"All my life, it's been there. My parent's hadn't been in touch with either of their families for many years already, but after I was born, they cut off contact from people entirely. Kept me hidden, covered up, you know? And it sucked. I always felt...wrong. Like I wasn't supposed to be alive. Like...all their anxiety and paranoia would go away if I only ceased to exist."
"I see. So, if they were as protective as you say, how come you were attending school?"
"I mean, that's only been for the last two years. We knew it could be easily covered up beneath clothes. And, though they were apprehensive, I was well behaved and obedient enough for them to eventually let me try living like a normal kid. And it was great, the best time of my life. For the first time in ages, I had friends."
"Of course, of course," with one pale, wrinkled finger, the old man pushed his thick-framed glasses up his nose, struggling to write with the constant bumps and clatters of their mysteriously suspicious oil black van, complete with the creepy tinted windows.
He was so frail, his flesh looking as though it were clinging to the bone, each joint and bend poking through dry, flaking skin.
With his suit far too big for such a meek frame, the poor man's pencil-like neck gave him the appearance of a tortoise, peeking out from its shell.
His hair, what little of it there was, was so brilliantly white, like the ghost of a former toupee.
The loose skin hanging from his neck swayed and shook with a similar rhythm to his hand as he scrawled barely legible letters on a notebook with old, yellowing paper.
"...now then, Mister Ward..." He began, smacking his dry lips together without taking those dot-like eyes away from his precious notes, "What about the incident yesterday? Can you tell me about that?"
Xander clenched his hands together tighter now, back pressed against the shuddering walls of their strange transport, his face twisted into a grimace.
"Do I...have to? Right now?"
"It would be wise, Mister Ward. In detail, if you please."
With no discernible emotion, the wrinkly bodach tapped the tip of his pen against his tongue before pressing it once again to the paper, awaiting the young boy's response.
Though a nervous breakdown and/or anxiety attack was trying to creep up on him, Xander kept his cool, taking a deep breath and forcing his mind back to that dreadful afternoon, only a few hours prior.
"...w-well...I was in class, like normal...we were about to break for lunch, when suddenly, my chest began to hurt. Like, really, really hurt."
"And can you describe this pain, Mister Ward?"
Rubbing his chest over his favourite piece of clothing, a deep brown, shearling sheepskin leather pilot jacket his parents had bought him on his last birthday (not cheaply, mind you) he recalled the very moment the chaos of that day began. Each terrifying event after the next.
"...it was...sharp. Like a blade, tearing through my skin, travelling along the markings, but all at the same time. It burned and felt as though it were bleeding, even though it wasn't. I remember...clutching it tightly, bending over my desk and crying out. Some of the kids began to laugh and the teacher told me to stop messing around. Next thing I know, I'm on the floor, the pain is too much. I can barely breathe, all sound is muffled, my body growing numb. The teacher calls for help and then...then it all goes...dark..."
"I see..." the man grumbled, scribbling away, "So, what you're saying is, you don't remember attacking your teacher and fellow students? Tearing through the walls, proceeding to kill-"
"I...I don't know..."
Xander's voice shook as he looked to the side, the sweat in his clenched palms collecting.
"...please, Mister Ward, this is quite important. I need clear answers from you."
