After shifting homes, I was enrolled in a new institution.
They called it a school.
But it wasn't. Not truly.
It was a theatre of rehearsed normalcy — a place where the walls pretended to hold knowledge, but leaked rot from every corner.
The paint peeled like skin. The air was heavy with something unspoken.
It wasn't a school. It was a set.
A grand stage dressed in uniforms and bells — masking the fact that the play was rigged before the curtain ever rose.
The first day.
Or rather…
The first incision.
I stepped into the classroom.
No teacher. No structure.
Just sound.
Sharp, chaotic, and without soul.
They moved like puppets with cut strings, scattered like broken dolls, loud and desperate.
Each voice clashed with another — not to be heard, but to drown out.
There was no meaning. Just noise. Just presence. Just heat.
And then,
The door creaked open.
A coldness entered.
Not a wind.
A person.
She walked in — the teacher — if that word still means anything.
Not maternal. Not even professional.
She didn't teach. She surveyed.
Her eyes were tools.
They measured. Searched. Calculated.
A brittle smile — stretched, not grown — touched her lips.
And when she looked at me…
It wasn't with curiosity.
It was with the intent of dissection.
"Who are you?"
The tone was sterile. No interest. No warmth.
I told her my name.
That was my first mistake.
She repeated it aloud — and then laughed.
But not from the gut.
There was no joy.
Only blade.
"Is that your real name? Or did your parents just lose a bet?"
The room erupted in laughter.
Too fast. Too eager.
Not because it was funny.
Because it gave them permission.
Permission to wound.
Permission to exclude.
Permission to erase.
I stood at the front — a statue of exposure.
An insect beneath glass.
Something to point at. Not someone to speak to.
I didn't speak.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't give them what they wanted.
My expression stayed still —
Not because I didn't feel.
But because I couldn't afford to show.
This… was the face of ignorance.
Or so they believed.
The innocent face.
The one that said, "I don't understand."
But I did.
I understood everything.
Every syllable meant to cut.
Every smirk aimed to belittle.
Every sideways glance said: You don't belong here.
And I knew — in that moment —
They didn't see a person.
They saw a glitch.
Something to correct. To contain. To cleanse.
But what they didn't know…
What they still don't know…
Is that you can't break what's already hollow?
You can't shatter someone who's already started digging a grave for their identity.
A voice inside me — cold, quiet — whispered:
Let them laugh.
Let them believe you're soft.
Let them underestimate you.
You're learning.
You're adapting.
And one day…
You'll wear a face that they can't laugh at —
Because by the time they try to understand it…
It'll already be too late.
That was the beginning.
The first performance.
The first wound — buried beneath the first smile.
And no one — not even I — knew just how many faces were waiting behind that one.