I have always been slightly mental. From an early age, I began to notice it. The melodies that would sometimes accompany individuals. I thought it was something normal until I mentioned it to my parents one day.

I learned from a young age to never speak of it again. I was only five, but the repercussion of it is a memory I cling to with fear and disdain and one that still has its mark on me today.

Growing up in a no-name town, in a seemingly ass-backward state, it was unwise to highlight these disturbing differences. My parents weren't the most educated people, but they seemed to love me.

Or so I thought.

My childhood was not out of the ordinary, I went to school, I had some friends and I had some bullies. I tried to lay low and keep my nose clean. It is how you survive when you feel a little off balance in the world. You don't draw attention. It wasn't until one really hot summer in '88 that my world changed. If it was for the better, has yet to be determined.

One sweltering June morning I woke up to a thick layer of gunk that seemed to prevent my eyes from opening. I remembered this feeling from the previous winter, pink eye. I remember the warm compresses remedy to loosen the crusty and sticky discharge. Thankfully the route to the bathroom was one I knew by heart. I didn't need to see where I was going.

I knew it was too early for my Mom to be up, and Dad was probably off to work already. Once I was able to loosen the layer clinging to my eyelashes, I wiped my eyes clean, seeing the yellow junk just confirmed my suspicions. It wasn't until I looked into the mirror that fear held me frozen in place. It was not pink eye.

My eyes were no longer their usual dull brown color. Instead, a pair of dark lilac-colored eyes peered back at me.

I bent my head over the sink running the warm water and splashing my entire face profusely. I clenched my eyes shut and rubbed them until they hurt just a bit. I opened them again blinking rapidly and looked again. Still that same haunting lilac color.

I yelled for my mother, fear elevating my voice to a pitch that could almost break the glass. It took no less than a second for me to hear her stumble out of her bed immediately followed by the metallic snap of her lighter as she lit her Newport. She rushed down the hall to see what I was yelling about.

"What the hell is wrong?" she asked as the cigarette hung loosely between her lips. My head in my hands crying she sighed loudly. "Shit, you got your period… pads are under the sink," she said as she went to turn away assuming her job was done.

"No Mom, that's not it." She stopped. "Well what the fuck are you screaming about at 9 a.m.?" her tone made me afraid to reveal what I was hoping was just a trick of the light in my reflection.

I turned to her looking at her with apprehension.

"Fuck!" she said simply. She took a long drag of the cigarette. "Fuck, fuck FUCK!" was all she yelled. She turned on her heels and went straight to her room.

I was petrified. Her reaction terrified me, I was almost sure she would emerge out of her room with the leather belt. Instead, I hear her pick up the receiver. Moments later I heard her say "It's starting," in a voice that was laced with annoyance. I could only hear her side of the conversation.

"Yes I am sure Lyle"

"How do I know? Her eyes are fucking purple you retard"

"They never said anything about her eyes changin'"

"No, you call the fucking Ministry"

"Gee, I dunno Lyle, tell them they lied, tell them the cost is going up"

"I don't care if you're busy at work, this was your dumb ass idea, to begin with"

"Oh fuck off and tell them to send something to cover her eyes up."

"Use your fuckin brain for a change, they are purple"

"NO people don't have purple eyes, you dumb ass"

The phone slammed down and I jumped, leaning over the sink with my arms cradling my head. I heard her walk back toward me and even though a million thoughts were swirling in my head I was more afraid of her and what the Ministry was than my eyes at that moment.

I looked up at my mother as she approached, and she looked back at me with a sneer. "Creepy." She took out another Newport and lit it, her head slightly tilted to the side as she peered at me.

"Look, don't bother asking because I have no fucking clue what is wrong with you," I am going to make some calls to see if I can get you into a doctor or something."

I knew she was lying.

I spent the entire week locked up in the house, that was until Dad came home with a small blue box one day. He handed them to me and told me to put them on my eyes and then walked to the fridge to grab a beer.

That was my first time ever putting in a contact lens. It took about twenty minutes to figure out exactly what I was looking at and almost double that time to actually put them in.

My eyes were never spoken of again.

The four years that followed were troubling, to say the least. My grades at school went from straight A's to straight C's, and I became more distanced from my friends. My parents started acting differently toward me.

I grew distrustful of my parents and became suspicious of their motives. They became far more evasive and were crueler to me than I ever previously recalled. Something was happening, I couldn't tell you what it was exactly at the time but my parents started acting stranger and stranger. All the while I was feeling more and more out of place.

It was mid-July of '92 when my parents told me we were taking a trip to Boston for the weekend. They gave me a large suitcase and told me to pack it. I looked at the size of the suitcase and something in my gut knew I would never be coming back to this place that I called home. So I packed up my life, leaving nothing of any personal value in the room.

Living down east, as they like to call it, not many people had a melody. When I did encounter people who seemed to have music emanating from them, they were often older. As we got closer to the city I noticed more variety both in the melodies and in age. It both disturbed me and fueled my curiosity.

As we drove, I closed my eyes and just listened as I became keenly aware of the fluctuations of in tunes, some were pleasant and easygoing tunes, while others were darker and more chaotic. As we arrived in Boston, I noted that my parents drove us to the airport. I learned many times over to not ask questions. Proof of my lessons is still with me.

My parents left the vehicle as I vacated the car. My father grabbed my suitcase out of the trunk. He set it to the curb and they walked on ahead while I followed behind. Backpack secure and suitcase in tow.

As we moved through the airport the melodies started increasing. They were a blend of instruments, sounds, and very feint whispers. It was jarring the rest of my senses and I was becoming easily distracted.

My parents stopped in front of a rather tall man, he looked very well put together. He had a melody and it was a pleasant one, I could hear a variety of string instruments. I stared at the man trying to discern what made him different. I saw nothing outside of his unusually formal manner of dress.

My parents talked to him in hushed tones, the man periodically looking my way. His face showed no emotion. I was so distracted by the sounds around me that I couldn't hear them. It felt like they spoke forever, my parents' attitude fluctuating from self-righteous to downright insulted.

While looking down at the floor, I heard the most disturbing and eerie noise. Something akin to the white noise from television but, wet almost. I immediately look up and search the area my eyes darting around to my left I see a shadowy figure. I couldn't quite figure out if it was real or just a hallucination. The man speaking with my parents immediately draws his attention to me and looks in the direction I am looking in he grabs my hand and starts walking quickly with me and my luggage in tow. Suddenly I can focus, I hear the man's melody and his alone. "We must go quickly!"

I didn't even look back to see my parents. I know I will never see them again and for some reason, this brings me a sense of real peace.