Days later, someone at work noticed him and decided to get loud.
On one hand, Kieren understood. The concept of him was terrifying – the way a tiger or a virus is terrifying, unstoppable, alien and stronger than you – but on the other hand, he was not that person anymore and he was just trying to get his minimum wage for the day.
People occasionally looked at him too long. He never fooled himself into thinking that no one noticed, and he was used to looking up from the register to find a gaggle of teenage girl eyes fixed on him, huddled together, breath suspended in their throats, too shy to leave and too scared to come to the counter. This woman had a different way of handling it.
"I can't believe it," she piped up, tottering to the counter on unsteady legs, gripping a walker to assist in her shuffle. "It's really one of them!"
Kieren had dreaded this day.
"You're a dead boy, aren't you! Look up at me. Here, c'mon, look up at me."
Kieren kept his eyes lowered, pretending to do anything at the cash register, anything to not engage her. He was alone in front, his other coworkers were out of earshot.
"You've got some nerve, working in public." Everyone in line was looking him over, analyzing the skin, the hair, the eyes, the scratch on his cheek. "Can you believe this thing serves people food?"
A few people moved away from her, avoiding confrontation; Kieren's eyes welled with tears, frightened by being put on the spot and shamed by the honest, blatant hatred he was being served.
"Not safe to have him here. I'm going to speak with the manager."
"My manager knows," Kieren said softly, speaking for the first time since the beginning of her tirade. "I'm on my medication. Please move so- so that other customers can get in line, ma'am."
Something happened then that Kieren wouldn't forget for the rest of his life.
In his short time on this earth, he had been thrown a lot of looks, both good and bad. He had seen the eyes soften and the lips turn up, he had seen the brow furrow and the lips purse, he had seen a grin widen the face of a friend and a smirk twist the face of a foe, but he had never been looked at like this.
The woman gave him a glare beyond measure. In the moments that he was stunned, he wondered if he had just imagined it – maybe he was making a mountain out of a molehill, because her hatred seemed to burst out of her form in that look. It was a volatile mix of hatred and cold, deep fear that burned through her milky blue eyes in the mere seconds she made eye contact with him before turning away. It put the fear of god in him, and for just a moment, he wondered if he was the earth's plague in human form. He wondered if he should've been put to rest via shotgun years ago, and he wondered if he should be underground, not wearing an apron and punching in orders. He wondered if he could kill himself again.