Different Colors

Prologue

Prologue

Illinois, USA

Some people are different than others. Some people are born with blue eyes, some are born with brown eyes. They are something you are born with, not something that you choose. I've, for a long time, seen stereotypical judgments made upon people based on loosely-made accusations of these types, like seeing a Muslim woman and thinking she's the wife of a terrorist, or seeing a Chinese person and thinking that they had academically abusive families growing up.

Being disabled has turned me into something completely different. It's turned me into someone who wasn't born with my stereotype. It was instead cursed upon me due to a complication imposed by my father- cursed so fast on myself that I don't even know how to begin to describe the difference it has made in my life. It has killed me.

I'm sixteen, and I have never really been much outside of my own house before. I was homeschooled all the way up until now, I always have done exactly as my parents have told me to do, and that's just that. There's no question about it that my life has been nothing but me living a "good boy Christian life" in my small house in my small town in a small minded family.

"Did you finish your breakfast, Marcus?" My mother asks, holding her plate of unfinished scrambled eggs in her hand. My wheelchair sits next to our dining room table; and very sadly at that. I look down at my cereal, hoping that the staleness of the Lucky Charms pieces will go back to how they were when they came out of the box. My brother, Lee, sitting next to me, is eating an omelette, and my dad, good grief, is drinking a beer and eating three eggs that my mother, the only "chef" in the house, cooked.

I never understood why my mother is the only one who cooks, I mean, I would cook if I had been given the opportunity to. I think it's fun to watch her crack eggs, stir, and lick the spoon from time to time (usually in the event of making cookies.) I guess my dad and my brother both agree on the fact that the woman of the house is the one who cooks the food, and the men of the house are her masters that she is grateful to, for somehow "providing her nourishment and masculine protection against harm."

"Yeah, I finish." I said to my mother. My speech, as you can already tell, is horrible. I usually end up saying words incorrectly, or not even speaking at all. It's not that I'm crazy; the English I speak in my head is near perfect, and that's how I'm talking to you right now. When I speak, I sound like a three year old. I can't help it. My opinions are in my head, but I don't know how to express them out loud. Everyone, at least from what I've seen, thinks I'm a "speddo" kid, and that's why I've been homeschooled all my life.

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"What the hell are we going to do with it, Ann? We can't afford another.

"Troy, listen to me, we both know that you are just as much of a parent to him as I am. We have to figure out what to do through God."

This was the conversations my parents had before I was born.

My parents are very Conservative. They've always been cheap and simple, which led to some bad choices which led to a bad son.

My parent's combined total income is around $30,000 per year together, almost a fourth of which goes to Lee. They thought they couldn't afford me, or so they thought. They're stuck with me now.

And I'm stuck with this.

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"Very very safe. Guarantee you. You won't feel a thing."

I bring you to the first place in the story. Trinity Village. The name sounds great, right? In Trinity Village lived a man named Derick Shoemaker. He operated a "Christian at-his-home outpatient clinic." This basically was an unlicensed medical clinic that operated on Christian men and women who didn't want to visit a normal physician for religious or financial reasons.

"It needs to be done soon."

"I promise you. It will only take a few minutes and you will be free to go. You may feel a little bit of pressure or a squeezing feeling, but that is normal."

"Whatever you say, doctor."

As he slowly worked the clothes hanger into my mother's womb, I guess I was just a two week old cell living inside of my mother at the time. He poked around and jabbed at me while my mother cursed under her breath quietly. Blood covered her bed sheets underneath her. My father held a towel under her as my mother screamed louder, and louder, and louder until the doctor slapped her in the face.

"Shut up!"

And as he slapped her, she fell off of the bed and onto the floor. My mother began to puke out blood, and held a towel under her gown as she walked out to the car. She slammed a $100 bill onto the wooden side table next to the door, and grabbed my father's hand as she closed her eyes, screeching in pain with every step towards her car. With her clothes in one hand, she slowly got into the car, still naked under her gown. And they drove home.

And that's how "me" was started.