1 I.

She was afraid.

It didn't help that the look in her eyes screamed terror and uncertainty. The counter girl clasped at her merchandise of pens as though for dear life. Her complexion was pasty; blown wide, her brown pupils darted left, then right, and left again. Restless. She wouldn't look at me, barely muttered an answer even when I'd politely asked the price of the calligraphy brushes.

What have you done to look so guilty, young Miss? What were you going to do to subject yourself to such nervousness?

She hadn't answered, unknowing of my thoughts. It was easy to refrain from any swell of disappointment that could've bloated from my ego, for it was suspiciously large yet liquid at the same time.

Her hands trembled as I took out my wallet to pay for the fine brush I'd selected; caramel coloured body with soft, fine hairs. "three-fifty." She blurted. My face remained as expressionless as could be. Even as Marissa snatched the leather wallet from my hands. The chair she sat on screeched as its legs scraped across away from the counter. The part-timer then sprung out of the shop and sprinted down the stairs to where the teacher's office was.

I followed Marissa slowly in turn. The money-filled thing that was tucked close to her chest, experienced intimacy in ways that even I hadn't. My new brush was carefully placed in my pocket, the head protruded ever so slightly.

My 'chase' was leisurely in comparison to her desperate dash. Without difficulty, I found Marissa pacing in front of the window panes outside the office. She had my wallet still, and a pocket knife in hand. The adults glanced curiously at the twitchy part-timer student of their school.

They wouldn't bother to be invasively curious. I could almost taste the detached disdain they radiated quite openly. Marissa the Outcast could've jumped off a building and they'd act as though they hadn't noticed. Like they didn't already know.

Even though she always sought help in her more pleasant days. Persistent to the point of irritation for the adults. She knew how she felt and why. I envied that ability of hers. Decisive Marissa, helpless Marissa. 'Please.' I remembered her saying outside the office's door once. 'Please, help me. My father. He…'

They slammed the door, naturally. Hearing, but not listening. Gave false condolences when the news of Marissa's father's death reached their clogged ears.

I assumed Marissa contacted the police, but they were either too late or didn't care. The father was well-known scum around these parts. The position held weight when you lived in a small community. Anybody could have known or heard anything and everything if they tried hard enough.

Or thought whatever too. Label you with so many stickers a person could enter smiling and leave crying. Left or made into a state worse than the stamp album of a very enthusiastic stamp collector. So many labels it'd stick on your mouth, in your nose, and cover every square inch of skin you had if only to suffocate you underneath layers and layers of labels.

I fixed my features to a hard frown. Maybe even a touch of concern. It wouldn't do to look so calm, I hoped the teenager found some twisted sense of comfort that way. It would be uncalled for to agitate her further. The one only thing she lacked in life was control and I offered to help with the dismay I displayed.

Theoretically, it should give her the illusion of control. Or so the books normally said.

Marissa was the one with the knife, but she acted otherwise. Always afraid, darling Marissa. But she needed the attention here, now.

(This way, they could finally- most definitely- find the help she always wanted, needed.)

Almost desperately, I suppressed the weird twitch that threatened to appear on my lips.

Even with a knife at neck point my pulse wouldn't quicken. It was tiring, borderline exhausting to feel so empty inside. Like something was missing and I was quite sure that that was the closest, if not literal, definition of empty.

Yeah, I know, today was definitely one of those days.

Was her intent too weak that my brain didn't feel threatened enough to connect a response?

The blade nicked my skin. Beads of warm blood came dribbling down my neck, staining my skin and the collar of my t-shirt. There was pain, but not enough fight-or-flight response. I frowned, for the 4th time that day.

The teachers seemed to have found it in them to finally panic. They were already on edge when I'd walked towards Marissa, too close for anybody's liking. As far as 'close' to an armed and unstable person could go anyway. In mere seconds? I supposed, and an alarm bleared. It was too loud and too bright in their rotating lights for my liking. I cursed the fact I stood so close to the panic alarm on the ceiling.

My ears rang with a buzzing sensation. Seeing the widening eyes of Marissa had struck something in me somehow. I suspect she felt something off about my reaction. Quid pro quo- as she looked at my demons I saw hers' too.

By the minor way Marissa's lips pressed together, I imagined bronze cogs turning. 'Too indifferent. Too unfazed. Weird, unnatural.' I knew better than anybody how I acted like. It was cruel to rub salt in a wound that is already a complex of mine about expressions and emotions and natural reactions like oh my god I know, okay?

I saw a pair of guards in white uniforms come from behind me. Their broad shoulders towered over me and they hastily pulled me away from Marissa. I barely kept myself on my feet when then shoved me backwords. Brushing off the invisible dirt on myself, it was quite the scene- sight- to see Marissa struggle against two grown men in sobbing hysterics.

The brunette gave her retainers work. She blindly swung the pocket knife, its blade gleaming under the ceiling light. She looked somewhat of a fledging Amazoness with her wild expression and dishevelled hair. Beautiful. I'd think, if I were a better, more sympathetic person. But I wasn't.

I couldn't feel anything for the teenager. Maybe if I did, I'd feel that Marissa looked pitifully humane in her desperation.