He was a freak.
His mother had always reminded him of that fact, refusing to look at him even when he stood before her. Whenever she did manage to catch sight of him, her expression held an edge of horror that he had easily learned to pick out.
It was the same for everyone who had ever seen him, even after he had run away.
There simply hadn't been any other choice for him. He couldn't stand the looks of revulsion that seemed like a permanent fixture on the faces of people who were supposed to care for him.
He was the dirty secret everyone knew of but no one wanted to take responsibility for.
He often wondered what he had done to deserve a beautiful voice, or so he heard, yet a face that could never be shown on stage for fear of scaring the audience.
Time and time again, it was all the same. He was good, but never good enough.
No one would ever care for a person who looked like living death.
Written for Diversity Writing Challenge: A49