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I don't feel anything unless it's flesh under my fingernails and anger in the pit of my stomach. Isn't that what everyone wants to believe? I know what people think of me, they've never spared saying it to my face.

It's just a matter of time. No one's learnt to equate their own hatred with mine yet. And no one's realised that I flinch at the sound of their voices.

No one's even noticed that I don't speak anymore. It's fair enough; They put the insults into my mouth for me and hit back accordingly. These things never change, why should I expel any effort arguing with my fate?



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