Hello there, my name is Rogue, well, my birth name is Rogue Cheney. No one actually calls me Rogue though, but that is a completely different story that I will not be getting into right now. Let’s just say that people call me Scarface because of well, my scar. Big nasty bugger right across my face. Nah, just kidding. It is actually really minor, but of course that never mattered. I didn’t decide on this name anyway, some tall muscly six foot something guy did.
Anyway, I’m a senior at Fiore High, which is a pretty cool school for those who fit in, and a not so cool school for those of us who don’t. I’m not a jock, not even by a far stretch. I’m not a stoner either and I am not a geek - okay I guess I would fit in better with the geeks than anywhere else. I mean, if they liked me. But no one really likes me, kudos to Mr. Six Foot Muscle.
I don’t actually know how Six Foot Muscle found me but he did, despite me hiding out in the library ever since I got here.
I swear, the only reason I even came to this school was in order to study art and French, nothing else. I don’t even care about my social life that much, since friendships achieved at places like these never last in the long run. Sure, it would be nice to be able to actually attend a party or two, or at least just get invited to one, but let’s be honest - that’s never going to happen to Scarface here.
Anyway, the cliques at Fiore High are like this:
First off - The geeks. Pretty sweet people, the girl over there is insecure, the one with blue hair is bad at math, the plain one is excellent at everything and the one with glasses just hang out with them because they’re girls.
Then there’s the jocks. They’re airheads, all of them. They think they run the school, which they by the way and for your information don’t. They are usually the reason the windows are broken - but I didn’t tell you that.
There’s the people that everyone tend to avoid; the gang. These guys are mean. Well not mean mean, but mean. Okay they are actually mean mean, but only if they don’t like you. So they are mean mean to me. Anyway, dude over there is an asshole, dude beside him is an asshole too and the dude with the spiky hair? God, don’t even get me started.
The bunch of colorful people over there are the make-up crazies. I mean, yeah, sure, they are nice but I very strongly prefer to not have my eyebrows waxed off, because we tried that once and I ended up with one done and one normal because hell to the no am I going through that twice. Also, I apparently have nice lips which are perfect for lipstick. How about no. I am never befriending a make-up crazy again.
The group over there are the art nerds. Those guys are cool. Like, they somewhat let me join their group when Mr. Six Foot Muscle is not chasing me. They somewhat get along with the make-up crazies because the make-up people do the makeup, and then we take the pictures or draw them. So you know, codependency.
Those ones with the baggy trousers and the hats and the cigarettes are the skaters. How they manage to not end up in the hospital every damn day is a mystery, because some of those tricks looks like suicide missions but hey, they make it work go them.
Lastly we have the populars, they are ruled by the almighty Sting Eucliffe and his band of followers. He throws the best parties, gets the best grades, the sweetest girls and is an all-round magnet for any kind of luck. He is also funny, kind and caring and he takes care of his friends. Of course, this is all second hand information because, you know, I never actually spoke to the guy. Something about this spiky, blond hair of his just irks me.
Even now, as I make my way through the schoolyard with my books in my arms, I tend to observe the people around me, like they’re some kind of social experiment about hormonal teenagers and I’m the experimenter. No, I’ve never been great at interacting with other people, actually I kinda suck at it and I do everything I can to avoid it, but sadly I can’t just become one with the shadows around me and disappear.
“Hey, Scarface! Did you pick a fight with your cat again?”
What a great way to start your day, right?
It’s no surprise to me that the comment come from the small pack of jocks passing by me on my way to Art class. They even line up in front of me, blocking my path, just as they tend to do in order to seem more intimidating than they actually are. If I’ve learned anything about jocks in my last three years of high school, it’s that they’re pack animals - you rarely see a jock by himself, he’s always in a crowd of other jocks to have his back, just in case his mask of self esteem should falter.
“Really, after three years I had hoped for some more creativity, Bacchus,” I simply point out with a rather bored expression on my face. I don’t even know why I try to communicate with these people, because apparently anything that comes out of my mouth seems to be hilarious to them. I should be a comedian or something.
The tall, muscular guy with the black hair and dark eyes in the middle of the six people in front of me - that’s Bacchus Groh, the leader of the football team, and let’s just say that he’s an idiot. He’s arrogant, rude and reeks of alcohol pretty much any time of the day. Now, the last thing wouldn’t bother me, if it wasn’t because I just didn’t like his guts.
“Hahaha! Look at this, guys! Scarface actually talks today,” Bacchus taunts as he lets out a loud laughter, earning the attention from the students and teachers around us - fucking fantastic! Let’s make sure everyone watches as you slam my face against the ground, Bacchus, that would be great.
“Yeah, it’s all very nice, and I do appreciate your time and attention, but I really need to get to class,” I mutter quietly and roll my eyes a bit at them as I try to walk around them, but end up being cornered by the six of them all over again.
“Do you think we’re done with you, Scarface?” Bacchus asks as he steps closer to me and leans a bit down so he can face me properly since he is, in fact, quite tall, almost as tall as Six Foot Muscle, but he finished High School two years ago, though, “You know, there’s this thing about you that really annoys me.”
“Oh, tell me about it,” I sigh quietly. Normally a person would feel intimidated by six tall, muscular guys ganging up on them, but honestly I have gotten quite used to it by now. Three years ago I would probably be shaking all over just when people looked at me, but by now I couldn’t care less. Bacchus and his gang may beat me up once in a while, destroy my things and ruin my already completely broken reputation - but luckily this hell of a school will soon be over, and I can continue my life away from this social experiment called high school and hormonal teenagers.
“Do you think you’re being funny, brat?” Bacchus hisses at me just before he grabs the collar of my white shirt and knitted vest, which immediately makes me drop all three books I was holding onto the ground. I can feel how the ground almost disappears under my feet as Bacchus lifts me up, as if I was a sack of feathers.
“Well, you do tend to laugh at everything I say, so that would be a yes,” I mutter quietly, and sometimes I just wish I could keep my mouth shut instead of letting my sarcastic voice out - God, how I hate my sarcasm at times like these.
“You little—…” Bacchus cusses under his breath before he raises his clenched fist, ready to knock me out for my snarky comments, and probably also the fact that I seem somewhat unaffected by his intimidating aura.
I clench my teeth a little bit as I prepare myself for his fist colliding with my face, once again, and the other students around us have started cheering the jocks on, as if it’s some sort of wrestling match - in which case I would be suffering from a major handicap.
The voice is rather loud, shrieking even, and it echoes throughout the whole schoolyard and literally makes everyone around us halt their movements and go completely mute - including Bacchus, whose fist just stopped mid-air.
I look to the side and I get eye contact with the only teacher who actually isn’t the least bit afraid of Bacchus - my art teacher, Minerva Orland. She’s really tall, slim like a real model, and has the most beautiful long, black hair and dark green eyes that can pierce through anything, really. It’s almost impossible to figure out whether or not she’s a good or bad teacher, since she frightens pretty much all her students half to death. Bacchus’ intimidating aura falters next to Miss Orland’s.
“Are you aware that you’re going to be late to class, Mister Groh?” she says with a stern voice before eyeing the rest of the students in the school yard, “The rest of you as well. Scoop off, this instant, or I shall personally drag you all to the principal’s office, slackers!”
Bacchus immediately loosens his grip on my clothes and I let out a relieved sigh as I’m able to feel solid ground under my feet once again. It would seem that I was able to avoid any unnecessary collision between Bacchus’ fist and my face.
“You were lucky this time, Scarface,” Bacchus growls lowly at me before he turns to walk away - but not without stepping on one of my books on his way, of course. I just let out a small growl at this, before I kneel down to pick up my books and making sure that they’re not too damaged since I’ll be using them in the art class.
“Rogue Cheney, you should hurry to class as well,” Miss Orland points out as she walks by on her way to the classroom where I’ll be attending her art class.
“Yes, Miss Orland,” I reply without looking up, but just focusing on picking up my stuff and dusting the books off. I just manage to see her black high heels as she walks by. Minerva Orland is a terrifying teacher, no doubt about that - but she wears the terror and torment with elegance.
I just let out a small sigh as I stand once again before making my way to class, avoiding all the eye contact with the students around me - not like they even wanted to have eye contact with me anyway, I’m that weird guy everyone avoids. My hair is a little bit long and black like charcoal. My bangs are so long, that the right half of my face is covered at all times, not that I care very much about it - at least my scar will be half covered this way. The scar that stretches from my right cheek, across my nose, and to my left cheek - right in the middle of my face, which is just brilliant.
I’m not one of those teenagers that struggles with pimples - actually I don’t believe I’ve ever had a pimple in my whole life - but instead I have this scar that’s even more bizarre than any pimple would be.
My skin is pale white, as if the rays of the Sun hasn’t kissed my skin in years, which just so happens to be the case.
However, the thing that’s probably most bizarre about me is my eyes. They’re red, and not in the I-haven’t-slept-for-days kind of way, more like the demon spawn kind of way. I remember having scared the living shit out of children before which actually somewhat hurt me, mostly because I do like children - no, I’m not cold to the core, I do have feelings and whatnot. I just hide it all away in order to survive this living hell that deserves to burn for all eternity.
I look over my shoulder to make sure that there are no other jocks or bullies around before I stand on my feet with my books in my arms once again, deciding I should probably hurry up if I didn’t want to be late for class - and being late for one of Miss Orland’s classes is one thing that really terrifies me.