My name is Steven

My name is Steven. I’m fifteen, and I’ve already been labeled as ‘potentially’ dangerous in most government databases. I’m more than your average fifteen year-old. I have to deal with things that most people can’t imagine. I’m writing this because it’s wrong, and I know it. To some degree, so do you. And yet you sit there, comfy at home, reading these words and not truly taking in a word of it.

But then again, you never know. You may be experiencing exactly what I am. You may be judged every moment of every day, you may be excluded, hated, feared because of something you can’t control. Not because of who you are, but because of what you are.

My name is Steven. I’m fifteen, and I have wings.

I stand at five feet tenish inches, have brown hair, green eyes (most of the time), a fourteen foot wingspan, and golden feathers to cover it. My body is… different, which makes it difficult to describe myself sometimes, at least to people unlike myself. My body is made… better than the average humans. My bones, muscles, organs, etc are super light, but in no way fragile. My bones are just as strong, if not stronger, than anybody else’s. My muscles are smaller, but they pack just as much punch. My body is… nimble.

There are others like me. Not people with wings, though there are some of those, but people who’re different. We weren’t created in a lab by mad scientists, and no radioactive substances were used. We just… are. When children were born with genetic anomalies, people began to freak out. What should we do with them? What if they’re dangerous? What if they’re too different?

For a while there were riots, people marching through the streets calling upon people to kill the demons. Some people fought for us, some against us. It was a scary time. Luckily, I wasn’t born yet. I was born into a world that’s… had some time to adjust. Some people stick to the old ideas, the kind that get people killed. The world’s messed up, but I’ve got to live with it. It’s the only one I’ve got.

I am required to, at all times, carry a special card. Should one of the authorities ask for it, I must present it or be… detained. It tells them everything about me. Well, everything they care about. Age, address, abilities, etc.

They say it’s for ‘public safety’. They’re afraid of what I might do. What we might do. But, does that justify treating us differently? We’re capable of more, but does that mean we have to be contained? We have more potential, but should the choice to use it not be ours?

I don’t know.

But I do know one thing.

This is my life.

And I’m not getting out of it alive.