The Stranger

The Prologue

Camilo had many different faces.

He had the face that he showed to his family; the fun loving, cheerful prankster; a jester, entertaining the crowds and filling any room with laughter.

There was the face he showed the town, a face a little more tight lipped and cautious than the mask his family saw; if he slipped up in town, it would haunt him in the long run, something he could not dare risk. He smiled, he waved, he made his rounds, and walked away.

Another face of his appeared only in front of his friends; the cool, level headed jokester, the one with all of the bravado and none of the worries that normal kids had. He was inhuman, untouchable and proud- he could not be hurt, could not be wounded, and could not be something as small and pathetic as being lonely.

The young Madrigal had a face for every occasion, a persona for every person, a personality crafted for each and every individual, a safety shield and defense mechanism the young boy had developed after seeing his prima ridiculed for something she couldn't control. No one could hurt you if they didn't know who you were. He was the chameleon, the shapeshifter, as fluid as the river ripping through the ground of the city and as flighty as the grasshoppers hiding in the field, chirping only in the cover of darkness, where no one could ever find them.

He would not be hurt, he would not be seen, and he would never be unhappy.

If only it were true.

The real story? There was always a boy behind each mask, crying and lost, wondering if he would ever be found, praying someone would see straight through him and coax his true self back into the light. No one could love who they didn't know; no one can help a face they've never seen.

Camilo Madrigal, at the ripe age of fifteen, was dying, withering away like a rosebud in the dead of winter, cracking like porcelain yet smiling like the sun. He whispered to himself, in the darkest parts of the night, that this was okay- he was safe in his shell, if he only had the heart to continue living on. He could survive as a husk, pretend his way to happiness. He would be fine, he could be fine, he should be fine.

But he was not, and sadly, he did not know how to help himself. He only knew something was wrong, and that he was unable to work up the nerve to find the solution.

It was when he was in the middle of this predicament that he, of course, met you.

You were the child made of glass; fragile, delicate, sensitive and see-through. You sparkled in the sunlight, and cut anyone who got too close without meaning to. Radiant in the day, ghostly in the night, useful to everyone if they knew what to do with you. Not an object, still a child, but with potential; a tool. You had no masks, could not even begin to hide who you were- you bore your heart without a choice, bleeding onto cold pavement as people all watched in awe and slight horror.

What choice did you have but to cry out into the world about your sorrow, your joy, your anguish, your hope? There was no other alternative, you had no emotional regulation, no self control, no other way of dealing with how you felt. At five, you were labeled a problem; at fifteen, you were pronounced cured.

You didn't know what being 'cured' meant.

You did not feel cured. You felt broken, shoved under the rug until your emotions stayed trapped beneath your glass. They paid no mind to the cracks in the glass; no, only to the quiet hanging around your head.

At the ripe age of fifteen, you were a beautiful glass figurine being held together by flimsy pieces of tape, all made of false promises and the hope that one day you would be 'normal'. Deep down you knew that this was impossible, no matter what you did it would never be enough.

Two souls, broken and lost. Two strangers, lonely and afraid. What would become of them?