Lacking [Phan]

ilman [edited!]

it requires a very unusual mind to undertake the analysis of the obvious

-alfred north whitehead

Walking the halls was the absolute worst, with the quiet whispers and the stares of judgmental eyes boring into Dan's abnormally bare back. He thought they would've gotten used to him by now, but even after sixteen years he was still considered an outcast. As if it wasn't bad enough, Dan was one of the only non-winged kids in existence, leading the school to insist that he be put in special-needs classes to teach him functionality.

Academics weren't Dan's problem though. He did fine academically, hell, it could even be said that he was above average. His issue was with the other students, and how no matter how smart he was, because of his disability; he'd never be seen as an equal to them. He'd always be known as the one impurity in a school full of people who could always say "At least I'm more liked than that wingless weirdo."

Most kids here couldn't even be bothered to learn his real name.

Despite everyone's very intense efforts to cover them up, he knew about the nicknames.

Dan passed a group of girls who seemed to be particularly engrossed in the topic of him, with their speckled wings folded against their skinny backs and their tiny mouths whispering away at the rumors that had been drifting amongst the building ever since the history classes started to teach about the Great War.

"Evil..."

All his life, Dan had been told not to take the comments too seriously; to push them aside because he was unique and special. Of course, this advice was from a parent, two parents; Dan's parents. Dan grew up trusting his parents, trusting everything they told him. It's not like he could possibly know any better. Up until the age of six, he believed his parents claims; Dan took pride in having no wings for the first six years of his life. But then he started schooling, and with schooling comes new people. Most of the kids around Dan had never seen a wingless being before. Most of the kids were scared of Dan.

Dan Howell wore his heart - and his pride - on his sleeve until it was torn off by words.

It wasn't an immediate process, not even close to being quick. Ever since the beginning of primary school, each daily set of harmful slurs acted like a dull pair of shears, tearing away at his confidence bit by bit. And sometimes, on days like these when every hushed whisper seemed to echo through Dan's ears at a magnified volume, it would feel as if there wasn't a single piece of self-esteem left in his damaged thoughts.

Dan narrowly avoided being shoved into a massive group of people as he sidestepped through the bustling crowds of students, all attempting to make it to their next class on time. As he desperately tried not to be swept away in the hallways like a stone in a river's current, Dan passed the rail-less balcony that led down to the ground floor. Kids fearlessly leapt from high-risen ledge, gliding with massive, multicolored wings until their feet landed securely on the colored linoleum below.

Dan's stomach clenched at the sight, he hurriedly avoided going anywhere near the ledge. He remained practically hugging the white marble wall, until he made it safely to his next class, Art and Theory. Art was his favorite class. It made him feel alive and accepted. It was the only time he could escape from the world around him; it was the only time he could fly.

Of course, it was all in his head, but it was as close to flying as he'd ever get. Painting was Dan's passion. He carried his handmade brushes with him wherever the wind took him just in case he found the perfect thing to preserve on canvas. His passion came with the price of more ridicule, though. No one wanted to hang out with the wingless artist who could only seem to paint things that others couldn't see.