But Make it the Fucked Up Version Where the World has Gone to Shit

Chapter Four: Judgement

Now, I'm in the fourth grade, but the same feeling of loneliness has been with me since that very first day of kindergarten. I never quite found my place with the other kids. Their games and laughter are always just out of my reach.

By now, the others have noticed how quiet I am, how I'd rather draw than play soccer or run around during recess. At first, they just ignored me, but as we've gotten older, it's gotten worse. The indifference turned into something meaner. Something sharp and cutting. They mock me because I'm different.

It started with small comments. "Why do you always sit alone?" "Why don't you ever play with us?" But soon, it became cruel. "Look at Evan, drawing his dumb little superheroes again," they'd say, smirking. "He probably thinks he's one of them."

I'd lower my head, pretending I didn't hear, but every word felt like a jab to my chest. I know I'm not like the other kids. My clothes aren't as new or as cool, and my backpack, which was once shiny and full of promise, now looks worn and old. No matter what I do, I never seem to fit in.

During recess, I try to find a quiet corner of the playground to sketch. Drawing is my escape, the only thing that makes me feel safe. In my world of superheroes, I'm powerful and brave - the complete opposite of how I feel in real life. But the other kids see me sitting alone, and it's like they can't resist picking on me.

One day, as I sat on a bench sketching a new hero, a group of boys from my class approached. Jason, the most popular kid in the fourth grade, was in front. He's always surrounded by friends, always in control. He looked over me, a cruel smile spread across his face. "What are you drawing this time, loser?" he asked, snatching my notebook before I could stop him.

"Hey, give that back!" I shouted, but my voice came out shaky.

Jason flipped through my drawings, sneering at each one. "What kind of freak draws this stuff?" he said, holding my notebook up so the others could see. "You're such a weirdo, Evan."

Laughter echoed around me, and my face burned with shame. I reached for my notebook, but Jason just held it higher, out of reach. "Look, Evan wants his little pictures back!" he mocked.

Before I knew it, he ripped one of my favorite drawings out of the notebook and crumpled it into a ball, tossing it to the ground. "Oops," he said, smirking.

Tears stung my eyes, but I forced them back, refusing to cry in front of them. I bent down and picked up the torn page with shaky hands. "Why do you have to be like this?" I muttered, but they were already walking away, their laughter fading into the distance.

The rest of the day, I kept my head down. I couldn't look anyone in the eyes. I didn't understand why they treated me like this. I wasn't bothering anyone. I just wanted to be left alone, to exist in my own quiet world with my drawings.

But it didn't stop. Every day, it seemed like they found new ways to make sure I knew I didn't belong. They'd bump into me in the hallways, "accidentally" knocking my books to the ground. They'd whisper behind my back, just loud enough for me to hear.

Lunch was the hardest part. I always sat alone at the end of the table, hoping no one would notice me. But someone always did. "Look, it's the loner again," they'd say, throwing glances my way. "He's probably talking to his imaginary friends."

The teachers never seemed to notice. When they saw me sitting alone, they just assumed I was shy. They didn't see the stolen notebooks, the mocking smiles, or the way I'd flinch whenever someone got too close. And I-I didn't know how to ask for help.

One afternoon, after another long day of teasing and hurtful comments, I walked home with my head down, clutching my notebook to my chest like it was the only thing holding me together. When I got home, I went straight to my room and collapsed on my bed, burying my face in my pillow.

Mom always asked how my day was, and I always gave the same answer: "It was fine." but it wasn't fine. It hadn't been fine for a long time. I was tired of feeling judged, of being made to feel like I was less than everyone else. I wished I could be someone else. Someone strong and confident, someone who didn't care what others thought.

But I'm not. I'm just me. And right now, all I can do is lay here, feeling the weight of my loneliness pressing down on me. My superheroes can't save me from this. They can't chase away the hurt or the feeling that I'll always be different, always be the boy sitting alone with his drawings while the rest of the world goes on without me.