Monster Disciplinary Academy

I exhale heavily, my breath fogging the bus window as I idly drift my eyes to moving the scenery. 'My name is Casca Lopez. Though, I guess I should drop my family name now, huh? My parents don't want to admit it, but they don't see me as their son, let alone a human. A disgusting, less-than human, unfeeling freak who-'

The bus thumps slightly, shaking me out that lovely train of thought. I shake my head and take a deep breath. 'It doesn't matter. They wanted me out, and out I am. I suppose they felt a tinge of sympathy, and rather kicking me to the curb, they sent me to a disciplinary academy. Maybe to fix me.' 

I snort at that. Fix me? Yeah right. Supposedly, the proper medical term for my condition is "Alexithymia." Emotional Blindness. Incredibly difficult to express, identify, or show emotions.

Let me put it like this. A close friend to you dies. Tragic. Really Awful. Your response will likely be to grieve, to be sad. To cry and sob. That's fair, acceptable even. I would not blame anyone for reacting that way. However, if I were in your place, I'd likely not do any of that. Just sitting there with a deadpan look on my face as the funeral goes on. Now I know I should feel sad, and I will miss the friend, but I won't feel it. I'll feel as I almost always do. Flat. Neutral. Not empty, but not alive. 

This can be a hard concept to wrap your head around if you don't experience it personally. This condition probably makes me sound like a robot, an unfeeling freak. I don't blame you, that's what my parents and nearly everyone else thinks. But I'm not completely emotionless.

You see I can feel excitement, a blood rush, an adrenalin high, but... only when I do incredibly dangerous and stupid stunts. Things that put my life at risk. I never understood why I truly feel alive in those short bursts, but I loved it. That feeling of emotion, of energy I never get, it's addicting. Does that make me an adrenalin junkie? A thrill seeker? Absolutely, and I wouldn't want anything else.

Here's an idea. Try Car Jousting with Stop Signs or break a bull out and lead it to the mayor's office in the dead of night. Try it and I dare you to say that you didn't feel alive during it, because I sure as hell did. 

The bus slowly comes to a halt, lurching me forward just a bit. I sigh as I grab my duffel bag filled with my so few personal items, and step off the bus. I take in my surroundings, a tiny roadside bustop. The town itself was small, old brick buildings and small neighborhoods littered with cottages. This town, er, "Woodston", is surrounded by tall, looming trees. The road to even get here was steep, meaning this town is definitely elevated. And there seemed to be an almost constant light fog. Nothing actually restricting, but figures and buildings got a bit hazy and indistinct at good distances. 'We are in New England... I suppose these traits are nothing unique compared to the rest of the region.' 

I sigh and sit down at the bus stop. I take a crumpled-up pamphlet and unfold it. "Tantalus' Academy for Deviants and Misfits" 'Charming...' I glance through the rest of it. Most of it is just typical reformist program nonsense and buzzwords. 

I glance to my right, a clear glass panel, probably there for pedestrians to see if there's anyone waiting at the bus stop. I lean a bit forward and see my reflection. 

My face is pale, but not deathly so. My eyes are hazel, almost colored like honey, funnily, also the most lifelike part of my face. I run a hand through my black, curly hair. I don't look terrible, a pair of dark jeans, a grey hoodie, and a military green jacket. It's cold up here, okay? 

I'm considered tall by others, standing at six feet and two inches, my build is lean, but my choice in fashion and clothes make me look bulkier (or chunkier) than I really am. Not that I care, I never much cared for the thoughts or opinions of others. I found the clothes comfortable, and they covered my myriad scars well. Fine by me. 

I flick my eyes away from my reflection and back down to the pamphlet. There is a note written on the very bottom of that reads, "Woodston Main Street Bus Stop; 1100 Hours." I glance at my digital watch, '10:59...' I look up at the corner of the street and the lightpole. A sign hanging off it reads "Main Street." 'So... Right place... right time. Ugh. Hate waiting.' 

I drum my fingers against my knee, I drum as if it's speeding up time. After a minute that felt like an eternity, I glance at my watch, '11:01...' I groan internally as I look down. I blink and then I hear... a horse whinny? I blink again and look up, seeing a pair of black horses drawing a dark oak carriage.

A lone man, the driver presumably, is dressed like an 1800's Victorian Noble, black suit, monocle, top hat and all. Though a bit strange, was the black face covering that obscured everything below his dull, grey eyes.

"Are you, Perhaps, Sir Casca Lopez?" The driver inquires as he looks me up and down. "That I am." I nod, sure the driver's... well entire setup was strange and antiquated, but there's really nothing to get caught up on. 

I stand up with my duffel bag and I ask, "Are you my ride to Tantalus'?" The driver nods, "Yes sir I am. Hop on back, and get comfortable. It's quite a ride." The driver chuckles lowly. Not hesitating, I get on the back of the carriage and sit down. 

The horses start pulling the carriage. It's not long before Woodston is left behind, and New England's deep forests envelop the carriage. The driver speaks up, "So. What are you?" 

'That's... a strange question. I think. Is he asking about my race? Ethnicity? Is it a joke? Ah, shit I'll just ask him to clarify.' 

I smile wryly at him, "Can you elaborate?" The driver nods, "Right, apologies. Are you a vampire? Werewolf? Ah, maybe an undead?" 

I blink once. Twice. 'Is... he joking? Do I laugh? Damn it, why couldn't this just be a quiet ride through nature?' 

"Uh. Human." I say flatly. The driver laughs at this, "That's a good one. But seriously, what are you?" I furrow my brows at this, 'Is he serious...?' I clear my throat, "Human. I'm not joking." I say a bit more sternly, feeling a very very slight tinge of annoyance at his laughter. 

He stops laughing and looks at me, "You... you're serious..." He trails off as he studies me and sniffs the air, "You even smell human..." I scoot away from him a bit. "Are... you not?" I ask slowly. The driver shakes his head and lowers his face covering. 

Underneath the covering, the driver's face is dark green, rotting almost, with some bone sticking out. His teeth were crooked and sticking out, but something resembling a smile made its way onto his decaying face. 

"No sir, I'm afraid I'm half-undead."