The Pretty-Face Psycho

The arm-chair let out a deafening creak. I rolled my eyes aback, the glinting whites were the only portion in sight. I looked like I were held under the possession of some kind of demonic entity, peeling the corner of my eyes into popped-out red nerves. I was battered, and this time I knew exactly why.

It was always those tedious after-school classes, but the ones that took place before school began, tended to be more horrific. Sometimes I blamed myself, my weakness in mathematics, that caused me to be tutored for hours, day and night. It would've overall been a better experience if it wasn't for my tutor, screeching over every question I left unanswered either with a head-low silence or simply a "I'm sorry, but I don't know".

The intesity of verbal abuse and demeaning harrasment can only be understood when your mother begins to cry and steam at the way someone's treating you, especially because it's usually the other way around. But hey, are we here to complain? An average Asian student, living in Asia, studies roughly fifteen hours a day. Even when I spilled piping hot beverage over my arm, I settled down for a class with the heat ripping through my skin and an entirely stained white T-shirt.

It felt revolting, awful, pathetic..everything felt that way. Waking up at 5, having a class of two subjects, longer than an hour before school begins, and then gracefully having to face your teacher's remarkable insults targeted at you while you hang you head low, and apologize.

Trust me when I say this, things are worse when you're one of the dumb, fat, ugly, unpleasant, unapproachable chick in the entire school. Let's say, for instance, the boy across the classroom assumed that you like his friend. He will now take the full chance to degrade you and humiliate you to the depth of his bullshit, so now you're not only being shipped with someone you wouldn't care if died, but also being harassed because of it.

I was 11, and I knew it all. "What's in your head?! What's wrong with you?!" That voice pierced through my eyes, right into my mind. Those were the same words used by my mother atleast thrice a day, however, my teacher happened to borrow them, that time. I had been in and out of consciousness while clenching my shirt tightly. I wanted to throw-up. I was on my monthly discharge but couldn't yell it out across the room for her to understand. All for not answering her call, while snatching answer sheets from the hands of students.

A dilemma, a shock and the excruciating cramps..all at once. How did she possibly know the exact words that my mother used? Why was I taken aback by such a mere wording? Was I always this sensitive and weak?

Hell yes, you were..Ful. that's really why the very few friends that you managed to make that year reminded you everyday that you were a 'Sympathy-seeker'.

"Aan, I can't live anymore..", "Aan, I'm not able to think!"

"Aan, Aan..Aan!"

They were always rewarded with the expression similar to that of a vendor when you ask him to lower the price of apples. Funny? Not quite.

Drawing a positive conclusion, I would say, these were definitely the building blocks of who I became. The journey from a powerless scapegoat, to someone you're going to hate.

See you soon.

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