Whispers Of The Unseen

Chapter 5 - Haerin's POV: Wet Book Weaponised

My locker was a canvas of cruelty, the words "freak," "spectrum," "npc," and "ghost" scribbled on it in bold black marker. I stared at the hateful words, a heaviness settling in my chest. The labels were meant to hurt, meant to push me down, but they were just words – a feeble attempt to define something they couldn't understand. I let out a heavy sigh, a mixture of frustration and resignation.

This kind of stuff didn't affect me. I was used to the stares, the whispered remarks, the taunts that followed me like shadows. I was the odd one out, the girl who marched to the beat of her own drum. And yet, as I looked at those words, I couldn't deny the sting they brought.

Despite my determination not to let it get to me, I had to admit that the words held power. I had done my research; I knew what each label meant. "NPC" was particularly cutting, implying that I was just a background character in someone else's story, devoid of real agency. It was a sentiment I had felt at times, a sense of being invisible, of not quite belonging.

Sighing again, I shook my head, trying to dismiss the negativity that threatened to creep in. The truth was, I didn't fit neatly into any category. I wasn't autistic, despite my mother making me take tests as a child. Instead, I was something she had termed "unique." It was a label I embraced, even if others didn't understand it.

I rolled away from my locker, ignoring the snickers and sideways glances that followed me. I had built a fortress around myself, a shield of indifference that kept the judgment at bay. I had my own world, my own music, and my own brand of self-assuredness.

"Hey!" A voice called out, causing me to halt. I pushed my sole down to the ground, stabilizing myself as I turned around. "All this hard work and not even a thank you?"

The voice belonged to Claire, a classmate who often tried to engage with me, despite my best efforts to keep people at a distance. I shrugged, turning around with the intention of moving on, but suddenly I was jerked around and shoved back.

My heart raced as I stumbled, my balance momentarily disrupted. Anger flared within me, my eyes locking onto Claire's with an intensity that was uncommon for me. The shove had been unexpected, an intrusion into my carefully constructed space.

"Really?" I said, my voice low and steady, a hint of warning in my tone. My hands clenched into fists at my sides, a surge of defiance coursing through me.

Claire's expression wavered for a moment, a flicker of realization crossing her features. And then, she seemed to regain her composure, her lips curling into a smirk. "Oh, come on, Haerin. Lighten up a bit," she said dismissively.

The dismissal only fueled my anger. With a sudden movement, I pushed myself back upright and wheeled closer to her, our faces now inches apart. "Don't touch me," I said, my voice carrying a fierceness that surprised even me.

Her smirk faltered, replaced by a look of uncertainty. I held her gaze, unyielding, refusing to back down. The kids around us seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of us in a tense stand-off.

And then, with a huff, Claire stepped back, her bravado deflating. "Fine," she muttered, her voice tinged with irritation. Without another word, she turned and walked away, her presence a fading echo in the air.

As the hallway settled into a quiet calm once more, I took a deep breath, the rush of adrenaline leaving me both shaken and empowered. It was a reminder that I was stronger than the words and labels that sought to define me. And as I stared at my locker once more, the words seemed to lose their power, fading into the background as I reclaimed control over my own narrative.

I skated away from the scene, people parting like the Red Sea for me. The wannabes amused me, their strong opinions formed from hours spent on the internet. As I entered the library, the lady behind the counter barely acknowledged my presence, a familiar apathy that mirrored the attitude of so many others. I grabbed the first book within my reach, an impulse guiding my choice, and walked out.

Once in the bathroom, I held the book in my hands, its hardcover cool against my palms. I opened it, and the words greeted me like old friends: "Ruth remembers drowning..." The beginning of a story that I had yet to explore.

Without hesitation, I turned on the tap, running the book under the water until the pages were drenched and the ink bled into a swirling mess. I watched as the words dissolved, a transformation that felt satisfyingly cathartic. Closing the waterlogged book, I held it in my hands, feeling its weight increase as the pages absorbed the liquid.

A sniff escaped me as I exited the bathroom, the dampness of the book and the smell of wet pages mingling with the air around me. As the bell rang, signaling the end of break, I picked up my speed, maneuvering skillfully through the bustling crowd. I caught a glimpse of Claire, my target, and the anticipation surged within me.

Our eyes met briefly, her expression shifting from casual to startled, but it was too late. Without hesitation, I hooded my arm and struck it down on her shoulder, a swift and precise motion. Her scream echoed in the air, a sharp contrast to the gasps and murmurs of the other students who witnessed the scene. She collapsed beneath me, the shock of the impact rendering her immobile.

People stepped back, creating a circle around us, their faces a mix of shock and fear. But I felt no remorse. This had been a calculated action, a release of pent-up emotions that had simmered beneath the surface. The rush of power was intoxicating, a reminder that I had the ability to control the narrative, even if only for a moment.

As Claire lay on the ground, the memory of a phrase echoed in my mind: "They're just jealous that the voices talk to me." The words, once a whispered taunt, now held a different kind of meaning. I had my own way of navigating the world, my own strengths that set me apart.

As I glided away from the scene, the sound of the bell fading behind me, I couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction. The incident would be talked about, dissected, and speculated upon, but it was a moment I would always remember. And in the wake of it all, I carried with me a newfound sense of empowerment, a reminder that even in a world that often seemed hostile, I had the power to make my voice heard in unexpected ways.