Scarred
What is Life?
I look out a window in the mansion. I'm sat on the window sill. My legs are resting on the window sill. I've done this too many times and I need to remind myself where I am to keep my sanity. All the children outside seem so happy. I wish I had a chance of being a child. But no, I'm not even a real person. I question sometimes why I was ever invented. I know father wouldn't like me asking that, so I try not to. But doesn't all life have a purpose? Doesn't every life have something to live for? Well so far I don't. I'm just stuck here in this mansion watching everyone else's life. But it's all the same; they all live the same life. They are born, they die. What happens in between is up to them. Well they say that but most times they can't avoid the future and terrible fates that lie ahead of them.
The children are nosier this time of year. It's summer and the heat makes my hands unbelievably hot. I don't see why the children enjoy it so much. You get burnt and dehydrated. Well it's probably because they have nothing better to do. I have something to do; it's my 'purpose'. But I only do it in the winter, even though the winter has a habit of making my hands go stiff. But now, here I have nothing. Well it isn't my actual purpose. I had to completely change life after father died. He never completed me and because of that I can't lead a normal life. But if I was completed I still wouldn't be normal. I would never be accepted. Never treated like a being should be.
I thought I had been accepted when I met Kim and she looked at me as me. She didn't take one look at me then run away screaming like the others. It's too bad we couldn't be together, I suppose it would be like beauty and the beast. She's long gone now though. So have all the families. They all grew old and died thinking that I was dead as well. Their children still know about me though. They all know the rumours and horror stories. Kim was the only one who understood me and knew that I was kind at heart, that I wasn't a killing machine who loved to stab knives at everyone I could see. I hope she told someone, anyone. If not I'll start to believe the rumours myself.
They children are playing baseball outside. I never got to play a proper game of baseball. It was hard to hold the bat and I sort of chopped it in half when I tried. Also they didn't really tell me the rules so I didn't know what to do. But these children, they're really good at it. I don't blame them they practise every day. In fact I watch them every day and I've picked up a few tips on how to play. All day every day I sit by this window watching time pass, at night I star gaze. They are so pretty. Every one of them is different, like beings. Except I'm way different. The beings don't like different. Everyone would be the stars and I would be a rocket. I get in everyone's way and pollute the space around me. I'm unwanted. I'm the outcast.
I try and leave my home but I get sent back. There seems to be a wall in between us and I can't get past it, I can never be like the normal beings. A crash causes me to blink and return to reality. It's my first blink in weeks. So long have I been daydreaming and passing the time. So long have I been sat here watching life shape without me. I look around the room. My joints feel stiff. My arm gives a creak when I move it from its stationary position. The crash had brought me back to life, back from the dead. But I can never die and that is worse than dying. I force my legs to move. They jolt and I take my feet off the window sill and slam them onto the damp floor. It feels good to have my feet on the floor. I stand up, leaving the low wooden seat which I had made my home. My real home. Not this whole mansion that belongs to father, it's too big. I hate big and busy places they send me into a panic and cause me to lose control of my anger. I still don't understand emotions. They're too complicated. But sadness I understand, I feel it every day. Ever since father and Kim died.
I walk down the room, taking small fast steps. My feet thump against the floor and every step I take causes the mansion to shake. My hands can't go by my side and need to stay a fixed distance from my body. The joints in my arms don't allow them to go there and the fact that my hands… it doesn't matter. I continue to walk down the room until my foot meets glass producing a scratching noise. I look on the ground. There's lots of glass. I can faintly see my reflection in it. I see a monster, an unloved monster. I'm obviously not a real being. My skin is far too pale. It's like snow, the thing I create in the winter. It would be like softly settled snow but deep scars keep it rough and ridged.
I look next to the glass, a baseball lies there. I try to pick it up but it rolls around, teasing me. I grab at it harder but end up tearing at it and leaving little scratch marks in it. My eyes water as tears form in them but I can't cry, I'm not alive. Why can't I pick it up? I just want to play.
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