The wind scatters the autumn leaves around her feet. Red, gold, and brown covering her rainbow laces. The stitches across her chest are sloppy but they will hold. Blood seeps around the edges with each breath. As she scuffs through the leaves blood drips amid the ground cover. The sky above is pewter, and snow begins to fall silently. Shrugging into her jacket even though doing so tugs painfully at the stitching, she turns and walks out, tears forming tiny icecles. Soon the only signs that she was ever in the woods are a set of half filled footprints and a bloody heart, the kind someone might carve in a tree..
Apparently, I dislocated my hip sometime this week. My joints pop fairly frequently so I didn’t even really notice that the first couple of days and this morning it’s back in place, of course, the day I was going to see the doctor. When I was a kid I used to tell people assumed I was fragile because of my disability, “I’m not a dozen eggs,” I just wanted to be treated like a normal kid so I’m sure I was a broken record. As much as I hate to admit it, normal 32-year-olds do not dislocate their hips simply by going to bed or getting up in the morning.I’m not a dozen eggs. My mind is sharp. I don’t have an eidetic memory but it’s pretty close. There is only one person I know who can clean the floor with me at Scrabble, everyone else is always playing catch-up. I remember people’s faces for years. I am tough and I am driven once I have decided to sink my teeth into something. I’ve been chasing normal my whole life, and belonging somewhere for almost the same amount of time. Here’s what I know. Normal is a fallacy I will never enjoy. Belonging is a construct that is tissue paper thin that can be torn apart in a blink. The only person I can trust is me.