Flames

Out Of Sorts - 1

Pondering my options, I sat at my desk. Was I really that weird, I mean, is being treated like a monster normal? It couldn't be normal. All the other kids, including my sister, were treated equally. They laughed and played with the others just fine.

I was bullied constantly, they called me a monster. A freak. My hand twitched, alerting me to the present. My mind had wandered too far. I would constantly have these visions, of normal kids. They disgusted me, playing and laughing in a happy manner.

Tracing my bandages, I grasped my pencil. They were stained red, with the occasional white edge. My pale skin was permanently bruised, leaving bright red scars all over my arms. The scars weren't self harm, but bullies. They would come to school with contraband, specifically weapons.

They would tease me, calling me Flames, even though my real name was Mark. They called me Flames for the cuts and bruises, they somewhat looked like fire. My mother would constantly fight with the principal about the bullies, and I don't have a father. She would reassure me and comment my blue eyes, talking about being dazed by them. My sister would follow, saying my personality could spark a change in the world.

Forgetting what I was doing, I dropped my pencil. My head was clouded, and my thoughts only traumatized me. One thought popped out at me. You're an only child, she's dead. I clutched my head and curled into a ball, remembering that night. My sister was shot protecting me, because she loved me. It scarred me for life, leaving a paranoia nobody could fix.

I missed my sister dearly, she used to tell stories and jokes. She would support me, even if I was insane. She got along with my mother, even during her roughest times. I recalled memories and clutched my head even more. It hurt, only seeing her but not feeling her presence, or her warm hugs. My mind went blank, and I started to cry involuntarily.

My mother ran in to the room five minutes later, hugging me and telling me it was okay. My mind was numb and I couldn't feel anything. Pictures of my sister and my father flashed through my head like lightning. My mother was hugging me tightly, and crying. She knows I was traumatized by my sister's death.

Noting her pale skin and black bags under her eyes, I let her hug me and cry. She was exhausted and there was nothing I could do. I slowly rose, helping her up with care. She was in as much physical pain as emotional pain, and it was ruining her life. So was I, but I never told her. She would worry too much and her condition would worsen, but I can handle emotional pain.

She had better things to do, she didn't have to do this to me. I shook my head. She made me feel extremely guilty, like I couldn't return her favors. It was in best interest, I'm guessing she doesn't want help from a freak. Even if she doesn't think I'm a freak.

Strictly holding my hands at my sides, I walked to the restroom. At the mirror, I saw the bags under my eyes, and the green, dead color they had to them. I ran my hand down the bridge of my nose, stopping at my lips. My skin was clear, maybe a little inhumanely clear. I was also extremely pale, seeing as the fact is I hate the outdoors.

I looked at my muscular complexion, and the random bruises all over my body. I saw the scars, mostly from surgery, and then my wrists. They were covered by bandages, crude wrapping surrounding my fingers. I had always known I was pale, but my nose was always shaded pink. This had always confused me, seeing as my arms and legs were actually a shade darker.

Mainly to put a shirt on, I stumbled back to my room. The shirt I was wearing before was ripped and taken off before my trauma fit. All of my shirts had a tiny logo on the back. Markie. My mother had done this, she was stolen from as a child. Her back story was actually tragic, unlike me, a sad and pathetic monster.

I slipped on a black shirt, admiring the neck line. My laptop was open to an empty word document, from a time of which I don't remember. I strode over to my laptop, and quickly closed the empty document. My word documents were usually wrote diary style, almost a vent for the day. I had already wrote one for today, fortunately.

After a while of motionlessly staring at my laptop, I finally slugged to sleep. My eyes shut immediately, only showing black screen. I didn't have proper dreams, only visions and breakdowns. As a kid, I would have night terrors, and they would haunt me all day. My sister would see the spooked look on my face, and she would ask, not knowing what proper trauma was like.

Thinking of conflict and resolution, I slowly drifted to sleep. I let my mind aimlessly wander, and it seemed to block itself from the terrors. I was genuinely surprised at this, my terrors always came back to harm me, always. My aim was just to think, to clear my clouded head. Many people didn't do this, and reserved it for the "mentally disturbed" people, or the psychotics.