I found out I was different when I was fifteen.  I’d stolen my Uncles motorcycle.  I had this grand plan of riding it out to California, starting a new life like my dad had.

I didn’t get five miles from the house.  The tires hit a wet spot on the pavement.  We were floating, then I was flying.  Then the pavement hit.  I rolled, and rolled, and rolled.

When I finally came to a stop I lay there stunned.  Waiting for the pain.

It never came.  Looking down at my body I saw a mess of tattered clothing.  No blood.  No bruises, or torn flesh.

I remember walking home in a daize.The sound of the screen door slamming open, as my uncle and his purple faced rage stepped out of the trailer.  How he quickly paled and tripped back inside after taking in the sight of me.

The cold steel shackles that the police placed around my wrists, ankles, throat.

The cell they put me in.

So much like my mothers.

In this world you don’t want to be different.  In this world, different is a death sentence.