Four's Number One

Chapter 1

The chicken nuggets are cold as I shove them in my dark box. Yeah, I have a shoebox full of cold food, and yeah, it grows mold. I can't help myself, it smells so... good. I've been fascinated with mushrooms from a young age. I mean, ever since my mom died from being eaten and decomposed by mycelium... I'm not like other basics people.
    Today is the day of the Test for me since I turned 18 last week, so fear suffocates me and causes me to have 2.3 panic attacks where I lay on the floor and twerk. It's really scary.
    "Y/N" says the person who supposedly registers these tests on a huge chunk of kids every year and then goes back to a life of tattooing.
    I turn my head around flimsily, accidentally causing me to crack my neck and injure my cerebrum. But it's fine because I'm in a Wattpad. So I continue to approach the nurse with my non-fatal fatal injury and I sit in the chair. The nurse is really kind but has cold hands so I flinch when he doesn't touch me, because I'm so sensitive. He gives me a serum to drink and it's blue, just like the moldy chicken nuggets in my shoebox. I drink it without question but since it's room temperature, it burns my throat and I start choking and spitting up pieces of my burnt esophagus, but like I mentioned before, I'm in a Wattpad so I'm fine.
    "I actually have a second serum for you y/n." The tattoo artist nurse says.
    I'm nervous but I nod, and he hands me a glass with a thick white consistency but it's cold so I flinch and it drops to the floor so I can't drink it... Maybe that was for the best.
    The nurse looks disappointed but he shoves me into a simulation for the Test anyways.
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I get up and there's a mirror and because I'm an egotistical maniac, I stare at myself until a dog attacks my leg. Then I jump at the dog and fall into the ocean and swim and do things before waking up in my chair again.
    The nurse is having a panic attack, I can tell because he's twerking on the floor. When he wakes up, he tells me that the test was inconclusive in all aspects except for the fact that I am "That B***h" for sure.
    "What does that mean?" I say, smearing a strand of blood from under my nose.
    "You're...you're...you're divergent."