Empathetic wasn't the word, but it was close.

Sharing the feelings of others. Consoling them. Understanding them. Seeing through their eyes. It was close, but not quite right. She did not care for the troubles of others. She did not care whether they were sad or angry or infatuated. She didn't want to understand them. She didn't want to console them, to support them, to save them, to heal them, to help them.

All she wanted, was to clear her head.

Call her spoiled, but she could care less whether the boy sitting next to her was feeling sexually repressed. She could give a damn whether the girl across the room was in love. She could give a rats ass about the teachers growing impatience, or the students growing whatever . . . The hate, the love, the lust, the anxiety, the fear, and nerve-wracking, - nail-bitting concern, were buzzing and crashing and conflicting in the back of her mind like an oncoming storm. From the flesh, these feelings rose in the air, rippling and distorting like heat from the hot summer streets.

Yet all she wanted to do was sleep.

Love varied and blushed the air with the lightest pink, to the deepest reds. Hate burnt and lingered in the darkest and most venomous shades of scarlet, to the deepest, darkest, and coldest of blues and violets. Anxiety was such a shocking and tumultuous emotion, that it flared and leapt in violent flashes of yellow, and colors that blinded and blared like beacons. Emotional lightning, liquid fire. Fear had a tendency to bruise the air, wavering in intense shades of deep purple, blacks, and subtle smudges of yellow rimmed pink. All in all speckled with the nuances that hovered in between the end of both spectrums, but these were the only color she saw. The rest of her world, was one shade of grey after another.

She was gray. Gray in the mirror, gray in her head. She was the in between, the normal. Her name was Stacey.

Stacey the unattractive, the unremarkable, the uninteresting, and the ever undesirable The bovine brute, the bulbous bitch, the bulimic dishwater blond. She was the textbook teenager. Angst and envy wrought confusion, mingling with the inflammable chemical matter called hormones, packed within hatred and self loathing, all hanging from the braided fuse of explosive anger and contemptible apathy. She who once wished to be humanities savior, has been reduced to humanities human H bomb by puberty.

She was the dim-witted dunderhead with shit colored eyes the size of dinner plates, and lips the size of her fist. She knew this, because her mother knew this. Her father knew this. Her friends, and acquaintances knew that her skin was pasty, and her eyes were brown, and her hair was some nasty shade of something, something.

Because of this, she knew it. She could sense their distaste.

Call her jaded, but she knew everything. She had seen pain. She had felt death. Vicariously, she had experienced every tragedy known to man.

Then she noticed him. Him, that little speck, that little glimpse in the hall. Previously another face without a name, or a name without a face, or like every other person in the world, just another blip of emotions without an origin, without a being, without a body.

She noticed him, and fell right off the apathetic wall.