A/N: Had fun with this one. Written because I seem to gain new, relentless ideas when I need to work on other shit. Bad habit of mine haha. Sort of a 3 + 1 (see, I'm too lazy to even do a proper 5 + 1 ugh). Took about an hour and a half and basically unedited (sorry!), I just really needed an outlet. Warning: dark. Don't read if you're unsure what that entails. Tell me what you think of this as it is in such a raw state *winces* if you want...
freak
- n.:
1. any abnormal phenomenon or product or unusual object; anomaly; aberration.
2. a person or animal on exhibition as an example of a strange deviation from nature; monster.
3. a sudden and apparently causeless change or turn of events, the mind, etc.; an apparentlycapricious notion, occurrence, etc.: That kind of sudden storm is a freak.
He looked it up one day. just because he was bored and there was a dictionary on hand. He already had a faint idea of what the word meant, of course, because he was smart. One could always work out at least one meaning of a word by looking at the context it is presented in, and he'd done just that.
But it never hurt to check with a reliable source, and a dictionary is extremely reliable.
Worse words were often said to him, but this one stood out to him the most. It sounded intriguing, for one. It's written as /fri:k/ in the international phonetic alphabet.
The ancient derivations of the word are intriguing, too. From Middle English freke, freike ("a bold man, warrior, man, creature"), from Old English freca ("a bold man, warrior, hero"), from Proto-Germanic *frekô ("an active or eagre man, warrior, wolf"), from Proto-Germanic *frekaz ("active, bold, desirous, greedy"), Old English frēcne ("dangerous, daring, courageous, bold").
Soft 'ph' sound to begin, long 'ri' indicates some build-up and then the solid punch of the harsh 'k' to finish.
In fact, that's another reason this word stands out to him; he finds it amusing how the word itself is just as predictable as the build up to the reality.
To a real punch, or hit, or kick.
You disgust me, you filthy piece of shit. How can you live with yourself? You're the reason for this mess! You're the reason for this whole fucking mess. You did this to me, you did this to us! You're not worthy of breathing the same air as me, let alone living in this house. Shut up and stop crying. You and I both know this is the only way you can ever learn your lesson.
.
He enjoys reading more than anything. He can find a book and access a whole world of information, theories, challenges - anything, really, as long as he knows where to look. And he definitely knows where to look.
The library is a great place for finding these books he seeks, and he's already much more advanced than the rest of his cohort. His teachers always wonder at how such a seemingly introverted child outshone the rest of the kids on paper. He doesn't care about that, though. What he cares about is knowing all there is to know, all that can be learned, and putting it to use.
He grows. Being on the sidelines for the most part, he finds himself looking. He studies everyone around him like he studies books, or mould compositions, or dissected animals. He starts to notice things, he learns how to notice things. Little details that appear meaningless but when strewn together like words on a page form a whole picture, a whole passage he can read to the class. It all becomes as easy as reading a book.
They never like the passages he reads, but that doesn't bother him. They're afraid of him, afraid of how with a single glance he can take apart their entire being and not care. He can do all that everyone else cannot, because he is above the lot of them.
He has that hold, that inherent power over them to mould their little worlds, or bring their darker sides out into the open as he sees fit, and they hate that.
They can't stand that he's better than them.
How dare you say that to me? After everything we've been through together, after everything I've done for you! You ungrateful, spiteful monster. It's like you want all of that, like you want to be punished for your sins.
. .
He doesn't feel anything.
Okay, distinctly untrue. He feels numb - he feels the absence of feeling as keen as a scalpel, but he is wholly indifferent to that. It's just another fact that can be determined through observation: 1+1=2; a midday, cloudless sky is blue. Nothing special at all.
He knows why he feels this numbness, this apathy and scorn for the world. He's a sociopath - a high-functioning one at that.
Anti-social personality disorder is the more widely-used medical term these days, but 'high-functioning sociopath' has such a nice ring to it. There's always some satisfaction in dishing out the term when people stare at him in confused rage after a particularly meticulous dissection of their life.
Being a uni student isn't too different from being a high school student, except now he knows what to expect. He's prepared. He knows who to avoid, who has the best cocaine, who can be manipulated into giving him extra lab time or unlimited data usage on his phone. He doesn't bother with anyone aside from that - he does his own thing and hones his skills, both through artificial means and through practice.
Maybe they didn't listen to him with the Carl Powers incident, but they would see how stupid they were being eventually. He would make them see, and then they would be begging him to consult and reveal the truth.
Just as it should be.
In the meantime, life is mostly dull. If he's not honing his skills, or sporadically, half-heartedly attending his classes, he's shooting up or seeking his next hit. It's not hard to acquire what he needs. It's tedious, certainly, and he inevitably earns himself quite a reputation. They call him 'easy' and 'slut'. He doesn't much care for their slurs and disgusted looks. The ones that demand it as payment... well. The sex is simply a means to an end and nothing more. Everything is transport to his intellect, nothing more. And the end is - naturally - sweet, glorious, electrifying cocaine. He's addicted to the stuff. It makes him razor-sharp, takes him above the plane of his transport, his mind transcends when he's high and that is all there is, all he is and it's glorious.
So the people he lets touch him, and sometimes those he - tediously - has to touch are simply a means to an end. A means to that singular powder that has become a catalyst to the scape of his mind.
Everyone in his life is a means to an end in some way or other.
You love it, don't you. You love this, you love me, that's why you keep coming back for more ...
. . .
"Bit different from my day."
This man isn't like other people. It's a strange thing, this thought, because he can't link any of his observations or deductions to it so he has no idea where it came from.
And yet he is sure.
He wanted a flatmate, sure. It would make paying the rent (while ignoring Mycroft and his insistent avalanche of money) a whole lot easier. That didn't mean that he thought he would get one - a lasting one.
This man isn't the first to feel awed by his deductions, but he's certainly the one to show it to him in the face of callous deductions.
This man isn't the first to learn of his previous addiction, but he's certainly the first to move past it for the time being and remain non-judgemental.
This man isn't the first to harm someone trying to harm him, but he's certainly the first to do so within forty-eight hours of their acquaintance.
He doesn't understand this man, this medical man with kind blue eyes and a small smile that lights up his whole face. He doesn't understand why this man is so intriguing when others are just as obvious but so boring. He doesn't understand why he wants him to be more than just a means to an end. What would the means be anyway? He doesn't know, doesn't care.
He wants him to stay.
Dinner?
Starving.
. . . .