St. Martin's Day (Second Draft)

PART 1 - WHAT I'M NOT

First off, let me get some things straight.

If you're wondering why I look the way I do, it's because I have the worst case of kyphosis my doctors have ever seen. It's not just one giant, gremlin-like curve. It's my entire vertebrae. They had to put steel rods in my spine for me to even have this decent enough posture to where, if I hide it enough, most don't notice. It's all over my back, and it's creeping into my shoulder blades and pelvis.

My name is Martin. I don't go by a last name... usually. My birthday is St. Martin's Day, November 11th, and if you know, you know. I'm 24, 5' 8'', and have light brown hair and grey eyes. I have all sorts of breathing and walking problems, and it's only getting worse with age. My left one is far-sighted, but I'll be dead in the ground before I get glasses. I will admit that I'm not exactly in the best shape of my life, but considering everything else in mind, I'm okay with that. But it's definitely not good for my asthma since my lungs have this chaotic time of finding where they actually have room to expand when I breathe.

To tell you the truth, I really am that ugly - physically. Nothing about me is that attractive - spider web face, jumbled teeth (with braces), and forever disheveled hair. Shirts fail to cover my hump, which is why I grew my hair out to hide it. Yes, I've bumped it on door frames before. I've wondered, out of all of this, why my one-eyed vision is so spectacular. I would rather not look in the mirror every day and see what I look like - I would be much happier completely blind.

But I don't exactly hate myself. I brood, I complain like how I devolved into right now, but I don't hate myself - because I know my worth. This is my life and my only life; there will only ever be one me and one life story of me. I always have a little joy inside of me when I'm zoned out enough on the open road. I enjoy things that aren't food. I'm independent. I have my own way of living that's sufficient enough to not bother nor be bothered by anyone. Plus, spite to outlive those who have ever wished death or evil onto me.

Oh... I'm avoiding the obvious, aren't I?

I hate Victor Hugo's novel. It puts a permanent stereotype onto me. I'm not even one bit French. Yeah, like I'm going to kill myself over a girl. Or hallucinate gargoyles as my only friends. Or be tout around downtown like a circus freak. Or sing about how love sucks. Or work in a hotel for monsters. Or, or... you know. You must know. You know?

Anyways... onto my backstory.

My parents. They put me up for adoption when I was 12 years old because of how much I was becoming a burden on them financially - and socially. There's a sob story they told people, but I know the truth. They were expecting another child around that time, too, so out there... there's a boy or girl who shares my genes. Because of all that, I never really had a real guardian or place to live. I was mostly hanging around my town's YMCA and met people through there. They had to take me - if it got out they rejected the disabled hunchy boy, it'd hurt their reputation - and their donations.

So, what happened to my face I hear you thinking? The same reason why Jeremy is dead. There was a huge event going on at his house for some stunt and I just happened to be there and people didn't know why - why I was there, that is. So... I was beaten up, bleach got involved somehow in the stunt (how am I supposed to know where it came from?), and it ended up landing onto my face and the guys rubbed it into my eye for extra points. Jeremy's death? The stunt involved being on your rooftop and his house was 3 stories high. Jumped and missed the trampoline. Afterwards, it took forever to find an adult to represent me and pay for my medical crap in the hospital, I don't remember the lady's name. My world became flat and that's when I started hiding half my face under a mullet.

When I turned 18, I did acquire a hefty inheritance from my biological family - it was required by law - that lets me live on my own comfortably. I refuse to live off of disability by the system. I find it embarrassing. I don't need to be reminded of my limitations and self-pity all the time. At least, if I do begin to wallow in self-pity, I try not to pay attention to it. However, it's inevitable. I'm a man, but even we have our moments.

Being alone is my whole being. To be honest, it's not fun, and I just wish... someone would be around. No one ever has been without being obligated by either the law or by pity.

If anyone is going to actually love me, though, this is why it has to be myself. The only person who has ever cared to be there for me... is me.

I call the shots.