I hope you won’t think less of me, you’ve treated me so well. When the word “FREAK” appeared scratched in the persimmon colored paint on her locker, she knew that in some fragile young woman’s mind a war had escalated from imaginary to physical. “Who?” She asked. Her eyes threatened to leak tears, she blinked. The chamber rang with her shrieks. " The Wastrel laughed. Before leaving the place he looked upwards, and could just discern the blue vault and pale stars of Heaven through an iron grating at the top. \" She said, looking beside him at a taller boy who appeared to be bored. All at once she became aware of sounds outside. The idea of this sudden reluctance was elusive; the fact was evident but not the reason for it. “Lucy Albert, sir. You don’t know what you’re saying, and I hope you never will.
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