Chapter 1: Far From Ordinary
To say I am different is like calling a boiling pot warm, or the Sahara dry, or oxygen helpful. It’s like saying wasps only prick, or sharks merely nibble, or that men sometimes falter.
My kind of different goes beyond category, light-years past unexplainable, into a nebulous of human unknown—the sort where uneasy eyes caught staring look away, but always turn back. People of faith call my kind of different miraculous, though more a curse than a miracle. Mine is the type that keeps young mothers awake at night, praying their babies won’t grow up to be anything other than painfully ordinary.
But why I am different remains a great mystery, one I’ve come no closer to answering in my twelve long years. That’s not to say that I, and others, haven’t tried. I’ve met many brilliant minds who’ve suggested reasons for my condition, all skirting the edges of accepted science. Not one has done anything other than provoke more questions, (which seems to be one of my most reliable skillsets). Still, at some point, when you’ve lived life as a lab rat, you come to accept that the impossible happens, and some things can never be explained. Unfortunately, the compromise isn’t much better, and in the end, you spend your life trapped in a museum for the weird. The exception being the museum is you; it never closes, and the world has an endless supply of free tickets to show up and gawk as they please.
It’s enough to make your head explode, which, in my case, happens all the time.