97

My cell is small. Far too small of a space for a person to live in for years. The glass window that covers one wall and the mirrored surface that takes up most of the space on the opposite side serve to make it seem larger, but I hate both of them- the glass and the mirror- for the same reason. They seem as though designed for the sole purpose of reminding me how I am different. How I am not like everyone else, and will never be.

In the years that I have stayed here, I have trained myself to look away from the mirrored wall. But, even then, it doesn't matter. I know what I'll see. Amber, cat-like eyes set into a face that is too narrow, too thin. Skin that has taken on a greyish color from years without sun. And then the scars- two perpendicular, surgically straight cuts down my back. I don't remember, but I think that I must have had wings, at some point. I don't know if I am happy or sad that are gone, it's just a fact; something that always lingers in the back of my mind.

I will see a girl who is not quite human, not quite animal. "Mutant," I sometimes hear the other scientists say as they pass through the brightly lit halls. Once, when I was younger, I asked Dr. Henry what that meant. He turned away, and only told me that I shouldn't listen to the things that people say about me.

Today, I wake up earlier than normal, though it's hard to tell without any windows. I sit on top of the bed for a while, thinking. After a while, a woman in a white coat comes and hands me food. Soup, a glass of water, and a handful of pills- the same as always. I eat, not because I want to, but because I have fallen into the same routine. Sleep. Wake up. Eat. Repeat. I have become a machine, my mind only a container of simple commands.

I set the empty bowl on the floor, then sit on my bed and wait. And wait, and wait. Finally, I hear footsteps from the hallway outside, and press my face to the glass, straining my eyes to see around the corner. After several agonizingly long seconds, the door opens.

"Good morning," the man, Doctor Henry, says, smiling.

"Good- morning." I say, slowly, carefully so as not to mess up the words. But it is not a 'good morning.' At least, I don't think so. Something is wrong. The way his smile doesn't reach his eyes, or how fake happiness drips from his voice. Despite what they may think, I am good at reading people.

Doctor Henry opens the bag that he carries with him, and pulls out a book, its cover tattered. I take it, hesitantly.

"How was 'Alice in Wonderland?'" His smile fades slightly.

I shrug. "It was... okay."

"Just okay?"

"It didn't make very much sense. Too many talking animals. And how did she fit through the rabbit-hole in the first place?"

He laughs. "You're too technical. I'm sure you'll enjoy this one, then." He taps the cover. "'A Wrinkle in Time.' It's a classic."

I can't tell whether or not he's being sarcastic, so I nod and do my best to smile back. Maybe I'm not as good as I think that I am with reading people.

"Thank you."

Those two words carry much more significance than they should. I am not referring to the one book, but everything that Dr. Henry has done for me. He was the one who taught me how to read- I wouldn't have learned otherwise. Under my bed, there are stacks of the books that he has given me. But apart from that, even, he does everything that he can to win us freedom and acceptance.

Not that it's working, exactly, but the fact that he tries has to count for something.

Dr. Henry turns around, and begins to exit.