I’ve never been normal.

I’ve always been different.

But it was never a problem before.

Everyone loved me, respected me,

Loved me.

Then, someone came and told them that it’s not ok to be different. It’s strange, it’s deranged,

It’s sinful.

They laugh it off, but the chuckles are all uneasy, all fearful. What if it really is a sin? Will this “God” forbid us to enter the gates when we pass on because of her? Because of them?

But in time, he was forgotten.

Then someone else came up the dusty road to our little town, toting a big, thick bible. And I was the walking sin once again. We were older then. We knew it wasn’t a sin to be different.

But the seed of doubt was sown.

The elders still believed in me, they knew I wasn’t some black hole sucking the world down into inescapable darkness. But those who were my age had forgotten that I played with them when we were all children. They began to shrink away and seek the light of that heavy text.

My name was Abigail. Now I am simply the girl who speaks to those unseen.

I am not normal.

I am different.

And it’s a problem.