No One Special

I always thought the fact that everytime I tell people my name, they laugh or frown or go, 'Oh, that's an interesting name' might have something to do with the fact that it's eight letters long.

However, as years go by, I've started to wonder.

You see, I am an orphan. I was raised in an orphanage which I hated. Only one person there constituted anything remotely resembling a friend, and he was made by my own five-year-old hands out of paper, glue and and a crafty use of scissors. His name is Omega and to this day, he's sitting on my overflowing desk of boring homework and buried paintings of moons and ampersands.

I've tried to track down my parents or some notion of my origin, but in society, I may as well not exist. I spell insignificance in every way, just like my name.

Sometimes, I tell Omega that life is a painting. Famous people are drawn out by painters like Picasso, true works of art, whereas other people are drawn by people like me. I love to paint, but have never shown any of my art to my teachers because the one time they did find one, they told me it was a 'waste of time'.

I'd rather they'd hit me in the face than tell me the only thing I ever liked in life is a waste of time.

The door slams shut. The new teacher is here. She walks over in her insanely high stillettos, glances at Omega and says, 'Hello.'

I watch her silently, seeing her grow more uncomfortable in my distrusting presence.

'Hello,' I say finally. I hold out my hand. 'I am Nameless.'