Show; Don't Tell.

A glare. Half-empty eyes, therefore half-empty souls, glaring black at me. What was actually behind the mask of inch-thick orange makeup was a natural breed of women- a natural hate felt toward others different. Their feelings toward me were blocked by their unclear conscience, while my conscience was cleared and therefore my stare more agonizing to feel pierce through. Their posse giggling and playing, whispering my name in each others ear. Mine did the same toward them, as they sneered and walked around us. Though the comments hurt, I'd never let them see what they've done to me; I'll never allow them satisfaction. My glare intensified as they grew closer to pass us, and only do I know now, that glare could never be strong enough.