She tried to connect to the others, everyday, little acts of kindness and camaraderie that by and large went unnoticed. She had always been… Lets say different. Awkward for sure, but that isn’t a cardinal crime. But being different was.
Vitiligo was only a piece of that difference, her body a rolling thunderstorm of black clouds and startling white lightning. She had always known she was different, and as they continued to spurn her friendship she felt more and more justified in her actions. The father her mother would never acknowledge came at night and whispered in her dreams of grand designs and acts of debased worship that would see the scales tipped forever. She spoke in her sleep along with her father.
Despite being startlingly different and beautiful she was invisible. She could move between the people and their eyes, unwilling to give her recognition or kindness would slide off her like a parasite trying to gain purchase on the mucus covered tendril of some deep thing. Where once this hurt her so deeply, now it played into her hands. They played into her hands.
Boys were easiest, they always sought a target. And she was beautiful. They would wait until they thought no one would see their hungry gaze. They thought they were the apex predator with a confidence born of high school hormones. She would allows them to see her slipping off alone, secluded, vulnerable.
When they find her, I’ll be by her side as I always have, whispering the words of her father into one ear and steadying her knife hand with praise. She only wanted a friend you see, and I am happy to fill that role. They will be sick, they always are when they see what my friends have wrought on the flesh of those that would have brutalized them. Never mind that she only struck before they could, they will see the art she created and judge harshly. But she will meet their gaze, eyes burning with hatred and triumph. Her hand will not waiver as she raises her knife, and through her lips I will speak.