I don’t take the Pen to school. I try to keep my Mondays and the rest of the week to focus on school. Despite what my Mother wants, I am not actually very good at school. It’s usually tedious and relatively boring. It’s not nearly as captivating as the mysterious object. I find myself eager to continue working on my plans as Karma. Eager, that’s a new one, at least that’s what I would describe this fluttering when I think about the Pen. Though it’s obvious Cassandra is not going to be helpful in the future. How does one create a network when they are a simple teenager? Who would help me?

“Hey,” a quiet voice. I turn around, pressing my chest to the plastic school chair to see Charles standing behind me. It’s currently lunchtime, and despite Charles being someone with money, he has a pretty old looking lunchbox. The kind you’d get from a thrift or secondhand store.

“Hello Charles,” I attempt to smile. Perhaps to reassure him. Since he once again looks uncomfortable to be near me.

“I,” Charles is already nervously fidgeting with the handle of his lunchbox, he clears his throat, “been. Uh. Ignoring you.”

Well that was obvious.

“I know,” I tell him while gesturing for him to sit next to me in an empty desk. I’ve never really had friends at school. Most of the students at Ashwood steer clear from me. My past really never has escaped me and I think a lot of them are worried I am going to do something to them. Unless they have done something terrible, they don’t necessarily have to worry about that.

Charles gives me a guilty apologetic frown, “I sort of got freaked out.”

I laugh, “Bob’s Harmless.”

For some reason he doesn’t seem reassured. He seems, if it is even possible, more nervous.

“It wasn’t the taxidermed cat,” Charles blurts out, while unzipping his lunchbox, “Okay that was part of it.” he finally admits, “It was a combination of a lot of things. You seemed so uncaring about your Dad’s passing-

-he died in 2013, I am long past the stage of grieving, so I thought the casualness of the conversation was the appropriate approach-

-not really,” he pauses, “And your artwork is.” he opens up his packed sandwich as if to inspect it, “Turkey.” he says to himself with disappointment his expectations weren’t met, “disturbing.”

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“You think?” I ask him.

“Did you draw them yourself?” he ask, looking over at my table, “Crackers and cheese?” he ask.

“Mhm, I like it,” I tell him, “And I did draw them.”

The color in his face drains, “Did you,” he’s contemplating whether or not he really wants the answer , “draw all of them?”

“All of them,”

“Even the one where,” he lowers his head as if he could conjure a teacher’s presence just by saying their name, “The one where Mr. Ratcliffe’s eyes were melting out of his skull?”

I laugh. Oh that one. That one is mild in comparison to some of the others. I heard a rumor once that Mr. Ratcliffe was looking into the girl’s locker rooms. There was no confirmation ever that he did so. When I used to just think about how someone would get their just desserts, I drew his eyes, melting the way fried eggs sizzle on a hot pan.

“Even that one,”

“Why?”

“L’appel du vide,”

“I am not following,”

“It translates to The Call of the Void, though I doubt that is exactly what the feeling is like. The Call to the Void is that small little voice that comes as an intrusive thought to leap in front of a car, or to jump off a ledge, even though you wouldn’t. Cute aggression is the phenomenon of seeing a very cute animal and wanting to squeeze the ever living life out of it because it’s so darn cute. I think there are feelings that sit in between the two. Road rage, the intrusive thought to kill or harm others even though you wouldn’t,”

Charles looks extremely uncomfortable.

“I don’t think I have thoughts like that,” Charles responds, “Well I mean the intrusive thoughts to kill or harm people.”

“Maybe,”

Charles takes a second, biting a part of his sandwich and choosing to eat slowly. He looks over at me again after swallowing, “I heard a rumor.” he begins, “That in elementary you took a knife to a kid and threatened to cut off his ears.”

I laugh which only makes him frown.

“The story has been kind of told strangely by other kids,” I tell him, “I am laughing because of how the story evolved.”

Am I nervous? As I raise my shaky hands, pulling back my brown hair behind my ears, I usually keep them covered, “Kids at school used to make fun of my large ears. One day I took a pair of safety scissors to a kid’s ears and threatened to cut them off. People are going to believe anything is dangerous if they are being threatened by it.”

Charles looks away, scanning the whiteboard in front of the classroom instead, “I don’t know if that is how I would react.”

“It’s okay. I don’t really attempt to make people like me. I believe that people should be allowed to believe what they believe. That any change of opinion should be freely theirs.”

“I heard you got expelled,” Charles mentions.

“I did,” I tell him, “But it taught me that the people who do bad things will always get away for doing the wrong thing-

-that’s why you came to my rescue last week,” Charles interrupts.

I nod, “People should feel the desire to help, because they empathize with others, how it must hurt to be recorded while someone is basically torturing you. I am sorry that happened to you Charles.”

Charles sort of looks away nervously, “Yeah, I mean thank-

“Oh you two are here,” Mr. Huang the teacher interrupts us, walking into the classroom “You two should clean up and get ready for class.”