One U-haul truck and three hours was all it took to completely leave my deserted-city-life behind. A light shower of snow coated the windshield as we approached our house for the first time. It had a small porch, two stories…and slightly chipping blue paint. Jen clapped her hands together and squealed in childlike abandon when she pulled into the driveway, and ordered me to begin moving boxes inside immediately, while she ran around the white-painted porch in tight circles, squealing with joy. We had managed to scrape together enough money to hire a few movers, who had somehow found a way to shove our couch, tables and mattresses through the tight door frame before we had arrived. By the time I had moved almost all of the boxes inside, I realized that somehow, I had lost track of Jen completely. I sighed and rubbed my temples with my fingertips, and used my super-deduction skills to discover footprints in the light dusting of snow covering the nubby grass of our new lawn, and started off after them. Light prints wound a curving trail through the spacious back yard, and through a row of bushes into the next yard over. I found Jen peering through a barely-opened window in the beige house next door. If the owners of said home were to look outside that window any time soon, they would notice some very suspicious trails in the snow. Trails that looked similar to that of a small child being unwillingly yanked from the candy aisle in the local grocery store, and dragged away by their shirt collar.

Jen's nervous worry about the new house had grown to sheer enthusiasm, and deflated back into gloomy anxiety in a matter of hours. As we sat down in our tiny new kitchen to enjoy a dinner of hot pockets and coffee, she clicked her nails against the table and chewed on her lip nervously, flicking her eyes back and forth between the dusty rose paint of the walls, yet to be coated with the 'charming attributes' of our old run-down shack. At least she wasn't speaking. When my mother began to mutter to herself, it was generally the start of something bad.

"You start school in four days." Well at least I didn't have to wonder what was on her mind for too long, such tended to be the case.

"That's…ah…w-why?"

"Pleasetrytobegoodthistime! Don't make anyone hate you…that's…no one wants that." Way to be blunt about it, asshole.

"B-b-but they're always, they'll always hate me! I'm j-just, justastupidfuckingfreak and I'm g-gunna be sh-shunned for that, no matter where I g-go. ALWAYS! I'm s-sorry mom, I'll try but…" I trailed off there. No sense in going off on some sort of self-hating spiel when I could be pitying myself in the solitude of my own brain. Jen must have realized this as well. She shot me a sad look before gulping the remains of her coffee and leaving me alone at the table. Just as well, I should spend some time smudging the house anyway, before the gnomes find a way to me here. My smudge stick was most likely stuffed in the box with the incense and lighters, and I intended to check the every chicken scratch label on each cardboard box until I found my own things, and retrieved the bundle of sage and lavender from the bottom of the smallest box in the living room. I pulled my headphones off of my neck and on to my ears, and began blasting Skrillex, as his music seemed otherworldly and magical to me. I lit the end of the smudge stick. I once heard somewhere, that Native Americans used smudge sticks made from specific plants to purify sacred places and banish evil spirits. I found myself one at once and began feverishly spreading the smoke about the walls that my mother claimed to see distorted faces in. Around the same time, I noticed that my underpants hadn't left my drawer in a few days, and decided immediately that it was the work of ancient Indian ghosts. Now I could sleep in peace…once every few weeks. Once the bundle had smoldered down to a tiny black nub between my fingers, I decided that the house was clean enough for me to feel a little at home here, especially with the familiar fog of smoke hanging in the air. I took the last box of my things upstairs, and began actually unpacking into my new room.

The days flew by in a flash of unpacking, arranging, rearranging, and room-painting. Before I knew it, I was sitting cross-legged at the end of my driveway with a baggy green sweatshirt and a thermos of coffee, waiting for the bus to come whisk me off to a land of hatred and pain. Even if I had been awake for the past three days, 6:32 was way too early to be out of bed and outside, where people could see me and point and laugh at my messy mop of hair, or my baggy, paint-stained clothes, or my squeaky voice and nervous twitches and the dark bags under my eyes and GOD I hate it outside. South Park is a lot quieter than North Park, that's for sure, but the kids here have to be just as mean. No one would ever want to be friends with some ugly little short kid. Not like I need friends anyway. That's way too much pressure. Friendship means responsibilities, and they always end up needing things like love and attention and I'm not okay with worship and holy shit is that the bus already I'm not ready I'MNOTREADYFORTHISYET! As I boarded the yellow Satanmobile, I swear to fucking god I could feel every kid on that bus glaring at me as I stood in the front of the aisle, wide-eyed and sweating nervously when I realized that there were no empty seats. I twitched violently, my head snapping to the left and my neck cracking loudly. A few of the eyes in the crowd shifted from accusatory, to disgusted, until I felt a chubby pair of hands shoving me into a seat next to the spot I was standing, currently being occupied by a tall, black-haired boy with a slightly irritated expression. He glared at me as I slammed into him with the grace of a drunk rhinoceros , but otherwise ignored my presence and turned his head to look out the window. I pulled my knees to my chin and attempted to make myself as small as possible, wishing and hoping that I could become one with the bus seat. I could hear the fat boy across the aisle laughing to a small blonde boy next to him.

"Don't make fun of him, look at his fuckin' hair. He prolly got electrocuted or somethin'. That's a face not even a mother could love. Tragic." The blonde boy cackled and responded softly, leaving them both in fits of giggles. I pulled my olive green hood over my head and tried my hardest not to cry.

When the bus finally stopped at a large, brick building, I stood up and flung myself out the door as fast as I possibly could. The inside of the school was painted a crisp white, with dirty, white tiles and pale gray lockers. The stench of vomit hung in the air, in kinship with the bile rising in my throat. I stood in the lobby, the lone freak surrounded by a million faded gray faces as they rushed in circles, avoiding me entirely until the bully from across the bus aisle interrupted my solitude with a sharp shove to the shoulders, and a loud cackle as he retreated. I fell to my knees, dropping my bag and flinging my things across the floor in a successful attempt to save what remained of my coffee by pressing the thermos to my bony chest. I noticed a few pairs of shoes kicking my belongings away from me, which I scrabbled after. I never carried any binders or folders in my torn up backpack, I never used them, and that would be silly. They were filled instead, with sketchbooks, journals and varied forms of art supplies. Luckily I had taken to keeping my pens and markers in a large freezer bag which landed beside my legs, instead of scattering into all corners of the school. I tried my hardest to ignore the mocking laughter echoing from all ends of the hallways as the first bell screeched, shocking me into a screaming jump, in which I dropped my thermos to the floor and with it, the rest of my coffee. I pulled my aching body into an undignified crawl, and managed to scrape together all three of my sketchbooks, and shoved them in my bag before running down the nearest hall in a desperate attempt to locate a bathroom. The seething hatred I held for myself, and the fear and fury I felt towards everybody else swirled in my stomach until my head was spinning and I was sure I was going to be sick. Noticing a plain white door in the mass of black and gray paint, I charged inside and proceeded to empty the contents of my stomach into the toilet in the last stall down. As hard as I tried, I just couldn't hold my tears back anymore. I slammed my head into the metal of the stall and bit my lip to muffle the sobs. I worked my fingers through my long, untamable hair and yanked, ripping it out of my head in painful clumps. I deserve to hurt. I'm a sickening, obnoxious abomination who only gets in the way of more important people doing more important things. God I am disgusting beyond belief. I worked my thick hoodie sleeves up to my elbows, admiring the deep purple scars covering my arms. I dug my sharp fingernails into my forearm, waiting for the sound of tiny blood drops hitting the dirty tiles. I should just do something right for once, I should just die. Jen was right. The torment needs to end. I need to stop tormenting these people, what right did I have, to come into their town, their school, and color the place with my deformity? None. The nails dug deeper. There was blood on the floor now, my blood. My sick, disgusting, schizophrenic blood. I had a lot of nerve, to stain the floors I wasn't even fit to walk on. The ringing of my own name from the intercom startled me out of my suicidal haze just enough to wrap my bleeding arm in the gauze sitting the front pocket of my backpack amongst hand sanitizer, antiseptic and millions of bandaids in various sizes, (You never know when you might get stabbed) and pulled myself together enough to throw my hood over my head and walk out the door.

With all of the gawking stares I received from the students in my new government class, I might as well have had my skin painted blue. One pair of deep brown eyes stuck out more than the rest; those belonging to a shockingly beautiful ginger boy, a look of sheer pitying astonishment gracing his pale, almost feminine features. I decided to sit down in an empty seat just behind him, noticing the way he quietly passed notes to the noirette beside him. I was immediately painfully jealous of the soft glances that were sent between them, and laid my head down on my desk to clear my head and try to quell the whispers in the back of my brain. I had come to class late, and was just beginning to drift off when I heard the bell ring yet again, startling me out of my daydreams. I screamed and twitched, snapping my neck once again. The room was silent. Their eyes were on me for what felt like the thousandth time today.

"Freak…"

I pulled my bag over my shoulder and flew out of the room as fast as my dizzy head and weary legs would let me. Deciding to avoid as much conflict as possible, I checked the schedule I had received in the mail and discovered that my next class was a study hall, in room 207. The second floor…meaning I would be forced to brave the crowded stairways. I quickly ruled out the idea of covering my head with my arms and barreling my way through with a war call a Spartan would envy, and in a spur-of-the-moment decision, I shut my eyes and dashed through into the mess of people, taking a few of them down with me. I was too embarrassed to turn around and help anybody back up again, and red-faced, continued running like mad until I reached my next class. God I hope I can go home soon…

Dear journal;

I didn't finish any of my works last night, too scared. So scared. The other kids at the school I'm currently attending are so cruel. They go out of their way to pick on me. Why can't they just ignore me. I don't want friends… but I don't want enemies either! They all look like they just want to hurt me. I must be some sort of a flaw in their system! I've got it! They're all robots working for the government and I'm going to get them noticed by the community because I don't fit in! IT ALL MAKES SENSE NOW! THEY MUST WANT TO TURN ME INTO A ROBOT TOO!

The sound of an engine roared as it turned the corner onto my street, so I quickly closed my journal and shoved it into the backpack sitting on the ground beside me before anyone could notice that I had caught onto their plan. I stood up and grabbed my things, reaching the end of my driveway the second the doors of the bus flung open and smacked me hard in the face. The cackling laughter from inside the doors was quickly become much too familiar. I tried to ignore the offensive noise and the pain in my nose, but I already felt dizzy as I flew up the stairs. I was expecting to be forced into sitting beside another mocking, grumpy kid like I did yesterday, but noticed to my pleasant surprise that a single seat near the back of the bus was completely empty. I rushed towards it without noticing the thick leg blocking my path. I tripped over the foot of the same kid that had been taunting me mercilessly yesterday, and was sent sprawling to the floor with a loud shriek. I resisted the urge to cry, scream, or turn around and punch him in the face, and threw my backpack into the empty seat, scrambling my way in after it. I had to ignore them, avoid conflict, just block it all out. Music would help. Music always helped. I pulled my headphones over my ears and blasted the angriest songs I could find on my ipod.

Today was the second day in a row that I, 1. Walked into the cafeteria, 2. Saw all the people. 3. Panicked. my mouth to hold back a squeak. 5. Turned and fled to the bathroom. It was degrading, at best, but nobody came in to bother me and I could sit on the floor in the handicap stall and sketch out pictures of fish. The 20 minutes I was supposed to be on the other end of the school passed relatively quickly, and I decided I would start off to my next class before the bell rang and the rest of the kids came in. I checked my schedule as I left the bathroom, and noticed that I had art class next. On the first floor! A tiny seed of hope in my garden of torment. I felt that I could listen to brighter music now. I decided that 'Pon Pon Pon' would be a good choice. I had previously discovered that good things always happened when cheerful Japanese music was playing. It was a rule. I found the room the schedule informed me I was supposed to be in, and peered inside to happily discover that it was completely empty, just as I had hoped. I set my things down at the table furthest from the door and began unpacking my sketchbook, humming softly and shaking my hips oh so slightly to the music. Before I could stop myself, I was dancing along to the chorus, ipod in one hand, fistful of colored pencils pencils in the other. My voice rang through the empty classroom, broken by the occasional giggle, as I swayed my hips dramatically, preforming a few ill-placed pelvic thrusts into the open air. I was twirling and jumping about the room, flailing my arms in a way I was positive was completely unattractive, and in general, making quite a show out of myself. By the time the song was over I had fallen into my seat laughing my shrill, obnoxious laugh and wiping tiny tears from my eyes. It was only then that I noticed a tall, lanky figure leaning against the door frame. One of his dark eyebrows was raised, his mouth slightly open. I immediately recognized the kid from the bus yesterday. Holy shit he saw that whole thing holy fuck he's gonna call me a fag and beat me up holy Jesus fucking Christ this is the end... I took a deep breath and squeezed my eyes shut for the last time, preparing myself for a swift punch the face, but was greeting instead by a muffled thump and the squeak of a chair. I cautiously opened one eye, and saw the boy sitting in a chair on the opposite side of the room, bent over a sketchbook and acting as if he didn't just walk in on some sort of one-man circus. I was shocked. He wasn't going to pummel me into oblivion? But I just openly out-gayed myself in public! I quickly decided that he must have been some sort of a flaw in the robotic system as well, and was about to open my journal to record my discovery when the rest of the class filed in, talking animatedly and casting strange looks in my direction. They frightened me into forgetting about the strange raven haired boy and curling in on myself in my seat, hugging my knees to my chest. The last person to enter was short, thin woman with long, dark hair, who couldn't have been a day over 35. Her long skirt brushed the floor as she entered, reminding me of my mother. She clasped her hands together and announced that we would be doing surreal self-portraits this trimester, and went on to explain that the pictures should look like us, but with an abstract appeal. This sounded interesting, and I immediately decided that I was going to try to actually put myself into this, as opposed to simply coloring my hair green and my face purple. She showed a few examples from past years, sketches and paintings of children with colorful patterns in their eyes, or horns extending from their heads. As much as I wanted to, I found it hard to focus on the teacher, and keep my anxious mind from going back to the black-haired boy across the classroom. He was probably waiting until after class to beat me to a pulp. Why the hell had I decided to go and be happy in public? I totally deserved whatever was coming to me. The teacher was passing out papers now, along with what I gathered to be small mirrors which we would be using to examine our own faces, something that I really did not need to do any more of at all. I stood it up against my bag anyway, and began on my own sketch. I ran my pencil over my paper with a certain passion left only to my art and my coffee, and slowly a figure began to appear. My work generally had a slight macabre touch, but I usually bothered to censor myself for art class. Today was an exception. By the time the bell rang, signaling the end of the period and scaring me shitless, my paper held a black-and-white sketch of a very angular, bony figure with a hand against the side of its face, holding a crooked mask in place. The mask was of my own face. The face belonging to the thing beneath it was all wide, deep shadowed eyes and psychotic grin. I scribbled in my own jagged-ended, slightly crooked teeth, as well as my own long, thin nose and hollow cheekbones on the eerie looking figure in front of me. Painting was not my specialty, but I was going to make this into a masterpiece, mark my fucking words. I put the rough-draft between the over-crowded covers of my sketchbook and hurried out the door. As I left, I caught myself wondering what that boy with the expressionless face had been drawing.

After art had come study hall, in which I spent my time transferring my little sketch for my last class, onto a larger piece of paper. My drawings were always a little too sketchy, and it was hard for me to neaten up all of the extra little lines. I tried anyway, and was genuinely surprised when I was happy with the final product. Class ended quickly, and the final bell rang. I was just a tiny bit proud of myself when I managed to hold back my scream, and dulled my reaction to a slight jump. Overall, I was in an okay mood when I walked out to the locker I had been assigned, and pulled out my geometry textbook. I wasn't planning on using it, but I might as well have it on me this weekend. I was daydreaming about what I was going to eat when I got home, when I felt a heavy tap on my shoulder and flinched, turning around to face whoever had disturbed me. I thought I heard my name when I felt a huge fist slam into my face, knocking my head against the lockers and bringing me to the floor. I yelped in pain, blood trickling from my nose almost immediately. The fat kid from the bus towered over me, the same little blond boy behind him, rubbing his hands together like an evil minion. Before I had time to stand up again, the bigger kid grabbed at the long hair at the back of my head, and smashed my face into the floor. The whispers behind my head were calling me, mocking me and laughing at me. Those stupid little voices filled me with so much fury. I swung my leg out in an attempt to simply trip my assaulter and give myself some time to run away, but instead ended up kicking him in the shin hard enough to send him sprawling to the floor with his ankle crunching loudly underneath him. He screamed. He was calling me a twitchy little bastard. I was terrified, but I couldn't say I didn't feel guilty for what I had just done. I just made things a lot worse for myself. At this point, the little blond had fled, and the bigger brunette was crawling towards me, and soon his hands were closed tight around my throat. He brought himself to his knees and smashed my head into the locker doors once again, following with a hard blow to my gut. I was getting dizzy. There was blood leaking from my mouth and silent tears were streaming from my eyes. The boy was screaming at me, calling me a freak, that I deserved this, that I shouldn't be getting in his way. I wasn't aware that I was in anybody's way, but I still regretted whatever I had done. I tried to apologize, but he was still choking me and I couldn't find enough air in my lungs to get the words out. I was no longer angry. I was going to die. I would finally be at peace. The tears flowed, my face bloody and expressionless as my vision began to fade and I found myself slipping into slow, pitying unconsciousness.

"CARTMAN YOU MOTHERFUCKER!"

A frighteningly low, nasally voice roared through the nearly empty hallway as the weight on my throat and chest was relieved, and a loud snapping noise assaulted my ears. I heard screaming and wailing from a few feet away, and felt myself being lifted bridal-style. I could only manage to open my eyes enough to see that I was being carried out the door, away from the school before the pain became too much for me to handle and I finally fell into the darkness surrounding me.