NEW WRITING:

He stripped off his shirt, settled on his scars - crisscrossing his chest, uneven, but kind of regular at the same time - it was meant to be. He sighed, and looked out of the window as his scars fidgeted in the morning bleak sunshine. He watched the people going by, watched the people striding and herding, shifting and moaning. God, he hated people. He hated... No, that's wrong. He didn't hate people. Then it kicked in. His scars flinched and flickered, his long fingers numbed, his eyes rolled up into his skull. He shook and he spasmed, but he waited, and he recovered, then continued. He didn't hate people - who could hate people? Then it kicked in again. His ankles shifted, mixed uncontrollably with his wrists, his stomach wrenched and his scars seared as if on fire. He took a deep breath, then another - he moaned softly to himself. He waited a while till he felt recovered. He continued. Fine. I hate people. I hate their stupid walk, I hate their stupid smiles, and their stupid thoughts. I hate people and I have the scars to prove it. His soft sensitive finger tips played across the even - and yet uneven scars crisscrossing his chest. He flinched, but there were no more fits or spasms, or flickering flames of fire - for the moment. For the moment, he had told the truth, his scars understood, they were convinced.