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Social Misfit

20 Jul

Standing on the boundries, she watches as the children run by.  Yelling and screaming, laughing, skipping, throwing balls, trading stickers.  She has no place in their world, nor do they want her there. 

Do they consider her at all? 

She doesn’t understand them.  What makes them run, and jump, and play?  Do they not feel as detached from the world as she does?  Present, but not belonging, as if she has been abandoned on an alien planet.  Where did she come from really?

She looks at her fingers.  Strange objects attached to her hands.  How do they move?  How does she control them?  She watches as they wiggle back and forth.  She flexes them into a fist, then loose and spread apart.

Look at the lines on her hands.  Where did they come from?  What purpose do they serve?  She traces them with her fingers.  How is this body hers?  She does not feel a part of it.  She is inside of it, like a tight fitting suit, but she knows it really isn’t who she is.  She is inside somewhere.  That is where she feels her own presence.  Inside the body, but not a part of it.

One of the new children comes up to her, and asks her to join in their game.  “Red Rover,” they call it.  They tell her the rules.  It feels really strange to be holding the hands of the other children.  She doesn’t like it.  She wants to run and hide.  A child comes running over, and passes through.  She is the weak link in the chain.  She walks away.  She has failed them.  She wonders how this is fun for them.  She feels more out of place than before.  Returning to her wall, she watches them again.  She still does not understand.

The bell rings.  Lunch is over.  She lines up as she has been taught to do.  Silent and watchful.  With them, but not a part of them.  She knows she doesn’t belong.

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