Outcast

Since Ash was a kid, he always felt different, like he didn’t belong in the world he was living in. To others, he was “unstable” and “sick.” They would hear him talk for hours alone in his room, watch him stare into empty places as if someone was there, and whisper about “negligence” and “childhood trauma.” 

Of course, Ash tried to tell them they were wrong, tried to prove he wasn’t just a crazy kid talking to a wall. Yes, he could hear things, and yes, he could see things. But it wasn’t part of his imagination. It was something else. Something that was already there.

When first he used his powers, alone in his small room, isolated from all the other orphanage kids, it changed. Pieces of furniture, usually dull and unremarkable, melded themselves into plaster walls, their geometry broken. Every object bended and rearranged itself under some terrible logic that only a child’s mind could understand. All of a sudden, it became a scene from a dream, a nightmare, surreal. But to a young boy, it was simply a game.

Grinning wide, Ash ran downstairs, full of hopes that he might finally prove to others that he was sane, normal. Not crazy. But when he carefully stepped into the dining room, he was greeted with faces locked in shock. For a moment, he thought it was disapproval. Ash was not permitted to leave the room after all. But then he noticed it. Where once his brown hair hang scattered over his shoulders, now were strands of pure silver and white.

He huffed awkwardly, confused, but still not deterred. It mattered not. If only he could show what he could do, what he could really do, others would understand. 

His grin quickly faded when everyone started screaming.