By the time I turned seven, the hatred had grown heavier. It wasn't sharp or sudden anymore. It was a dull, constant pressure, like a coat I couldn't take off, stitched into the lining of my skin. I didn't just dislike people now. I distrusted them. I saw them as something to be studied from a distance, not interacted with.
Even at that age, I already knew: the older I got, the worse it would become. School didn't help. If anything, it made things worse.
My classroom was a box painted in peeling blue. The lights overhead buzzed faintly, a never-ending whine that sounded like a dying insect; sometimes, it would screech like a cicada when turned on. Desks were arranged in neat rows, too perfect, too controlled, as if someone believed order could make the chaos inside us disappear. It didn't.
The windows rattled on windy days, which in Florida meant most days. Outside, there was a small patch of grass that students weren't allowed to walk on, but did anyway. Inside, it always smelled like old pencils, floor wax, and whatever the lunchroom had burned that morning. Spoiler: Everything.
I sat near the back, by choice. Farthest from the board, closest to the wall. My spot. My corner. The teachers called it avoidance. I called it self-preservation.
They didn't like that I didn't talk. They liked it even less when I did. When I was quiet, they said I was cold; when I spoke, they said I was rude. Truly, no winning with the human race; always messing up somewhere.
It didn't matter that I got straight A's. That made things worse, if anything.
Kids would whisper about how I must've cheated. How could someone like me possibly be smart? As if intelligence were tied to your friendliness. Like getting answers right meant you had to smile while doing it.
"Grey is probably cheating. Grey doesn't even talk. Grey just sits there and stares."
Like, I couldn't hear them. Like I was deaf instead of detached. Shocker, I could speak, and I could hear. Guess the intelligence carried from parent to child.
One girl said I looked like a ghost. Another asked if I was "possessed or something."
They laughed when they said it. That nervous kind of laugh people do when they're scared but don't want to admit it.
I just blinked at them. Slowly. Like a cat sizing up something smaller than itself.
They usually backed off almost instantly with whatever excuse elementary schoolers can make up. 'I think I heard the bell!' or, "I think my mom said she's picking me up early, I'll go call her."
Some days, I caught teachers watching me when they thought I wasn't looking. You know that feeling? The weight of a stare, cold and crawling up your neck like a drop of water. Their gazes weren't curious. They were concerned. And not in a helpful way. More like, 'Do we need to document this? Is this boy dangerous?'
They thought I didn't belong. They just didn't know where to put me.
There was almost a fight once. A boy two desks over wouldn't stop poking the back of my chair with his foot. Tap. Tap. Tap. I ignored it for five minutes. Six. Then I turned my head, slowly, and locked eyes with him.
I didn't say a word.
He stopped.
Then, of course, he said something like "What? You gonna cry or something?"
I tilted my head. Still silent. Still watching, but I think the silence scared him more than yelling ever could.
He pushed his chair back and stood like he was going to swing. The teacher shouted his name just in time, and he froze. Like prey caught under a spotlight. He sat down again, face red. I turned back to my work and finished the last question without looking up.
Afterward, someone said, "You're lucky. Grey would've snapped your neck."
They didn't say it as a joke; they said it like a fact. As if, somehow, I was a bomb, somehow, I could kill whenever I wanted.
I wasn't angry. I wasn't anything. I just wanted to be left alone. But that never really happened; humans never allow that.
Every day, I walked through the halls like I didn't exist, and yet somehow still stuck out. People moved aside, but they stared while doing it. My presence made things quieter. Not out of respect. Out of unease. They shook when I walked by.
Some of them thought I was brilliant, that quiet genius type. Others thought I was broken, like a windup toy that lost its winder. Some thought both.
Nobody ever asked what I thought.
From age seven to eight, not much changed. I grew a little taller. My voice stayed low and quiet. I kept getting A's. I kept not smiling.
One substitute said I looked like a statue. "Emotionless," she muttered, like she meant to say it under her breath but didn't. I don't think she forgot; she wanted me to hear, just like everyone else.
I wanted to ask her: 'Why is silence always mistaken for sadness? Why do you think I'm sad just because I'm not putting on a performance?'
But I didn't say anything, I just watched.
At some point, I realized that people show you who they are when they think you're not watching. When they think you don't talk, they get bold. Cruel. Honest.
And I remembered every word. Every insult about how I was "waiting," how I was "creepy," and especially the ones where I was "Like a snake that only rears its head to strike."
Not because I was hurt. But because I knew I'd use it someday.
Eventually, the hatred didn't burn anymore. It simmered. Deep.
Even outside of school, things didn't get easier. If anything, they got stranger.
I'd go with my mom to the grocery store, trailing behind the cart like a shadow no one wanted. People glanced over their shoulders, then looked again, longer the second time. I didn't say anything. I didn't frown or scowl or growl. I just existed. But somehow, that was enough to make them uncomfortable.
Clerks would smile at my mom, then pause when they saw me. The smile would twitch, then drop. One cashier once asked if I was "doing okay" with a kind of hesitant tilt to her voice, like she wasn't sure if she was talking to a child or a ticking bomb. I nodded once. That was all she got. She didn't ask again.
I noticed people would subtly shift away from me in line. Women clutch their purses a little tighter. Men looking down at their phones, pretending not to see me at all. One time, a woman whispered something to her daughter and gently steered her to the other side of the aisle. The girl looked confused. I didn't. I understood perfectly.
Even the employees acted differently. They'd ask if my mom needed help, never me. They'd avoid eye contact when I walked past. One guy bumped into me in the cereal aisle, barely brushed my arm, and muttered "Jesus" under his breath like I'd done something wrong just by being in his way.
That was the thing, there didn't need to be a reason. I was a walking discomfort. A wrong note in a song no one wanted to hear. People didn't know me, but they made decisions about me the second they saw my face.
And over time, I stopped wondering why. I stopped hoping it would change. I wasn't just unwanted. I was unwelcome.
And if that's what the world has decided? Fine. Let them hate, let them stare, let them be uncomfortable, it didn't bother me none.
I wouldn't play nice just to make them feel better. I wouldn't apologize for making them look at something they didn't understand. Let them flinch. Let them whisper.
Because every time they turned away from me, they taught me something I already suspected: The world didn't fear what it knew; It feared what it couldn't control. Me.