Natural forces

Chapter 1:

You ever notice how everyone thinks their own particular slice of a shit sandwich makes them special? Like, mine’s got nuts, so that’s why I’m better—don’t you wish yours had nuts? I give a quick sniff and a shake of the head. The hoody and the hair give enough cover to hide it from anyone watching. Even without the cloaking field, it’d probably be too subtle for most people to notice, it’s not like most people are particularly observant.

Take Jake, for example. The Cannibal Corpse shirt makes you totally badass and hardcore, just like every other teenage edgelord that came before you. Bet they don’t even notice you never wear your glasses as you squint at the whiteboard, or how quick you are to hide the anime girls you doodle in your notebook. No, the air of cool detachment totally has them all convinced, bud—your disguise is perfect. Nobody sees through it, right, Jake? And next D&D night, you’ll lie to yourself again, pretend you’re the cool one slumming it with the nerds. Rock that Amon Amarth shirt, ignore how weak you are, and convince yourself you’re totally a Viking badass. Pathetic. Just admit you suck, dude, I swear it’ll make things easier.

It’s almost comical. Everyone’s so wrapped up in thinking their little particulars make them unique. Like they’re some special snowflake, beautiful in their own way. It’s like, dude, congrats you’re a snowflake you’re cold, wet, and when you stack up in a big pile, nobody can see the difference. Yeah, you’re unique, but so is a puzzle piece—it doesn’t set you apart. It just gives the illusion that the difference matters.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. Shelby must think she’s different. That because I see through all the bullshit, I’m somehow exempt from it. That I’m the exception to the same categories I’m so quick to slap on everyone else. But nah. I’m as much a stereotype as anyone else. I’m a freak, and being a freak is just another category. It’s just like nerd or jock or princess or social butterfly... well, not as bad as social butterflies. Those hypocrites are the fucking worst.

You know who I mean—those oozing cock stains too chicken shit to say any of the mean shit they think about you to your face. All sweetness and smiles in front of you, but the second you’re out of view, they’re thinking up whatever rumour they can start to ruin your reputation. Anything to keep themselves perched on top of the social food chain. They’re like spiders, spinning webs and setting traps, slowly poisoning things once you’re caught until your insides are liquid, and they’re ready to feast. Like jumping spiders with top hats and sparkles. That spider can’t be that bad, you think, look at its big eyes and cute little... Dude, it’s a spider. You’re gonna get bit; you’re just too stupid to realise it.

People suck. I learned that early, and every day just keeps proving me right. They tell you it’ll get better—when? People will see how amazing you are if you just open up. Amazing? More like desperate, sad, delusional. I don’t open up, because I know for a fact that people hate the truth. And I’m honest. What should people notice about me? I’m not pretty. I’m not brilliant. I’m kind of a piece of shit, if we’re being honest. Yeah, I’m honest—at least I’ve got that goin for me. But the second I opened my mouth I’d go from invisible to attacked.

Because here’s the thing: people suck, life sucks, I suck. At least I know it. That’s more than most people can say. People are so full of themselves, they think their uniqueness makes them special, when really, it just makes them blind to the fact they’re predictable, easy to categorise.

Like the ‘rebels’, all of them dress the same, think the same, move the same, all the while lying to themselves they’re somehow different from the host of other groups of clones that they point out as conformists. The neon hair, the ripped jeans, the whole I’m different, ‘you wouldn’t understand’ vibe. All whining along to whatever musical ear abortion is popular this week, crying about how misunderstood they are. No, you’re understood, and you still suck, and that’s the real tragedy. Not your parents just not understanding.

I snicker quietly to myself, sinking deeper into my baggy clothes. Greys and beiges, blending into the bench under this stupid piece of “modern art” some rich rectal fissure donated. By the way, modern art is rich people code for garbage they try to convince poor people they’re too stupid to understand. Shelby, it’s a postmodern critique of blah blah blah—it’s shit. I know it, you know it, stop bullshitting me. Modern art is a tumor, just like the rich asshats who donate it. People always want to leave their mark, make sure everyone knows how generous they are. It’s masturbation, asshole, and everyone is sick of watching it.

Its shadow is a good place to hide, though. The shadow of someone else’s ego—it’s almost poetic. Ironic, really. Something so devoid of artistic merit and probably a money-laundering scheme, could hold such poetic irony to my dumb ass in the shadow of its opulence. Yeah, sometimes other people’s egos are a useful little tool. Makes you almost grateful for arrogant pricks in the end. The morons can’t help but draw all the attention to themselves, and that gives you a damn good place to hide. Like hair, or a hoodie, or a sneer, a cloak is a cloak and an asshole’s hubris is the best cloak of all..

Of course, he’s here. Mister tall, beefy, and handsome. I bet this perma dork never misses leg day, with his stupid perfect teeth that he always flosses by the way, after all he has to keep that saccharine smile plastered on his brainless face. If that insipid smile was anything less than flawless people could see through the thin veneer of perfection. Right down to the festering cesspool of insecurity and narcissism waiting to burst forth. I bet the smile never leaves, like he’s running for public office, probably practising for when daddy buys him a campaign.

“Oh, look at me, pay attention to me, don’t you see how ‘perfect’ I am, doesn’t that make me ‘special’? My hair so quaffed and held in place by a drug store’s worth of chemicals, couldn’t show a hint of vulnerability for my inevitable run as a senator. Maybe I can bullshit you into believing my heart is SO pure, I know I’m dumb enough to believe my own horse shit. I never do anything wrong. I’m just a shiny little boy scout on parade.” I wonder if he ever gets tired of having that stick shoved up his ass?

As I walk through the hall, trying to keep my eyes down, my brain’s on overdrive. The internal monologue kicks into gear, railing against everything this guy represents. Bet Daddy’s never around, huh? Desperate for approval from anyone who’ll give it. Oh, let me stick up for Adam when Bill is picking on him—because poor Adam can’t stand up for himself. But that’s okay, we need weak people because it’ll give me an opportunity to show how much better I am than everyone. After all the weak or only tolerated to justify the strong.

I need to prove I’m superior, because God forbid I be an asshole without a saviour complex. Or, “No, Nina, let me pick up those books for you. It makes my wittle boy scout heart flutter oh so dangerously to help someone in need. It has nothing to do with her fat gross tits, and her slutty ass. No it’s because it’s the right thing to do isn’t it?” Fuck right off.

But then I feel it—his eyes. He’s looking at me.

Shit. Why the fuck is he looking at me?

My heart rate kicks up. I try to shake it off. He noticed me looking at him. Goddammit.

I watch, half in a panic, as he makes his way down the hall, why is he walking towards me? He starts weaving through the crowds a serpent through blades of grass. Every step, every movement so deliberate. He’s smiling, giving encouragement to every passing face. Smiles at them, calls them by name, notices the little things about their outfits—so smooth it’s disgusting.

Why the hell is he walking towards me?

Closer, closer still. My pulse is picking up. No way. He’s really gonna do this? I can feel the tension building. A thousand insults race to the tip of my tongue. I’ll show this knob goblin not to fuck with me.

He finally reaches me. That fake-ass smile plastered on his face. Perfect teeth, perfect eyes. Fuck. Why do I care about his stupid eyes?

I’m ready. I know exactly what to say. I’ll nuke him right here.

“What’s up, you preppy jizz-shitter? Come to canvas the freak vote for prom king?” I spit out, the words dripping with disdain, smirk locked and loaded cold detached disdain. I’ll be as invisible as a homeless man in front of an office building. The most convenient invisibility, the invisibility of disgust.

But then... he laughs.

What the hell?

Like, genuinely laughs. Not the “I’m being polite” kind of laugh, but like he found it actually funny. “You know, people always say you have a mouth like a trucker, but I think they undersell you. You’re like the Picasso of swearing.”

What the actual fuck? I blink. “You do realise Picasso’s a piece of shit, right?” I fire back.

“If that’s what you want to focus on, sure. But I’m just appreciating your creativity. I had to hear it for myself. You’re Shelby, right? I wish I could say I noticed you lurking but, you’re like the predator. It’s like you’ve got your own little cloaking field. I figured, silent observer, flair for words, layers of badass hostility I gotta get to know this chick. I bet she’s secretly awesome.” He said with a practised ease, he said that way too confidently.

Who the hell is this guy?

He continues, smiling in that easy way that somehow doesn’t feel forced. “When I heard about the verbal lashing you gave Mr. Mitchell after he told you to eat somewhere else, I thought. Now there’s a total badass.”

What is he doing? “Why are you being nice to me?” I ask, folding my arms across my chest, sinking into myself, making myself smaller, defensive. I glance up at him through my bangs. What is this bullshit?

“Oh, this is one of those things where you try recruiting a freak for a pig party? I’m not interested in hanging out at a meeting of the future date rapists of the rich and famous, So when was the last time you tried roofying someone?” I try to hit him where it hurts, leaning into my sneer. I’ve got him cornered now. He has to be here to fuck with me.

But again—he smiles. Why the hell is he still smiling? “You know it’s nice you think I’m charming enough to be a date rapist, at least I gotta talk you into a date.” I fight a smirk.

“You know, Shelby, it’s Shelby right? If you always look for the worst in people, that’s what you’re gonna find.” He leans casually against the locker next to me, it must be nice to be so arrogant that even someone who’s being a total bitch to him leaves him feeling comfortable enough not to protect his balls as he fucks with them. It’d serve him right if I kicked him in the balls right now, then maybe he’d know not to fuck with people and make assumptions about whose weak. There was something to his voice though it was easy, not preachy. There was definitely something wrong with him.

“Look, I’m not perfect. Hell, maybe I’m making a mistake standing here talking to you. I try to be a good person, and I figured you could use a friend. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe you hate me now for drawing attention to you. But here’s the thing—I’m still gonna try. I have faith in people, and I have faith in you. Call me an idiot, but I’d prefer to live in a world where people like each other and try their best to look out for one another. It may be delusional but at least it’s a nice delusion. Could you imagine the inverse, living in a delusion that leaves you in hell?”

Faith in me? Who was he to have faith in anyone? Looking down on me. Who does he fucking think he is? My eyebrows furrowed. before a hint of doubt crept in. Okay maybe faith isn’t that bad and that last thing he said, it made me uncomfortable… I began to ruminate before my train of thought was rudely interrupted, who does this guy think he is?

“If you look for the best in people, sometimes you actually find it,” he says. “Look what I found just now: You’re creative, brave, sharp-witted, and apparently an art historian.” His smile is stupidly sincere. “Look at that—a pretty good find, just from giving someone the benefit of the doubt.”

I can’t help myself. “What are you, the reincarnated preppy version of Mr. Rogers?”

“I wish,” he replies without a hint of sarcasm.

I blink. “You’re joking, right?”

“Nope,” he says, full of earnest enthusiasm. Seriously, what’s wrong with this guy?

“Mr. Rogers is a pussy or whatever,” I threw back, testing him. No one this jacked could seriously think this way. A little threat to his manhood, and he’ll be quick to get defensive.

“He’s a man with the strength of character to stand before Congress and demand funding for children’s programming, to make kids feel good about themselves. He stuck up for gay people and black people when no one else did. If being like Mr. Rogers makes me a pussy, then yeah, I’d love to live up to that moniker.”

What the fuck?

He pushes off the locker and starts walking away, but not before throwing one last thing over his shoulder. “Look, Shelby, I get it. It probably feels weird, some big dumb preppy guy coming up to you, wanting to be your friend. But just think about it, okay? I think you might need a friend. And I like being a friend.”

He takes a few steps before turning slightly, looking back with a smile. “Think about it, Shelby—I acknowledge you.”

And with that, he’s gone.

What the hell just happened? Did I just get hit on by a retarded guy?

Worse—did I like getting hit on by a retarded guy?