"What do you see?"
A gaping orifice, black blood oozing from a sliced wound, pooling in the porous confines of the shiny Rorschach card. They gleamed in the sunlight and formed the words FREAKDIE in a dripping display.
"A flower."
With a sigh and a flick, the card was gone from Karkat's face, revealing the cold suspicion in Doctor Maryam's firm gaze. Look up, look down, look anywhere but that frank, pin-prick stare.
Then the moment was over and the doctor's face was warm once more. Standing, she ran her fingers through his translucent hair. Her smile was oddly maternal, which made Karkat uncomfortable.
"Alright, if you say so. You're free to go." Her voice was cool and crisp. Karkat's steady glare flickered up to meet her vivid jade-laced eyes.
Bright beams of warmth encircled her, and for a moment Karkat thought she could have been glowing. He blinked, twice, before he realized that it was only the copious amounts of unfiltered sunlight which streamed through the office's wide windows that created such a delusion.
God, he was so fucked up.
Karkat stood and turned to leave, his shoulders slouched with the weight of his thoughts.
He was always like this. Seeing all that fucked up shit. It was what kept him flowing steadily through a cycle of unloving foster guardians, each one seeing a different problem with his existence. It was what landed him in the Alternian Psychiatric Center for Troubled Teens. The best hospital for the worst fuckups.
Before his fingers met the door handle, the Doctor's voice drifted into his daze.
"Oh, and Karkat, you know you can-"
"Always come and see me whenever I want to, yeah. I know." Without a moment to spare, the door slammed close and the boy was gone.
The Doctor's gaze lingered on the mahogany entrance, before she gave a quick shake of the head and an audible sigh.
Troubled Teens indeed.
-x-
Karkat Vantas was not like any kid he had ever met. He was only seven years old when he first came to this realization. That he, Karkat Vantas, was very different.
Ocular Albinism.
He had a name for it now, an audible grasp of what set him apart from the other children. It was much easier to hate something when you knew exactly what it was. But back then, when he was just some fucked up kid, he had no idea what it could be. No one had ever told him that being pale as skim milk, with the hair of a seventy year old man and the eyes of a crime scene was why he had no friends.
He just had to assume.
First, Karkat thought it was the anger stuff. The fact that he would punch a kid for cutting in front of him in the lunch line, because, seriously, not cool man. Or the curse words. But Jason McMallon was a complete dickbasket, always beating up on others, and Mary Semenov wanted to marry him someday. So it wasn't that.
Then, Karkat thought maybe the other kids had found out that he had really bad nightmares. Someone told them. Or maybe they knew he still sometimes wet the bed. Or maybe they had realized he had such a hard time with art class because he couldn't see some colors sometimes, like greens and blues.
But other kids had those problems too, and they had friends.
So why didn't Karkat?
Then one day, one of the days when his father came home smelling like dogpiss and roses, he figured it out. Karkat had learned a long time ago to hide from that putrid aroma. Sometimes he didn't hide well enough.
During the violence, Karkat could only just make out the slurred mutterings of a raving drunkard. At those times, it was always best to just sit tight and shut the fuck up or risk a bigger hurt. But he would remember those hatred filled insults, and later piece them together.
Because even though they meant nothing to him at the time, when his father spat them at his seven year old self, they had stung more than the subsequent sharp slap.
"Filthy albino freak."
-x-
It was never quiet in the Halls. Neither would peace ever settle in the Cafeteria. Even the library was always filled with useless bickering, idiot gossip, and petty catfights.
The most peace Karkat ever got was in his cell. Or as the nurses called it, his Dorm room. It was big, cleaned regularly, with enough space to accommodate two mentally disturbed teenagers with enough mental baggage to fill a freight train. Normally, this would be Karkat's safe haven.
Unfortunately he shared it with a complete and total idiot.
-x-
Karkat stopped at his number, 413, heaved a great sigh, and grabbed the handle.
He opened the door.
His roommate, Gamzee Makara, was standing in the middle of their dorm, gazing up at the ceiling and giggling like a love-struck school girl, completely nude.
He closed the door.
"What?" Karkat said to the wall.