Outcast

Introductions

He was always alone.

He had an aura of despondency, that surrounded him at all times.

Piko, or Pico he thinks was his name. He didn't know exactly how it was spelled.

The only reason he knew was because of the rollcall in first period class that he had with him.

He was transferred to this school from another district in Philadelphia. He heard it on the news, recently. A school shooting that just happened a few weeks ago at another high school not far from his own. Not that he ever watched the news, his parents only ever did. He'd just overhear it, while messing with his phone in the same room.

He heard his mother mumble something about how "awful it was that more and more kids seem to be getting a hold of weapons at such a young age" to his father. In which, he just would just click his tongue in distaste, shake his head, and then change the channel to see if the Eagles were playing on his favorite sports channel.

Not that it was any of his business, but he did overhear the news lady say that over a dozen students were killed in the shooting, including the shooter herself and a teacher. Her name wasn't memorable, so he couldn't remember exactly what it was even though it was said on the television numerous times. He barely glanced up at the screen to get a glimpse of the shooter. She looked like a regular goth kid, those long baggy Tripp branded pants, black hair (dyed probably) against her pale complexion. She looked like someone who would shoot up a school in his opinion, call it stereotypical.

He must have come from that school. It was too coincidental. It was just enough time after the shooting took place to get a child registered to another school, especially since it was his senior year, he could only assume. He was probably around seventeen, but his figure made him look younger.

He was a typical ginger-boy. Bright reddish-orange hair spiked back in a Mohawk of sorts. The sheen and shine on his hair indicated that he wore hair gel to help his gravity-defying locks. Freckles bunched at the bridge of his nose fanning out across his cheeks, seemingly the only area they infected, visible to the eye. He was uncertain if he had more on his arms, however, due to his attire.

He always wore, seemingly, the same outfit to school every day. A green turtleneck sweater adorned him in a way that that was a stark contrast to his hair color. It made him pop out, like a green hat with an orange bill attached. For pants, he always wore the same color beige khakis. They looked rather baggy on him, as large pockets lined them in a suspicious way as seen by the stitching. When walking, his pale hands were always shoved deep within the confines of those pockets. Whilst sitting, he'd always have them out as he slouched in his seat. What brought the attire all together in a weird fashion was his red sneakers. Always the same, faded red running shoes that looked like he got them from a second-hand store.

However, nothing could compare to his eyes. If one saw him with a cane or a service animal, they would think he was blind. His irises were nearly completely white in color. Outlined just barely in front of his sclera. The only thing that was immensely noticeable about them was his pupil. It was almost surreal to watch him walk from a lighted place to a shadowed room in rather quick succession. He looked rather cat-like, as his pupil would shrink then rapidly expand against the mostly white irises.

He never spoke. Not that anyone ever had spoken to him to give an opportunity. During rollcall his name would be called and he would simply raise his hand lowly to signal that he was present and nothing more. The teachers never would call on him to answer questions or make comments. Didn't know if that was considered lucky or not. He wondered what his voice sounded like. Was it high pitch, and squeaky like he was going through puberty? Or was it a deep baritone that easily showed that his balls dropped.