Distant.

I keep...thinking in theories, distancing myself from the truth of reality.

In theory, I would be happier without my parents together. Or, rather, with my father gone. In theory, I'd be just fine without my family. But when the threat of reality comes near, I can feel myself panicking. Because I can't handle that kind of reality. There are emotional scars that come from these kinds of things.

In theory, I can kill a man in my head in such gruesome ways, you'd think a horrid monster had done the deed. But it isn't real. I can't stand the reality. I could rip of your arm in my head, or gouge out your eyes, but if I start to stare at you and picture that actuality, picture it happening to the body I know best--my own, things start quivering.

So you'll never understand me.

Especially not those calm adults who look at these workings of my mind and don't understand how safe I really am.

...It's like, somehow, I want to be creepy. Want to be special, different. In that incredibly odd way...why am I doing that, again?