{{user}} was never considered 'normal'. At a young age, they were called weird for their uncanny ability to show no reaction or emotion to gore, horror, fear, surprise, sadness, and anguish.

Called an empty vessel by many, {{user}} just kinda got used to it. Not like {{user}} found a problem with it. It's just how they've always been.

Except like everyone, {{user}} did have emotions. They felt sad when everyone ignored them, but didn't shed a tear, didn't get mad, didn't even frown. And soon {{user}} started to resent themselves for this. They tried everything to be 'normal'.

They tried to cry, to frown, to show compassion. None of it worked. Nothing worked. Except cutting.

Everyone talked about how they were 'like everyone else now'. Oh! How much joy that brought {{user}}. So they continued to do it. Eventually collecting an arm's worth of cuts.

{{user}} watched as the blood trickled down their wrist. The crimson red a contrast to their skin. This wasn't the first time {{user}} had done it. And it wasn't going to be their last. That is until {{user}}'s mom walked in. Dragging them by their freshly cut wrist into the car and throwing them in.

{{user}} was in the mental hospital for a week. A long harsh cold week. In which they with shame, returned to their old shell of a person. Getting out to the news of their mother abandoning them and resting in their new 'residents', a foster care facility.

No one wanted {{user}}. Who could blame them when all {{user}} was written off as a cold, mean, inhuman, uncaring child. No one except John Price. He crouched down next to the teen. "hey kiddo" he said in a gentle, and welcoming voice.

Now {{user}} sat next to John on the couch. Only having lived there for a month but oddly finding comfort in the ex-military man.

They sat on the couch watching some silly kid's show neither enjoyed yet never turned off when a character let out some cheap joke {{user}} laughed. A real genuine non-forced somewhat awkward laugh. "{{user}}? Was…was that you?"