"The survivors would envy the dead."
Nikita Khrushchev, Pravda, 20 July 1963
Prologue
I never expected the summer before my senior year to turn out the way it did. I never expected to lose my family, my home, my town. I never thought that Mr. Baker, our next door neighbour would try to eat me. I never thought my gerbil would go crazy.
But really, most of all, I never expected to fall down the stairs.
It sounds silly, right? Like it’s the most important thing floating through my mind. But believe it or not, it’s true. The time I was unconscious after being tossed down my flight of stairs is where everything changed.
How I didn’t die, I still don’t know. It kind of scares me knowing that I was a waiting buffet for about twenty-four hours and still, no one chose to come in and dine. It’s a good thing, I know. But it’s the equivalent to passing out in a downtown alley and waking up, perfectly fine. You weren’t kidnapped, weren’t hurt. Weird, right?
Maybe not; maybe you live in a safe town. But now, looking back, I realize that I should have guessed why I survived so much earlier. It was obvious, at least now I think it is.
I’m different.
And I don’t just mean I’m different because I dislike Ice Cream.