I hated being a girl in this century. Especially when I wasn't the 'normal' sort of girl. I didn't particularly like boys. I really didn't like makeup. I hated the fact that there were so many things - even in that day and age - that were expected of women.
Even my twin sister was a 'normal' girl. She was more concerned about dresses than our favourite programmes and our lessons. One thing that was the same for my twin and I, though, was the secret that we shared that we could never tell anyone. If we told anyone, they would call us insane and lock us away in a mental asylum.
I hated being called freak because of not being interested in clothes. Especially when the real reason for me being a freak was worse.
My twin - Cordelia - and I never knew our father. We assumed that he had passed this 'gift' on to us, because, while our mother knew, she didn't possess any of the traits that came with it. We even had secret names that were part and parcel of having this 'gift'. Obviously, no one else knew them, seeing as they were secret.
See, my problem with - well - everything wasn't the fact that I was being called freak. I accepted that I was a freak, I already knew that. No, it was that they still called me that, despite not knowing the full reasons. And, naturally, that they didn't call my twin a freak when we were essentially the same.
I said were for a reason. Until one day, we had been pretty much the same, right down to the colour of the highlights in our hair. But then, one day, something set us apart. Something made me really obviously a separate person to my twin sister.
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