The smudge on my thumb is stubborn. It’s a deep, galaxy-purple stain that refuses to wash off, a leftover mark from mapping the Iron Peaks until two in the morning. I like the way it looks against my skin—a reminder that I can build something out of nothing.
I check the mirror. I don’t look for a person; I look for a vibe. The green turtleneck is clean, free of orange cat hair for at least the next ten minutes. I pull it on, feeling the wool hug my neck like armor.
An orange blur streaks out of my room and leaps onto the counter to greet me.
“Morning Kip,” I say, my fingers disappearing into his. He vibrates like a living radiator under my fingers.
The coffee machine hisses, a comforting, mechanical hum as the first dark drops trickle into my mug. While it brews, I head back to my room for the essentials. I don’t just “check” my bag; I audit it. Maps? Smooth. Journal? Leather-bound and heavy. Purple glitter pen? Present. I settle my dice bag into the bottom—a small sack of metal polyhedral that carry more weight than my textbooks. I slide the whole kit into my backpack like I’m loading a magazine into a rifle.
A ding from the kitchen tells me my coffee is done.
I quickly grab my textbooks, computer, put my coffee in a travel cup, and hit the street.
It’s a pretty peaceful walk today. No homophobes screaming at me. Nobody is staring, it’s just me.
I made it to class in record time. It’s easy to move fast when the hallways part for you like a sea—not out of respect, but because I’m something they’re afraid to touch. Since I came out, the wide berth is the only space I’m allowed to take up. Everyone either actively avoids me or pretends like I don’t exist.
I suppose it’s better than what some people go through. I’ve heard stories of people who’ve tried to hide themselves, and end up beaten or dead for it once everyone else finds out about it.
I take my seat in the back, I have the whole table to myself again. Seems like this whole year is going to be a pretty boring year again. I brace myself as the bell rings, ready for my peers to torment me.
Surprisingly as my peers pour into the room, nothing more than a snide whisper, and a paper tossed at my head, comes my way. , comes my way.
The bell rings, a sharp sound, and my teacher says, “Alright, alright, settle down. Class, I am your teacher Mr. Hemmingsworth, and this is your AP sociology class. Now I understand that it is only the first day, but I would like you all to take out a notebook and a pencil and take notes on our class procedures.”
Mr. Hemmingsworth goes on like that for a while but I tune him out. I click my purple pen. I don’t look at the empty seats around me. I look at the parchment-colored paper of my journal.
I start on the Western Reach. My hand is steady as I ink in a series of watchtowers. In this world, the wide berth people give me is a moat, and the silence isn’t lonely—it’s a fortification. A crumpled note hits the corner of my table, likely filled with a word I’ve heard a thousand times, but I don’t unfold it. I don’t give them the satisfaction of an audience.
Instead, I draw a nesting wyvern over the spot where the paper landed. I give it sharp, obsidian scales and a gaze that doesn’t blink. It’s easier to manage monsters I’ve created than the ones sitting in the row behind me.