I’ll never understand why some people think being called weird is an insult. I’d hate to be normal. We’re all a little weird in our own ways and that’s what makes us unique. That’s why I’m in the habit of thanking people that call me weird. For I just can’t imagine a more wonderful compliment.
I am eight years old. I hide behind the fence in our backyard, the smell of damp leaves and rotting wood. The mud ***** and slurps at my toes like some ravenous beast as my brother bleeds at my mothers hands. I am silent.
I am ten years old. I hide behind the cracked old leather on a school bus. Their laughter rises and falls like the bumpy gravel road. I chip a bit of paint off the windowsill and it breaks my heart. I am silent.
I am fifteen years old. I hide in a lightless back alley. It reeks of something sweet threatening to make me gag as I clasp my hands over my mouth. Flashes of red and blue pass once more chasing a scared, sad little heart as I hold my breath. I am silent.
I am twenty one years old. I hide behind the person they know me to be. Behind charming coos and witty jabs. Behind a persona of indomitable strength. I am the best of them, of us. The most well adjusted. The luckiest and most fortunate. Nothing is wrong, after all, they look at me and I have it all. But in my mind I am screaming. In my mind I am already gone.
What we go through forges us into who we are. It is seldom pretty... Yet everything we survive makes us stronger. Sometimes, that is how monsters are created.