chill spreading to his shoulder, his chest, his other arm. It felt as if he were being stabbed with millions of tiny needles, his mind becoming messier, his thoughts becoming unintelligible. The last thing he saw before his vision was overcome by darkness were his hands, now unrecognizable as his own.
Kill. Briefly, he caught a glimpse of his legs slipping through his broken window.
Kill. He staggered down the street. The streetlights seemed to continue on for miles.
Kill. He approached a house.
Kill. He tore through the screen of an open window which led into a bedroom.
Kill. He heard the screams of a boy in agony.
Evan felt the tearing of flesh beneath his claws, heard the crunching of bone. It was exhilarating.
He looked down at the body, hardly recognizable as human.
Kill, Kill, Ki-
He stopped.
He looked down at the hands he had used to murder this boy.
They were his hands again.
No claws, no slime. Just his.
He could now just barely decipher the face of the boy whose life he ended.
It was Zach.
No.
No, no, no! Fuck!
This can’t be happening!
He’s dead. I killed him!
He stared at the body for what seemed like an eternity. Unable to process the thoughts swirling in his head, he had no other choice but to keep his blank stare on the mess of flesh and bone in front of him.
I’m a murderer. I’m a horrible, vile creature.
I’m a monster.
Footsteps and yells sounded in the hall. Panicked, Evan scrambled out of the window through the torn screen. I can't let them see me! I can’t let anyone see me! He sprinted into the backyard, leading into the woods. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I would never end someone’s life! He ran deeper into the trees, until his legs ached and his lungs struggled to draw air.
In the shadow of the forest, he froze.
Maybe I should end my own.
It’s the only solution. I can’t survive alone in the woods. I can never go back home.
I deserve this.
Frantically, he searched the leaf-strewn ground for a tool he could use to commit suicide. He found an empty beer bottle, most likely left behind by some irresponsible teens wandering in the woods. He whacked it against a sturdy tree, shattering it into jagged pieces. He picked up one of the larger shards, running his finger along the edge to check the sharpness. It left a small cut on his right pointer finger.
I might as well have one more cutting session. It won’t matter anyways.
Shakily, he began to slice the makeshift blade through his skin, applying more pressure than usual. He made several cuts on both of his arms, thighs, and the sides of his torso. He cut until he was a shivering mess, covered in red, his entire body feeling as if it were burning.
Then, he put the shard of glass against his throat.
He was frozen in place, his instinct and emotion fighting the same battle that had been fought for years.
This is my only way out.
I’m going to do it.
Now.
Just as he was about to seal his own fate, he felt a chill run down his spine.
Almost as if he were being watched.
He slowly turned around to gaze into the endless forest.
For just a moment, he glimpsed an abnormally tall figure between the trees. It wore a black suit with a red tie. Evan slowly looked up, trembling. He realized, his stomach sinking with dread, that the creature had no face.
Before he could react, he felt tentacles wrap around him.
He disappeared without a trace.