"Hey, you can't talk to Near!" A girl, Linda, dragged me away and threw me into the opposite wall. They picked at my hair like apes and screamed incomprehensible things. I had suspected that would happen, so I picked myself up and glared at them.

"And exactly what was that for, ladies?" I asked fruitlessly.

They were pissed, that I could see plainly enough. "We are the Near club!" When they said that all in unison, my face went blank. As if someone had accidentally tripped on my facial expressions plug. Linda waved her hand in front of my face.

"What. . . Are you, exactly? I don't know if I heard you correctly."

"We are the Near club?" Again they said it in complete unison. And again I didn't show any emotion. Then: laughter erupted from my mouth. It spurted and spewed and carried all the way to the cafeteria. All the way to the darkest room in the orphanage. The girls stepped back, scared out of their wits.

"Oh, well, that's really! Darn, that is just too funny! Ha ha ha. Gosh, I'm crying!" I wheezed on the floor, collapsing under all the hilarity.

Near silenced me through his pajama sleeve as he walked away, toys in hand. I stared at him through my slowly evaporating laughter ecstasy cloud. Matt and Mello showed up after the Near club left.

"Was that you, Honey?" Matt asked, he stood behind Mello. Matt should've been able to be right next to Mello, but Matt was Mello's dog. But I was going to change that. I just didn't know it yet.

I wiped away the hair from my face and patted off the dust. My mask had been placed once again on my face. Only this time, it felt itchy and actually felt like a mask. My breathing felt tapped into, I didn't control it.

"Uh, yeah, kind of."

Mello chuckled. "Oh, yeah, that's a very smart response."

Linda's attack had me fired up and Mello had spilt the gasoline. I shoved into his face and actually growled because I was so angry. "Shove off, Jell-O. You're stupid, useless, and I don't like you. Just because you have Matt at your side and you have somewhat good grades, doesn't mean that you can put all your problems on me! So grow up and get away from me!" With sturdy might, I put my hands against Jell-O and drove him into the ground. His expression brought me giddy pleasure. But I was too angry to properly enjoy it, so I stashed it away to giggle into my pillow when the day was over.

In a fitful rage, I stalked to class, and bit one boy who decided it'd be funny to make fun of my name. "My momma gave me this name because I was so sweet. My poppa gave me my name because the Indian people believe honey has healing powers. Why did your parents name you John, huh?" I got no response. The teacher told me to go to my room and relieve some stress.

"Thanks," I said, instantly deflating as soon as I exited the classroom, "That'd probably be best for me."

So, that's how I got the entire rest of the day off. Mostly, I just wandered the halls and peeked into random classrooms, making funny faces at the people that stared at me. I felt like being a total bitch, so I was. I kicked someone's house of cards in and kept walking when they through a block at my head. I thought it was kind of funny how masochistic I was, like even the thought of pain was fascinating, and I personally love conflict. It's just something that my parents gave no credit for. They say that I got the masochism from my late grandmother Lucille and the craving for drama. . . Momma doesn't admit it but she was extremely into sitcoms and cliffhangers in her novels that she had on the top shelf.

When I turned the corner, head throbbing, I rested against the wall and slid down until I was crouched into myself. An emotion that felt like being slapped with a brick in a sock slammed into me, sending me into tremors.

Despite my attitude I was not okay, not in the least. I had just lost my family, all my other relatives are either in the ground or spending their midlife crisis' on cruises around the world, out of reach. The man who slaughtered my parents was still in trial. They said they were testing his brain for glitches and malfunctions of regular behavior.

"Look at me now, Poppa, I'm not loved. I'm screwed." I whispered to myself, a secret that had constantly replayed in my mind.

An old man found me ten minutes later and asked, "Are you alright, Honey?"

I looked up, tears humiliating me beyond belief, instantly recognizing Wammy. "Y-yeah. . . No, I guess I'm not."

"Would you like to tell me about it?" He asked another question in that creaky old voice. I continued to stare at him bleakly, numb with the stupid, salty traitors that were accidentally catching in my mouth.

After a second or two of no reply, I said, "That would be. . ." I was just a child, so why not indulge in the fruit of the young, "Nice. Thank you." He held out his hand and I carelessly took it, covertly taking all my weight and lifting myself anyway. Wammy was just too old to take my weight, I wasn't fat but still. Old people need respect and kindness like the rest of the world. But right now, I wasn't thinking about the world, screw the world, just as much as I.

*** So I talked with him. I told him all my crap and he just listened. He didn't give me advice that I wouldn't follow, didn't even give me the pity eyes. In fact, he showed little emotion except for the generic old person look. No offense to all the aged of this world.

After I was done I left, shuffling to my room. I felt a bit lighter ego-wise. The world didn't feel lighter, just a little bit easier to bear if Wammy knows.

Just as I reached for the knob of my door, a hand tapped my shoulder. I expected the worst and hoped for it to be just a breeze so I could go inside.