OC Oneshots

Awkward Encounters

Note-This isn't really edited to the best of my ability, so I'll probably find a ton of errors in the morning.

This is a shot with two of my OCs. If you want to see more of them, or any other OCs in general, please let me know.

**Warnings:

Mentions of self harm

Mentions of a Panic attack

Cussing

Extreme amounts of two girls' awkward first meeting

Musical References

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***Italics- Anxious thoughts

Bold Italics-Rational Thought

***

Xenia hated everything about herself. She hated her pasty pale skin, and her short stature. She despised her short, bloody, stubby, and peeling black painted nails and her boring monotone dark hair. She hated her big feet that were completely disproportionate to her whole body. She was ashamed of her arms and wrists, covered in thin, white, lines crisscrossing to make a pattern. They told a story of suffering and pain. A poem of sadness and despair, one that she wrote, and never wanted to think of again. She was repulsed by her face, covered in annoying freckles that cluttered her cheeks and how her thin lips had little color. She loathed her obsessive personality, the way she would immerse herself in something and she couldn't escape. She especially hated her eyes. Two different colors. The left green and her right an icy blue. Xenia detested her inability to form full sentences without breaking and stuttering, how she could never seem to spit out the words she so desperately wanted to share, unless in the form of a sarcastic remark under her breath. She disliked the fact that she wasn't attracted to people the same way that others were, the way she never wanted a relationship built on sex, the thought of it didn't even appeal to her, but in just genuine care for the other person. She hated the idea of love, for she knew that she was part of a minority that most people didn't even know that existed, and knowing that no one could tolerate, much less love, someone that couldn't even love themselves. Xenia hated herself. It was that simple. She loathed who she was and her appearance, so naturally it genuinely baffled her when she was a senior in high school and someone actually talked to her. A real conversation that hadn't consisted of people telling her to kill herself, which happened quite frequently.

Xenia was in the hallway making her way down to art class, one of the very few things that she genuinely tolerated about high school. The unique self expression gave her an escape, one that didn't involve harm or anything that would make her feel like she was open and vulnerable to emotional, mental, and physical pain. The girl made her way through the oceans of hormonal and immature teenaged kids to the other side of the school where her class was held. When she reached the room however, something was off. Different. Xenia would know. After all, the art room was where she spent a lot of her time, and it was one of the only classes she paid attention in. Nothing was wrong with the physical room, or the way it was set up, but it was just the odd churning sensation in her stomach that made the teenager weary of the upcoming lesson.

She was right to be weary.

Instead of the usual class of sitting in the back corner of the class in the seat by the window with no one sitting next to her, just being pelted with the occasional crumpled piece of paper saying "kill yourself" or "nobody loves you" or "you're just a waste of space", there was a huge difference. And that difference was a person.

Now, typically, Xenia was the only one who sat in the back row. It was never occupied unless the teacher had to separate a group of friends who were talking, or if someone was being "disruptive". It was never because someone sat there by choice, other that Xenia of course.