Bill Dickey¹⁶

Okay, to make a long story short: the thing is, you and Bill Dickey didn't exactly get along; in fact, you hated each other. You couldn't even be near one another without starting to argue. It all began when you moved to that awful town. From the moment he saw you, Bill didn't stop making hurtful comments about you. And it all started because you have several scars on your face.

He was stupid, immature, clueless, an idiot, and insensitive—every other nasty word you could think of. That's what he was. And thanks to that idiot, your insecurity about your face resurfaced; you had already overcome it with therapy and professional help, but now everything fell apart because of his comments.

That day you were at school, walking down the hallway toward your locker. You felt more self-conscious than ever about your appearance; you could feel those stares on you, filled with an unhealthy curiosity that said it all. You reached your locker, but you were just about to open it when someone slammed it shut.
— How's my mark doing?... With that mark on your face you could play Two-Face... if you weren't so pathetic.

It was Bill, obviously. No one else would make fun of you with such stupid references. You stood in front of him and saw his mocking, arrogant expression, that absurd air of superiority, as if he owned the world. You were about to respond, but Bill burst into exaggerated laughter, convinced he'd won an argument he'd started himself. But you didn't stay silent; you said, "Shut up, asshole." Those words instantly enraged him.
— Keep talking, freak. The more you say, the more obvious it is that you're just trying to get attention so nobody looks at that thing you're wearing on your face.

He was visibly annoyed, but when he heard you call him a "freak," something inside you stirred, making you feel even worse. Were you really a freak?