Definition

Define 'psychopath'. 

I frown. The word 'psychopath' is written in red, bold letters. It jumps out at me like a sore thumb, throbbing and painful. I slump back in my seat, knowing it's too much of a coincidence to not be a set up.

I capture the attention of my desk mate, Emma. The girl with mousy brown hair cropped to her chin, and thick rimmed glasses peers over to read what my slip says. I sat next to her last semester, and I've never met anyone as nosy as her- that's a lie, though. The entire town of Bethany is nosy. Especially when it comes to me, the daughter of the infamous ‘preaching murderer’.

Glaring, I pull it away from her view, nearly crushing it between my fingers. Her gaze raises to look at me, eyes widening into brown saucers before returning to her own slip of paper. 

"God damn, nosy bitch," I whisper, lips pursing in distaste. She squeaks, shifting further away from me.

That's right, move away, I think, ignoring the small pinch in my chest. I wasn't always like this, a girl who was fond of cursing. I wasn't the mean girl, or the badass, or even the Queen-Bee. I was just a regular, old me; normal. However, the world is adamant about showing me that I can't stay in my comfort zone forever. God forbid I ever do that.

Staring down at the word once more, I somehow find myself blaming it. Afterall, it's the entire reason my world is turning upside down. I lift my head, eyes drifting to the blonde, barbie doll named Kensey, sitting across the opposite wall of me, and I'm surprised to find her ocean blue eyes glued to me. The tilt of a smirk forms on her plump, filler lips, and she raises the red sharpie she holds between her slim fingers.

My eyes narrow, because of course it would be her to put me in such a position. It isn't a wonder that someone picked this specifically for me. I'd be stupid if I thought this is a coincidence. The blonde witch will thrive, seeing me humiliated. She doesn't have to gain anything from it, just as long as the daughter of a murderer suffers, everything will be peachy.

She turns away, and I follow her gaze to find Lucas Melfick staring at me. He sneers, brown eyes burning holes into my head and lips pursed in disgust. My grip tightens around my pencil, slippery from how clammy my hand is. His thick brows narrow at me, and I can't hide the way I shrink back in my seat. At that, he smiles, a dark quirk of his lips that promises pain and humiliation.

Tearing my gaze away from him, I unfold my slip of paper.

The correct definition of a psychopath -according to g****e- is a person suffering from chronic mental disorder with abnormal or violent behavior. But I know that our English teacher, Mr. Williams, wouldn't accept that answer. He wants us to define it based on our personal experience.

Everyone in the class thinks I have plenty of experience.

I glance around, no one else seems to be focused on me. They are either scribbling they're answer to their own question or trying to come up with one. I stare back down at the single strip of paper and the pencil between my fingers as I tap the eraser against my chin.

In my own experience, the word psychopath means I’m cursed. One that has no escape. When I first saw the word, my thoughts immediately went to my father. A man who mastered the art of disguise, becoming a wolf in sheep's clothing. Tears prick at my eyes, and I quickly blink them away.

I can't show weakness; not here, not now. It will only fuel them more.

Mr. Williams sits at his desk, typing away on his laptop. There's just over thirty students in this class, what are the odds he'll want every single one to stand and answer? Will he go by last name? Or will he pick and choose at random? I stare down at my wooden desk, debating if I should smack my head against it. What are the chances that I can knock myself out doing that?

I sigh.

"Alright, time is up. Pencils down." Mr. Williams gets up from his desk and walks to stand in front of it. He crosses his arms over his olive green dress shirt before leaning back and saying, "Ariella, why don't you go first."

He hates me. I know he does, and it’s confirmed by the way he narrows his eyes at me. He knows I'm ripe for the picking. I mean what teacher doesn't think; Hey, this girl is going through some major fucking trauma, let's put her on the spot with a question that will completely ruin her further?

I suck in a deep breath, my chest suddenly tight. My hands begin to shake, and I hide them behind my back.

"What was your word?" Mr. Williams presses.

Kensey starts to giggle, blue eyes glued to my red face. My mouth opens but nothing comes out. Clearing my throat, I force it out.

"Psychopath," I answer.

He raises an eyebrow, and my fingers twitch. Oh, cut the innocent bullshit out. You know damn well you gave that to me on purpose. His raised brow is an indication to speak and not just stand there like an idiot.

"Well," I breathe out. "You won't let us use g****e, so..." I shrug.

"It would be boring if you used it." He smiles back.

"Psychopath is... always there, but not to the visible eye." I think about my fathers kind smile before it morphs into something much more sinister.

"It definitely passed yours." I recognize the hateful voice that belongs to Henry Brackintaw. I glance to the left, clashing with his emerald green gaze. The whites of his eyes are red, and his lids are dark with circles. Blond strands of hair fall onto his forehead, shaded by the hood he has pulled up. I couldn’t guess what drug he’s on today; weed, xanax, aderalle. You name it, he’s on it. 

It doesn't matter that he's on the football team or that Coach Merlin doesn't allow his players to use any drugs. For a fraction of a moment, I want to threaten him by telling his coach that maybe, just maybe, he should drug test him. The want doesn’t last very long, despite being a christian town, like everywhere else, snitches get stitches.