Invincible

I was born this way, I had no say in the matter. This may be an excuse, but it’s what I’ve told myself every day for the duration of my life. All nineteen years of it.

We are looked on with a mixture of scorn, shame and pity. Sometimes people will point openly as I walk down the street. Other times, children look over and giggle or I catch someone stealing a glance at me when they think I’m not paying attention. It is one of the hardest things to get used to, and it took me the longest to be able to ignore.

The names don’t sting anymore. Freak. I’ve moved past them. Degenerate. Not long ago, however, I felt differently. Unmentionable. There was a time when I would protest, try to reason, find excuses. Can’t you see I still feel pain? Do you not notice the flush of my cheeks? Can you not see that I have two arms, two legs, almost identical to yourself? But there is a difference, and that is what you focus on. Not the color of my eyes (blue) or the length of my hair (buzzed), but that difference. If not for the mark, you wouldn’t be able to tell. Ever since they made the mark universal and mandatory, my life hasn’t been the same.

I hesitate at the corner of the street, shivering despite the autumn sun. The air has the cold, dead smell of winter. My feet, swathed in faded Converse high-tops which are missing the right shoelace, shift nervously while I wait. The bus is always late when you are in a hurry and early when you are late getting to the stop. Finally, the big blue top swings into sight, and the bus is chugging towards me. The doors hiss open. I flash identification obediently.

“To the back with ya, greedy Lifemonger.” The driver says as way of hello. I walk briskly past him and find an open seat by the rear window. ...

... middle of paper ...

...e.” I am suddenly very tired. Rain always makes me sleepy.

“We’ve switched the order of a couple of things this time, Stephen. I don’t think you’ll be too confused. This way and we’ll get you into your gown.”

I change into the pale orange gown, handing my clothes in a crumpled heap to the orderly that appears. She takes them without comment and I follow her into the primary examination room. This was where they told you what type of examination you had been selected for. Anything past standard meant you would be stuck in the hospital for a week. Dr. Hanson walks into the room, a metallic clipboard under one tanned arm.

“Stephen, it looks like you’ve been selected to undergo a standard examination. You will be checked in here until Monday, 7 A.M. Is this agreeable?” This part was formality only, I had no choice in the matter.

“It’s agreeable.” I mumble back.