Oct 19
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Friday. Everyone’s favorite day of the week, right? Not for me. Fridays are the worst. Actually, every day is the worst. Besides during the extremely horrid snowy winters, when I don’t have to come outside. When I don’t come outside, they don’t see me. The moment the three-inches of snow that sits on all the front lawns of homes of our little town in Maine starts to melt, the moment anyone is able to walk out to the dock at the end of the street and dip their feet in the water without getting their toes nearly frozen off, the moment anyone is able to step outside, they see me. They scream. Little kids, as I walk down the street just to get a scoop of ice cream, crying, clinging onto their mother’s legs, cramming their tiny faces into their father’s stomachs. Teenagers, running inside, pretending their mothers called them for dinner. Men, shopping for a gift for their wife, then dashing outside and hopping in their cars, speeding away as fast as they can as soon as I walk into any jewelry shop, desperately trying to find an affordable birthday gift for my sister from a shop that won’t immediately say they’re closed as they see me standing in the doorway. Anything to get away from me. Me, the alien girl. The scariest “creature” in town. Sometimes on Sundays, while nearly everyone in my town is at church, I go outside and walk downtown, pretending that I am a normal teenage girl who loves boys and makeup. As soon as the church bells ring, dismissing the 11:15 mass crowd, I have to quickly return back to being the girl with Hutchinson-Gilford Progeria Syndrome, or as they call it, “alien head disease”. I have to return back to being the scary monster who lives at the end of the street, trying my best to hide away for most of the day so I don’t have to see them. Or more specifically, so they don’t have to see me. I recently stopped going to school because I was tired of being told “go back to your planet” or “I hope your spaceship is on its way to pick you up” about 45 times a day. Not a week. A day. Most of the time, I would pretend I didn’t care. All the teachers would always tell me, “you are so strong” or “don’t listen to them”, but they stopped being fooled when they started finding me sobbing on the bathroom floor of the bathroom in between every period. All I ever wanted was a friend. Someone I could talk to, someone who actually didn’t think I was a “freak”. Yeah, my syndrome makes me have an abnormally large head, but that doesn’t make me have different qualities from every other eighth grader here. That doesn’t mean I don’t have feelings. I know I will never be “normal” or “pretty”. I know that people are always going to stare and wonder what is up with all the veins popping out of my head or why my face is so weirdly shaped. I just wish, at least once, I had someone that I could go out with and they wouldn’t be ashamed or embarrassed of me. Someone whose house I could go over to and they would treat me like any other friend. But no one will ever understand me. I will always be the alien girl, the freak, the monster. I will never be referred to as a teenage girl. I am a creature, and I will always be a creature.
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About the Author: brose
Bryce Rose
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