“Everybody wants to judge, but nobody wants to listen.”

Abdullah leaned against the bus stop bench, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his oversized jacket, feeling the weight of everyone’s eyes on him. They didn’t even try to hide it. The whispers, the sideways glances—they were all so predictable. He could almost hear what they were saying: Another one of those guys, too much of a coward to face up to life. He could feel the judgment on his skin, as sharp and cold as the autumn wind.

It was a strange thing, how people could act like they knew you. Like they understood the shape of your heart just by the way you looked. Abdullah had stopped trying to explain himself a long time ago. He had his reasons for being here, for walking with his head down and his shoulders hunched. It wasn’t like it was anyone’s business. But, in this city, everything was everybody’s business. Even when it came to men like him.

The news had spread. Some of it was true, some of it was just convenient fiction. Abdullah had been struggling—no, suffocating—for months now. And no one could see the invisible chains, the ones that tightened every time he tried to take a full breath. A coward, they’d call him. Unmanly. He had heard it all before. He knew exactly what they thought.

But no one wanted to ask why. No one cared enough to understand that the weight wasn’t something you just shrugged off. No, they just passed him by, their judgments flying like darts, each one a little deeper than the last. Nobody stopped to see the exhaustion in his eyes, the tiredness that didn’t come from sleepless nights or late shifts, but from the constant fight to stay.

The bus arrived, and Abdullah stepped aboard without looking anyone in the eye. He found a seat in the back, far from anyone who might try to talk to him. He’d heard it all. He didn’t need another lecture from some well-meaning stranger who only saw the surface.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want help. It was that nobody understood. How could they?

The bus lurched forward, pulling him further away from that place—further away from everyone’s opinions, their scorn. But even then, Abdullah knew there would be more. There always was. There was no escape from the world they made for men like him.

I had “served my debt to society”. I know logically what that means and how it’s intended. Too bad the actuality of how society sees it doesn’t align with the intention. Like a dog that bites once, I’m never to be trusted again. Only it’s unethical to euthanize humans when there may be the same factors at play. Provocation, fear, self-defense. Those can get a human a sentence that doesn’t end in death. So I guess I’m luckier than the dog. But I’m still not to be trusted. Society doesn’t want me back. They’ve made that perfectly clear. A couple of friends kept in touch over the years but still keep their distance. A chat or a text message. A phone call and lunch at a greasy diner. Have I really earned my way back into civilization? Or does everyone assume I’m just out for a jaunt before I succumb to another episode. The camper van I had traded my truck for leaned a bit sideways in the parking lot. It was downright luxurious compared to what I had gotten used to. Having my own space had been unnerving at first. The first night I had parked it next to my sister’s barn and could hear nothing but nighttime sounds outside. I hadn’t slept a wink. I’d turned to playing music at night after that. Not having hundreds of other people and their noises around was taking more adjustment than I realized. This was the 2nd week I’d been scoping out possible jobs. I was coming down to the wire. My release wasn’t dependent on gainful employment but my livelihood would be. And so far, Society had made it clear that my “debt” was paid but still on my credit report. Even in my podunk backwater hometown, it seemed I was considered a risky investment. Reliable transportation- check. Clean drug screen- check. References- check. Clean background- stop the presses. I sat in the van for a minute longer in the lot and then steeled myself to go in. One more rejection can’t hurt. I’ve heard apologetic no’s. I’ve heard vehement no’s. I’ve heard indirect no’s. I’ve heard excuses being used as no’s. It was becoming an art form. The donut shop was warm and humid. The insides of the windows covered in moisture making it hard to see inside. It was deserted except for a couple of retirees near the register. “Hey, Vic! You got a customer!”, one of them called to the back. A middle aged guy was wiping his hands as he came out of the kitchen. He barely looked at the two at the counter. Vic gazed over at me. It was a strange feeling. It had an empty feeling to it. Like he had nothing invested in it. He felt distant even though he was no more than 5 feet away. Maybe Society had failed to realize his debt was paid too. “I stopped by to see if you were in need of help. I’m looking to pick up a job. I’ve got references and I’ve worked a couple kitchens.” I got straight to the point. No sense beating around the bush and taking up his time. Vic gave me another up and down look. “What hours you trying to work?” “Anything you need, sir.” I’m bracing myself. “My schedule is wide open. I’ve got references, live just out of town with my sister. Transportation isn’t an issue.” I pause and glance at the old-timers sipping their coffee and listening to us. “I’m looking for a second chance. I didn’t use my first one the best. I’m going to make a better go of it this time. Just to make sure I’m being up front with you before I use anymore of your time.” Vic again just watched me. He leaned a hip against the counter and stared for a long while. I shifted my weight. Something about his inspection was off-putting. “How many places have you applied to?”, he asks. “Most of the stores and restaurants here in town. And the cabinet factory. I’ve had to have talked to 20 places or more.” He frowned. This was it. The no was coming. I wondered what kind of no it would be. I was betting a direct one. Vic didn’t seem like he had much concern for anyone else’s feelings. “Was it drugs? Or domestic? I have some things I won’t tolerate. No matter what your justice system declares.” I blink. “No, sir. It was a manslaughter charge. A fight that went sideways, badly.” “Did you start it?” I swalllowed. “No. But I could’ve handled it better. I’ve had plenty of time to look back at where it all went wrong.” He stared silently again. He really is disconcerting. The two guys had begun mumbling to themselves and their donuts. He flicked a look at them. “I can use the help. It’s just me and a couple of cashiers. You’d be learning how to make donuts and work the kitchen side. Does this seem like a problem?” My knees wobbled in relief. “No, sir. I pick up quick. When would you like me to start?” “Be here tomorrow at 8pm to get the formal paperwork done. You’ll be working the night shift and prepping for the morning rush.” “Thank you for the opportunity. My name is Jared, by the way. Jared Hawthorne. I’ll be here.” I extended a hand to shake his but he’d allready stepped back towards the kitchen. Vic raised an eyebrow at my offered hand. “Cathy will be the cashier on duty. Tell he who you are when you get here and she’ll get you started until I arrive.”

Do you judge a book by its cover Do you judge someone by the way they look Why do people judge when they don’t know what’s inside How can they be so cruel Sometimes we need to be kind Try to listen to what they say You don’t know what their going through Try to understand them It’s a lot to ask But be better then most of our world Cause everyone wants judge But nobody wants to listen How would you feel like if you were getting jugged by someone Would you feel calm Or would you feel scared and embarrassed Try I ask is to not judge But listen to their story Everyone has tales to share So don’t judge but tell your own tales

listen to me I scream i deserve to be heard aswell i need somebody to tell me it’s okay i need to know it’s not just me

the words in my head need release, but nobody wants to listen. They judge, They judge and judge and judge. But nobody listens. Lend me your ear for a moment. One moment. I do not need your pity, I do not need your charity. I merely need to be heard. To be listened to. please I beg please one moment one moment before i fall apart just to know i’m not alone to know somebody is out there

I need to feel loved To feel cared for Appreciated. By one person. One hidden gem in the midst of this pile of dog shit. Just one. please

Listening, Is an art. But no one, Wants to speak.

…

🖤

AUBREY** **

Aubrey Name Meaning: Elf-Ruler/One who rules with elf.

I searched that up one day, curious to see if my name would match up with who I was. It did with most people. Most people with parents who could look into their eyes and see what they would become. Apparently, my late parents looked into my eyes as well. I don’t know what they thought when they saw me as an infant, small, weak, frail with an ugly red sheen all over my naked body, but whatever it was, it was Aubrey.

Just Aubrey. Though I’m no ruler, and definitely not one of elves.

I’m a servant. A servant of demons.

My grandma never brought me back from the rehabilitation center. In fact, she moved from town and wouldn’t contact anyone about anything. The rehab center had to hand me over to the government and in turn, the government handed me over to foster care.

All that time, I just wanted to see Talia again to know if she still breathed, if she still smiled and laughed. It was suffocating. And my Itch could never be scratched.

At my first foster home, it was okay. They fed me, cleaned me, kept me in the attic when people came over. They had read my record; they knew there was something wrong with me. It was like living with grandma, it was familiar and it was comforting. The only difference was that I never saw their eyes.

They never looked at me too closely. As though they could make me disappear.

My Itch had laid dormant for those few months, pleased with the food and the bed. But then it started to itch, it started to beg, it started to scream.

I didn’t kill anyone. Only strangled their son while he slept. No one knew. No one’s but me and my Itch. The boy said he dreamt of spewing in the morning.

Nevertheless, my fosters grew wary of me and gave me back.

This happened over and over again. I never killed anyone in the foster houses. Never went to close, only enough to satisfy my Itch. One thing fueled me.

Talia. Talia. Talia.

I would see her again.

——

(Ah, Aubrey and her Itch. Anyways. Judges of Man: On The Run PT. 2 is going to take some time to write(I think, sometimes I don’t know). Thank you for those who have read this series from the beginning, I know it’s…something. I didn’t think I would continue it, tbh. But I fell in love with the characters. As always, thanks for reading and have a wonderful day/night. Having been saying this as much.)

It’s a peculiar feeling, being held in the arms of someone you know doesn’t trust you. When you know the person believes everything you do or say is motivated by lousy, self-seeking intentions. I was working on myself and genuinely trying to be better, but the thing is, she never allowed me to show up as better, but she still wanted me in her bed.

Everyone wants to judge, but no one wants to listen.

Me and my friends used to play this game, “We Listen And We Dont Judge” everyday it was the same.

“We listen and we don’t judge.” We would all say.

“One time I broke a vase, but I blamed it on the dog and my parents grounded me for a day.”

“We listen and we don’t judge.” We would all tell.

“I told my parents I was sick, but really I just wanted to call my friend Mel.”

Through of all of these I never judged. Everyone makes mistakes, I won’t hold a grudge.

“We listen and we don’t judge.”We would all agree.

“One time I lied to you guys about my grades.” They then gasped at me.

“Lie to us? How could you!?” Their tones made me very blue.

“Get out of here, you big fat liar!” They told me. I said goodbye to them and their dog, Jolie.

Everyone wants to judge, but no one wants to listen.

AUBREY

My oldest memory is when I was seven.

I had just lost a tooth the night before, pulled it out myself, and my grandma was wiping the blood off my chin roughly. It had dried the night before. I’d forgotten to tell her that I pulled it out before I went to bed that night.

I watched her. Her face was always in a frown. It wasn’t when she was with her friends; only for me, as though I was something to be hated.

It makes sense now. She knew what was inside of me.

My Itch. Such an itchy, itchy Itch.

“Aubrey,” she said, voice low, “Do you know what happened to your parents?”

“Uh-huh.” That was the only response I could do as Grandma scrubbed the rim of my lips so hard I could feel her sharp nail digging into my skin.

“You know that they died in their bed one night. A murderer came in and killed them. But not you.” Grandma stopped and looked me dead in the eyes. I shivered, mouth closing and she stood, never letting go of my gaze. “Why not you? Huh? Tell me.”

“I don’t—“

She slapped me, crisp and sharp. The pain wasn’t there for a brief moment, but when it came, it burned. It felt like fire. Hot, hot, HOT. I wailed and scratched at it as she stared at me eyes blank as I sobbed.

“You do. You do, and I know you do.” She spat at me eyes blank. “Demon child.”

My grandma was very religious. She never took me to church. I wonder now if something there would have changed me. Made me “normal”.

I’ll never know now. Too late. So sad. So itchy.

When I was twelve, I had my first crush.

Talia was in the same grade as me. Puberty had treated her kindly. Round hips and chest, bronze skin beautiful and clear of blemishes, slick hair long and trimmed.

Puberty had slapped me in the face. Too skinny, pale skin paler than paper and speckled with red pimples, dirty blonde hair scraggy and short.

She was the opposite of me: kind, fit, popular, and beautiful. Always so beautiful. She didn’t seem the type to like girls, though. An avid churchgoer like Grandma.

But I had wanted her. Badly.

And that’s when the Itching started. Nagging at the corners of my mind as Death placed a cold hand on my shoulder. It whispered in my ear; I had no choice to obey.

One day, after PE, all the girls were sitting on the ground outside at the track field, watching as the coach blew his whistle and yelled at the boys to keep running, and stop lagging, and pick up your feet Walter!

The girls were laughing, close to me but they felt a mile away. I ignored them, letting a ladybug climb on my finger, although I did feel the brush of Talia’s shoes against my lower back.

We all had our outside uniforms on. Mine was big for my size—a spare because my grandmother wouldn’t buy me one—and it pooled over by crossed feet. I watched as the ladybug climbed up my arm slowly, slowly, noting the way Talia’s shoes pressed against me—knowing it was me—before settling.

It made my heart soar.

“So, Talia,” a girl whose name I think was Bridget, though it didn’t matter to me at the time, addressed her, “Do you have a crush?”

The other girls behind me were whispering and giggling. Talia was silent. Maybe she was thinking. I stroked the back of the ladybug’s shell and picked it off of me when it tried to make its way up to my armpit; I set it back down on the grass and looked to the sky, face tilted to hear more of this conversation.

“Yeah.” She finally answered. “I’m not going to tell you who it is, though.”

The girls groaned. A girl named Katie, I think, said. “Come on, Tally! We wanna know, now! You can’t leave things like that!”

Another said, “Come one, we’ll help you.”

And another, “Unless he’s hot—if he’s hot we’re gonna have to fight over him.”

And yet another, “Oh come on! We all know Talia deserves all the boys here.”

I jumped when Talia’s foot tapped against me. She said my name, and it was the sweetest thing.

“Aubrey?”

I almost fainted right there.

I turned slowly, noting how quiet everyone was. Noting how they glared at me as though I had done something wrong; a reason to be hated. They reminded me of my grandmother. I didn’t like that.

So I just focused on Talia. Her caramel gaze. Her long, exposed neck that looked similar to loved chocolate.

I licked my chapped lips, hating the almost audible way they crinkled. “Yes?”

She tilted her head, dark lips spreading out in a gentle smile. “Do you have a crush?”

“Oh”—what was I supposed to say to this? Was I going to lie or not talk at all? Thankfully, something intervened.

I heard a shout from Talia and screams from the girls as a large bulk of something slammed into me, crushing my face against the ground.

“Shit—I’m so— Huh? Oh, it’s you.”

I hardly even heard him. My hands started to shake, red pooling in them as I held them out before me.

“Oh gosh! Aubrey! Are you okay?” Talia rushed forward to me, but I pushed her away.

My whole face hurt—it burned. Hot, hot, HOT!

I turned to see a boy, the one who bumped into me, standing in front of me, scratching the back of his hand and he looked down at the bloody mess I was. “Hey, I’m…sorry, or whatever.”

Ladybug. The red dots on my arms reminded me of ladybugs.

I giggled, seeing the way he cringed away from me as I toddled closer. Something felt off. It was clawing at the corners of my mind. Wanting to be let loose—to be FREE.

The coach came up that moment, saw me shaking, bleeding, giggling, and sighed. “Of course it’s her.”

I launched myself at him first—ignoring the screams of absolute terror and surprise as I scratched and bit at his thick throat. Not thick enough because it was easy to tear.

So many ladybugs on my arms now. But I had goosebumps—shivers ran up and down me. I looked back to see other kids running away to the building. All but one.

Talia stood there. Caramel eyes wide and scared, dark lips trembling. I walked up to her and placed a bloody hand on her chin. She allowed it.

I smiled.

She didn’t.

I hate that memory.

I never harmed Talia that day.

I never saw her again after I was…contained.

I wish I could see her again.

But it wouldn’t be healthy. It wouldn’t be good.

With my Itch growing everyday, just one look would be the end of her.

It does make me sad. And mad.

And Itchy.

**¿ａｕｂｒｅｙ¿ ｌｉｓｔｅｎ，ｃａｎ　ｙｏｕ　ｈｅａｒ　ｍｅ¿ ｙｅｓ， **ｙｏｕ　ｃａｎ．

Everybody wants to judge me but nobody wants to listen to me. I told them what they did. But they didn't care. So I packed my bags and left. I never wanted to come back but I was forced to. I don't want to be here. Instead of hurting her, I hurt myself. I have scars from where I cut and a fresh new one from last night. Every time I'm in this house there is such a heavy burden on me. I want to escape. I want to die. But for now, I'll keep crying, cutting, and praying for someone or something to help me or end me.