"Natalya!"

She blinked, hearing her name. It took less than a second for her to process the situation. Slamming the chair into the ground, inches from the group of girls, she didn't wait for the teacher to come for her. Rather, she ran to the cubby under the counter.

Her safe place.

The heavy curtain fell behind her, drowning out all the noise from the classroom, or at least she pretended it did. Covering her hears, huddled in a ball, she could only really focus on the sounds of her breathing. Her face was hot, her eyes wide and seeing nothing.

'It isn't fair! Not fair not fair not fair! They were my friends! That was my spot! Not fair! I hate you! Hateyouhateyouhateyouhateou! Diediediediedie!'

"She's a good student, very bright. It's just-."

Oh, she must have fallen asleep. Did she sleep the whole time?

"No, no. I understand. I can't apologize enough to you, or to the children's parents."

That was-.

"She's not a bad child, Sophia. It isn't your fault."

"Isn't it? If I was a better mother-."

"Don't put that pressure on yourself. She's a sweet girl, talkative and compassionate-."

"But the second she gets mad… that isn't my Natalya. That angry thing isn't my little girl."

"Well, I've never seen a preschooler wield a chair like that." The teacher joked awkwardly, trying to make light of it. Sophia didn't so much laugh as she did scoff.

Laying on her side, Natalya tried to make herself smaller. She didn't want to cry. She couldn't cry. If she cried, they'd know. No one can know. Now that she knew, they couldn't know she knew. Everything had to go back to normal.

If she didn't, no one would love her.

Alone.

School was lonely. By now, she just gave up trying to make friends. The playground was a terribly lonely place, like living in a glass case. Everywhere she went, people were laughing and having fun and talking with friends. She had no friends. Once in awhile she would talk to the playground supervisors, the adults making sure everyone got along. Or as along as one could. No one would get into physical fights, so as far as they were concerned they did their jobs well. Most of the time they just announced when lunch was over or yelled at the more unruly children for running on the blacktop.

Most of the time she was alone. This playground didn't have a swing set, which was like blasphemy. Who thought that was a good idea? No, it had a dodge ball court, which required you to have friends to play. There were the jump ropes. Ah, but she wasn't interested in them anymore. Since she learnt how to crossover, there wasn't much more she could challenge herself with.

Instead she perched on the top of the slide no one ever used. Fifth graders were too old for something so juvenile. It was small, enclosed, safe. It reminded her of the cubby. From here she could see everything. Her face emotionless, passive.

"I'm sad."

No one cared.

She liked art. She had never done something three-dimensional, sculpting was something new. She couldn't join the class so late in the semester, and after that whole fiasco with the theatre teacher, she didn't have anything else to look forward to. They slipped her in as a teacher's assistant, but that didn't let her actually participate. Most of the time she just cleaned the tools or the paintbrushes from the previous class.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?"

She turned from the running water, staring at the large teen looming over her. He was Carlos, a senior and a great deal older than her. She just stared at him, mechanically cleaning the brushes in dish soap. "Excuse me?"

"Who the fuck do you think you are? We don't need you."

She kept staring, the hurt those words caused, the confusion as to why this man was angry with her not appearing on her face. Instead she just looked down her nose at him, despite being nearly a foot shorter. "Are you stupid?"

"I should fucking kill you," he growled, holding up a sculpting knife to her, threateningly, "We don't need no assistant! You think you're better than us because you're the TA? You stupid bitch, I should just stab you here."

'Why does everyone hate me?'

"You are stupid."

"You ugly cunt!"

'What did I do? I just needed somewhere to go.'

"Do I look like I care?"

"I should kill you. Everyone hates you!"

She glanced to the teacher. She was watching them. She had to be hearing all of this. Their eyes met.

She looked down.

She walked away.

She had a knife in her face.

And she walked away.

"Makes sense. Intelligence hates Stupidity, so it should only be natural that Stupidity gets jealous."

"What?"

The bell rang for the end of the period and she dumped the brushes in the sink, no longer feeling generous enough to help the teacher out. She didn't say anything as she grabbed her bag and left. Chewing the inside of her lip until it bled. Her chest hurt with pent up anxiety.

'You all want to kill me.'

She didn't cry. It was all she wanted to do, but she didn't.

"Ah, Natalya, how was today."

"Fine."

"... It doesn't sound fine."

"It was fine, just take me home. I'm done with this place."

Emos, as they were called, were deemed pathetic. Weak. Attention seekers. She wasn't looking for attention. She just wanted to disappear. She didn't want anyone to ever look at her again. She stared at that face, that mask.

"I hate you."

It cracked a little, blinking.

"I hate everything about you."

Its lips twitched. Trembled.

"I wish you'd die."

A tear streaked down its pale cheek, the eyes unblinking, refusing to admit defeat. She lifted the steak knife up. Holding it so the doll could see.

"Because you get angry, no one likes me."

It didn't look away from the chrome of the blade. They were brand new, still sharp.

"You're wrong. Everything about you is wrong."

She put the blade on her wrist, but paused. She didn't want to die. She didn't want anyone to know. No one could know.

Higher.

The outside of her upper arm. The meat there would serve what she needed.

"You're ugly from the inside. You have something wrong with you."

She held the knife in a reverse grip, the serrations biting into her skin. She could feel the flesh tear, it didn't hurt, rather it felt like ripping paper.

She watched the crimson bubble to the surface. It left her feeling….

Awake.

Again. Another. Deeper. Faster. Harder. More.

"You have bad blood."

She watched her arm, wiped it away to see the wound itself. She could look inside, see the fat, the muscle. She sat in the corner of the bathroom, watching the trails they made, watched it stain the linoleum floor with wide, unblinking eyes.

It felt like crying.

A/N: It's easier to confess to your insanity when you hide behind puppets.