Jane.
Jane. Jane. Jane.
Jane. The name of the girl, the single twelve year old girl, who has a dragon at her side and a sword in her hand. The twelve year old girl who always wants to be the best, the smartest. The girl who looks down at me, thinking she is so much better than I along with her stuck-up friends, who know nothing about how they make me feel.
How they make me feel.
Make me feel.
Feel.
Because of them, I no longer know how it feels to have certain feelings that I always wanted. Love. Pride. Happiness. Fitting.
Fitting.
Fitting.
I never fit anywhere, always sticking out of groups here and there. Always an outsider, an intruder. Someone who wants to fit in, and never would be able to. Like a cat wanting to fit in with mice. They all run away as if I were predator.
Silence.
It always comes when I get near.
