"Socially outcast, crying when nobody's looking, and shaded in black-and-white. So goes the poorly pathetic life of Diana Melville." says Marissa, leaning towards me as I pass her in the hallway, and flipping her perfect caramel-brown wavy hair back to her friends, with a half-smile.
I'd probably feel much more broken-down inside if her description of my life wasn't so accurately put.
I come from a family of wealthy scientists in the field of genetics, whose life works consist of efforts towards healthier anti-aging and beauty formulas, and safer, cleaner plastic surgery. Ironic how their field should be so unkind to their daughter. I'm not ugly, but I'm certainly not beautiful when placed near the cliques who so often antagonize me. It's like placing a sparrow next to a dove, a dandelion next to a rose. It hurts. It would be pretense to act like I'm unaffected, and integrity is all that I have. Yet I still crave the day when my assets, however miniscule they might be, will be recognized. Of course, I have intelligence too, which I have had no trouble making known, but it seems to be absolutely worthless in the prospect of getting people to like you. I want to be more than just that scientist who did that thing that saved people and who was then forgotten.
Despite this vow that I made to myself, I still delved into the realms of genetics, but in such a way contrary to my family's focus. I put myself into something whose mark wouldn't go away, figuratively or literally. Its influence, as cliche as it sounds, was revolutionary. But what's the end product without a story?
