Different

Some people call me a sociopath. Others call me a psychopath. Funny how people love their labels, don't they? The ones who call me a sociopath? Those are the fools I've toyed with-lending them a highlighter, sharing snacks (expired ones, not that they noticed), or helping them scrape by on their homework. They think I'm kind, helpful even.

But the ones who dare to call me a psychopath? Oh, they're the ones I've annihilated. The loudmouths. The "know-it-alls" who flaunt their wrong answers in class like trophies. I live for those moments when I swoop in, state the correct answer, and leave their egos in shambles. If I could erase them from existence, I would-and I'd enjoy every second of it.

Who am I? You can call me Mandy Milser. Not my real name, obviously. I don't trust you with that. I'm 13, in grade 9, and I was forged in chaos. My family? A circus of lunacy. My parents were monsters-abusive, cruel, and so far beyond repair it was laughable. I cried every day until I was seven. But then I realized something: crying is weakness, and weakness gets you nowhere.

So, I stopped. Emotions? Gone. The only time I cry now is when I need to-when tears can manipulate, control, or open doors. You could say I've mastered the art of survival, and in survival, you learn one truth: the world is yours if you're willing to take it.

If you've picked up this book, you probably think you're different. Special. Let me save you the trouble-you're not. You've never met anyone like me.