A/N: I'm totally winging this series – unlike Inchoate, which has a rough draft process – this is just all off the top of my head.

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Thomas Harris OR His characters. If I did would I be on here writing FanFiction? NO. I'd be busy writing an accompanying book for the upcoming – and by upcoming, I mean that I heard it on Perez Hilton's site – SOTL sequel. With Anthony as Han again. Yay hooray!

*The next day . . .*

"Ugh."

"Marching band was craptastic last night again, I assume?" Thom asked.

"Ding-ding-ding, Thomas E. Jones, you are correct." I sighed, "The flutes were sharp and the percussion was off again. It gave me a nine-hour headache."

We continued walking through the halls to our third hour class, "I have no idea what's up with you, but you should like, invest in earplugs – or like, an anti hearing aid. It might help," He said.

"Maybe, maybe not. I have no idea – I've always been like this. It's not as bad in choir, though. I think that might have to do with the fact that I realize no voice can really be perfect – except for Michael Crawford's, of course . . . ."

"Hey, did you hear there's a new counselor?"

"What? Oh, that guy – I saw him yesterday. He looks kinda creeper-ish, am I right?"

He frowned, "I dunno. I didn't get a good look at him."

"Hey, Thom?"

"Yeah?"

"What's it like to have a conversation with me?"

He smiles again, "Very entertaining, I'll tell you that . . ." He trails off and frowns, "I'd better get to Shop class before Mr. Gillead kills me for being late again." He walked off.

I was left standing in front of my locker, with a frown playing on my lips. I opened my locker and grabbed my Math book and my copy of Nineteen eighty-four. I nabbed my iPod and headphones and jogged up the three flights of stairs to Mr. Roland's room – I was bound to be late, but I could deal. Mr. Roland was a nice guy – a lot of the time he'd just let me slide.

I get to the top and run across the hall to his room, open the door and bolt in –

Just as the bell rings.

"Ooh, Faith! You're late!" It was this douche baggy guy named Knox. This happens at least once a day.

I just stared at him. "What the Hell are you staring at?" One of his friends – Leon or something – asked.

One of his other friends – Mitch, or Mark or something like that – came up to me, "What's your problem?" He asked. And then – this is where he made a majormistake – he pushed me.

Now, I'll explain. Every time I make physical contact with someone, something goes off in my brain that says 'GET THEM OFF OF YOU AND AWAY FROM YOU! NOW.'

So I punched him in the face and knocked him to the floor. Very lady-like, eh? Well, that's what happens when your mom's a constantly armed FBI agent. She never leaves the house without at least a magnum .45 in pancake holster. – At least. But, back to me punching him in the face and knocking him on his Ass.

I was hyperventilating – "Don't . . . Touch . . . Me . . . . Ever . . . Again!" I turned around to face the class – "What's my problem? I do not, I repeat – DO NOT. Like people touching me! DO YOU GET THAT?"

Just as I was finishing my little speech, Mr. Roland comes in with a sheaf of graph paper. He looks upon the scene with curious eyes. "Is there . . . any problem here?" He asked.

"No," We all said in turn.

Well, this day was going well.