I remember the times when I was younger.
The same group of Zolan children always passed my street on their way to school. We weren't allowed to talk to them. We weren't allowed to be seen by them.
Our abominable presence would corrupt them.
I always wanted to meet them, though. I used to think that maybe they'd be different. Maybe they'd be my friends. It was stupid, wishful thinking. All of the propaganda around me told me that the Zolans were the angelic ones, while we Clawdites were the sinners. I wanted so badly for them to accept me as one of them. I wanted to be perfect like them.
One day, I snuck out of the house and waited for them to pass by. I saw them walking towards me, talking and laughing amongst themselves. When they saw me, they all froze. I walked forward nervously. They all took a collective step back.
"Scirsil!" One of them cried. I didn't understand what they were saying. I raised an open hand slowly, as if trying to prove I meant no harm. There was a flurry of movement as one of the boys of the group grabbed a sharp piece of scrap metal from the ground. His friends all gathered behind him, muttering fearfully.
I was confused. Why did they act like this? "What are you doing?" I asked in my native Clawdite dialect, "I mean no harm!" If they understood, they didn't show it. The Zolan children were repeating something to their friend with the scrap metal, as if they were encouraging him to do something. Their voices rose in unison and I heard what they were saying, "Valsh sen scirsil! Valsh sen scirsil!"
I didn't understand their language and I doubted they understood mine any better. "Please!" I said, "Just try and understand! I only want to talk." I took a step towards them and the moment my foot landed, I knew I had made a mistake. All of their eyes snapped up to mine and I could clearly see fear, surprise, and confusingly enough, virtuous rage lighting their irises. The first boy took aim and threw the piece of scrap metal in his hands straight at me. I just barely dodged it. I should've run at that point, but I was young. Young and stupid. I remained fixed to the spot, staring incredulously at the boy who had thrown it. I was confused. They were supposed to be angelic. Honorable. Superior.
The group's chanting had grown to yelling, the phrase "Valsh sen scirsil!" repeated like a way cry. The rest of the children began grabbing scrap metal, wood, whatever they could find and gathered it in their arms. I had enough sense to give up on my diplomatic mission and run in the opposite direction. The children gave chase, yelling and throwing what they had gathered; shattered glass, rusted metal, garbage. All of it was thrown straight at me as I ran through the familiar streets, trying to lose them in the twisting alleys. Occasionally, I'd feel one of their projectiles hit me. Bruises, cuts… I could deal with those easily enough. I was lucky nothing really dangerous hit me.
It might've been something on the ground or it could've been something they threw, but at some point, I fell. One second I was running and the next I was on the ground with the breath knocked out of me. My pursuers stopped a few meters away. Even though they had seemed content to chase me through the streets, they seemed at a loss when I wasn't running, even if it was because I had fallen. None of them took a step closer.
Slowly, I turned to look at them. They must have been emboldened by the fear they saw in my eyes because one of the girls took a step forward. I flinched and they all laughed. They all took a collective step towards me and I leapt to my feet and began running away. I expected them to start chasing me again, but instead they stood while I ran. I could hear them laughing as I fled.
When I got home, I snuck back into my room and lay on my cot, burying myself under the thin sheets. I told my mother that I was too sick to do chores. She seemed to sense that I was upset and didn't question it. Somehow, in that weird, pseudo-psychic way that mothers have, she seemed to know what had happened, or at least, had the general idea. Later, I asked her what the phrase "valsh sen scirsil" meant. She had given me a sad, but stern look, as if what she was about to say was something that I had to learn. "It means 'slay the monster.'" She told me.
A monster. That is what the world thought I was. That is what the angels thought I was. Yet, I knew that I wasn't. I remembered the Zolan children, how they had chased me, how they had tried their hardest to hurt me, how they had laughed at my pain. No matter what they thought, no matter what the world thought, I knew who the real monsters were.