and i carry my oddities like trophies solo finished

If you asked him, he wouldn’t say he was lonely, because what did that even mean? Loneliness. Did it mean he couldn’t handle a little bit of silence? He certainly could. He always managed being in timeout well as a child. Well, as a much younger one. Did it imply he was jealous? No, that didn’t make sense. He rarely got jealous of people. He didn’t want what other people had. All those feelings were foreign to him. So no, if you asked him, he wouldn’t say he was lonely.

His parents were enough. His grandfather was, is, was is was—
His parents were enough.

Being liked though? That would be nice. Knowing someone was there when his parents were overwhelmed? That would be nice too. And he’d like to get invited to a sleepover or two, maybe play laser tag with kids that weren’t the equivalent of strangers. Stability. Sometimes, that sounded nice. Someone to call his own. Someone to be his friend.

Sure, he’d relent and say that he wanted to be liked. But he knew he wasn’t truly liked, and bending to someone else’s every whim burned him. The thought alone disgusted him, and the other kids hated that part of him. The part bent out of shape, twisted up in odd ways, yet still shining when presented before the light.

His mother said to never let someone bring him down. However, she never said he couldn’t put on a show. That he couldn’t fake it. So he did.

He put on a show constantly, understanding that the faces of his audience would come and go, all of them shifting and morphing into different shaped masses. He knew there was a layer they would never uncover. He knew of the backstage area, lurking behind the curtains, smothered in black.

Yet there was the chime of the orchestra, wasn’t there? And the spotlight which shone down onto him, changing colors with every emotion he presented. Plus the quiet murmurs during his more dramatic showings, and the squeals of laughter when his comedy scene went off without a hitch. He got used to it. No one ever really stayed because they had things to do, people to see, and it was just a show. But he got used to it.

Sometimes, he could even see himself in the audience. A front row seat, grinning toothily with red in the corner of his eyes. Red from what? Well, the lights were rather bright. He supposed it was the lights. Regardless, even he could get carried away by the performance. Enamored. Lost. If he stayed in this light, captured hearts with his acting, then maybe he’d be content for the rest of his days.

As he was, he wasn’t valued enough. So he’d just act like the opposite was the truth. He’d act like a star, and stars burned.

They burned, until one day they died in a mass of energy and gas and glory.

He would ignore the sick feeling in his stomach at the thought.

Aodhan was bullied.

Actually, that's not quite true. Aodhan was a bully.

Actually, neither of those does the situation justice.

You know of the ways in which children play, don't you? How they fling words like daggers? Caring not for where their weapons land, but instead the rush of the moment. They talk and talk and cry and play and talk. It isn't until years later, when their school memories are weathered and fraying at the edges, that they question why on earth that one group of kids chose to attack their person so heavily. Yes, the majority move without care.

However, there are the select few capable of understanding the gravity of their actions. They have the early gift of feeling guilt, and remorse, and empathy, or perhaps they simply choose to remain on the sidelines and learn from the mistakes of their peers.

Aodhan was—is no such child.

He is filled with curiosity, you see, and filled with life. And life waits for no one. Of course, this translated into being part of the masses back then, led by his ever-growing bundle of questions and daydreams. He shouted when he felt like shouting, and he cried when he felt like crying, and he shat as he pleased with adults ready to clean up his messes. This was why, within his small corner of the Californian public school system, he effectively terrorized his classmates.

There was one boy named Matthew. A button nose, big ears, and such pretty brown eyes. The subtle beginnings of a crush are what Aodhan felt at the time, but of course he carried no idea, not when his guardians often brushed aside his silly questions and constant pestering. So he did what children did best and acted. Did you know, Matthew was terrified of spiders?

Aodhan found a big one on the other's birthday, presented it like a prize at the end of a hard fought battle. There was a screech, and a heated exchange, and then the spider was lovingly placed directly onto the other's face.

If you were to speak with Matthew in present day, he'd claim that was the first time he received an anxiety attack.

If you were to speak with Aodhan in present day, he'd say:

"Oh yeah, that did happen."

And if you asked him, what on earth pushed him to do such a thing?

"I dunno. He was just cute, I guess? And I didn't—oh, I never saw him cry until then. I think that I was really, really curious on what he'd look like crying. So I thought of the easiest way to do that."

Similar incidents continued with a range of different students, from those within his classes to those older than himself. He would laugh, and he would sabotage, all for the sake of two words—what if?

But when you are treating those around you as little more than toys, is it really so shocking to experience backlash? To receive a taste of your own medicine. To finally have the world catch-up to you, the one who refuses to stop, to look, and to listen.

Things began small, as they always do. The calm before the storm, the seed before the grand tree. Aodhan noticed the other kids would often exclude him from their usual games at recess, and they would shuffle away from him when time for group assignments in the classroom. He ignored the changes, until he couldn't any longer.

Because eventually the boy turned around, and noticed there was no one behind him.

They had preconceived notions of his personality, made no better by his continued idiocy and attitude. They made fun of his clothes, his ideas, his family situation. Everything they could find to justify their growing dislike. After all, children are children, and they talk and talk and cry and play and talk.

Thus, before he could escape and find a new start in Scotland, Aodhan was alone.

Alone, alone, alone.