Caged.
Scorpius wonders if he was born a shit person or if he only wants to fuck everyone else up because of the way they so determinedly destroyed him.
In another time and place he probably would have been the bully, not the bullied. He wouldn't have been the one falling to the ground with the blackened eye or spending nights slumped in a corridor because he physically can't get up and go to bed. He would've had pride and a sense of purpose, and most of all, just something to be proud of.
But no, he must take the fall of his predecessors' mistakes. He must be punished for crimes he didn't commit. He's treated like shit and he feels like shit.
But he's got a pretty face and those well-bred manners and the girls –the nice ones- they just fawn over him. A little project to pick up and fix up. But he's not some blank slate; he can't be what they want. He's nothing and they shouldn't even try. Why do they even try? What do they want, really? He's terrified and paranoid and he lashes out at them like they lashed out at him.
He's the panicked animal in the cage. Jumps a mile in the air at the slightest touch. Fires curses at the quietest sound. They say he's crazy. He's lost his mind. They back away, they stay away, and now he's drowning in loneliness, craving even the hits and hexes that were his previous experiences of human contact. Anything would be better than the constant nothingness, lost in the confines of his mind.
So he goes after them. Provokes, provokes, provokes. Just look, speak to me again. I want to feel, I want to hurt so I can know emotion again. Just keep pushing, pushing, and he pushes too far. But death, death is the welcome result.