Freak, they said. Weirdo and Creep. I was branded with these names down every corridor and room on campus. I carried myself in a way that both invited name calling and shoves, and drove away people. At the beginning of this year, I was convinced they were right – that I was a freak, a weirdo. No one could do what I do, no one else could meet a complete stranger and tell their life story in a single glance. No one, no one normal, had such a fascination with the murdered and the murdering. No one else was called a disease and a threat to others by their private mentors, their teachers and counselors. No one was like me. This society wants their children to believe in being unique and embracing who you are but when they are faced with someone actually different they're on the offensive with no turning back.

Then I met John, and realized that there was no normal.

There will always be the smart and the unintelligent oafs that think "Pirate" is an insult, but none of them can set the standard for others. I've made it a hobby to understand others in order to solve problems, and there have been no two (interesting) cases alike. Motives are unique. People are unpredictable.

I sat in the room that has been my home for the past four years, boxes piled around me waiting foe movers to fetch them to London. I packed most of my things, with John's help, but one I neglected was in front of me on the floor. A gun, many months forgotten, stashed away in a closet by a frantic John, a newly created smiley face watching from above.

Inside the city they weren't welcome, and I didn't intend of needing one for personal use. I can barely remember the exact reason I had it in the first place, besides providing entertainment while I was bored. I suppose I could have used it, on myself or on others, if it got too bad. I remember that it used to paralyze me. The thinking. Thinking, thinking, all the time with no one to speak to but the wall.

Then I got a roommate.

I won't me overdramatic and claim that John swooped in and saved me from myself, but it wouldn't be entirely incorrect that he helped realize me a great deal about myself and others. I'll be forever grateful to him for that, I owe him my devotion for the foreseeable future and beyond.

John was finishing some sort of paperwork regarding a change of address for the school's records and whatnot. We'd be leaving this afternoon, taking the train into London while our things were shipped to our new flat.

The future is never certain. Any number of future events could occur with no warning. John seems sure that everything will work out fine, despite his family issues and future plans. I, however, am choosing rather logically to not take a stance on the future at all. I could only be disappointed or surprised either way, and it was too much effort to waste. Instead I will take each problem, each case and moment, as it comes up and if I have John by my side then all the better.

A knock on the door. The movers. John would have just walked in.

The gun. I tuck it under the mattress and let the movers do their job. When John comes back I'll give it to him. I've no use for it anymore.

The End

I'd like to say a quick thank you to everyone who has reviewed and read this story. It was a long time in the making.