140. Cactus: Write from the viewpoint of a cactus - what's it like to live in the dessert or have a "prickly personality"?

Deep breaths. They are staring at you, make no mistake about that. But what does it matter? What does it matter? It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter...

Maybe if I say it enough, it will be true.

What does it matter?

It matters a lot. Maybe it shouldn't... but I have not descended to the depths of hardness not to care. I am still human. I am only human. It is my fault that I am a bad one.

It is the worst feeling in the world to know you are the villain in every story. It is a sad, sorry moment indeed...

I remember when I thought I was the hero. I had my friends and I had my enemies. Only, my friends were quick to become my enemies, so I guess I could not call them my friends. It was normal for us to turn on someone; I did it myself. It was different to be the one turned on, though.

It was different in so many ways.

There are no words anyone gives me. Just stares and silent condemnation. It is like they are united in conveying to me that I am not worth their time.

I am sorry, I want to say. I do not say it, because I do not know why I am sorry. Am I sorry because of the crimes I have committed or because they have forced me into my punishment? I want to be genuine, but I am also not sure if I am.

I want to be good, but I am not.

Why did I do it? I liked the power. It was the triumph, it was the victory of winning. No one can deny this truth: that to win is exhilarating. And I liked to win. I liked the ecstasy of coming out on top.

But it was a lie. I came out on the bottom.

I absorb it: the stares and the linoleum, locker-lined hallway and the way people parted for me. It was not like they used to, out of fear of my notice. It was out of disgust. They did it to be noticeable. I was a disease in high school, feeding on you like a parasite. I was a pariah, ugly and hated.

I was a bully.