I have congenital insensitivity to pain. In layman's terms, that means I don't hurt. I don't notice when my knees bleed, when my toes break, when my shoulders dislocate. Unlike other kids, I never cried to my parents after a fall, whimpered over the sting of hydrogen peroxide, or felt the relief of a mother's kiss.

I am, in short, invincible. Now, maybe invincible isn't the best word, since I still get injured, but is the word my counselor gave me. Invincible. She says it empowers me, makes my sickness not so sick. Invincible. I am a real-life superhero. I just have to watch where I step.

I've never been normal. I mean, who could be? Once the kids at school found out, they delighted in games of torture, all the worse because I couldn't feel them. I fractured my arm running from them, searching for escape, seeking to dodge the pokes and punches. I lay on the pavement, feeling my arm bend in an unnatural way, and looked at the sky, wondering why it had to be me.

I don't remember the last time I cried. People say crying is a natural part of life, that it's a reaction to things that make us sad, give us hurt, create pain. I do not cry. I have no pain. Invincible.

I like to say it's because of my illness that I have become withdrawn. I like to say that it is not my fault I fail socially. I like to say these things, and no one dare oppose me. I am sick. Who will argue with the infirm?

Almost the whole of my right pinkie is missing. I don't miss it much. I can, however, remember that day vividly. I was seven, heading to the zoo, done up in my padded (just so, so the bulges in the fabric weren't so noticeable) clothing, sliding myself into the backseat of our car.

Apparently my hand got caught in the door. I say apparently, not because I didn't see it, but because my eyes are the only thing that tell me so. That day, I did not see my pinkie rolling out behind us. I did not feel the blood begin to flow from the stump. I was alerted only by the red gush that flowed down my hand, drowning the seat. I stared at it dumbly, mutely, watching in horrified fascination when others would have screamed.

I was rushed to the hospital, put under, and my hand bandaged. We didn't know where the rest of my finger was, and the doctors said there was nothing they could do. We never made it to the zoo.

I am seventeen. I still wear padded clothing. My mother forces me to take a helmet to school, which I ditch every morning before class. I don't hurt. I am invincible.

I woke up this morning, rolling to hit my alarm clock, groaning at the ache I would have felt if I could. I dressed, smoothing out my bulges, fixing my hair in the mirror, making sure my makeup was done right. I am still a teenager, no matter my affliction. With a last swab of lip gloss and a final check, I left my room, stomping noisily down the stairs, calling out to my mother.

"Gooood-morning sunshine!" I like to say I am happy. My mother turned to face me from the kitchen, a pan of bacon cooking on the stove, a few strands of hair slicked to her forehead.

"Good-morning sweetie," she replied, gesturing towards the meat, "bacon?"

"Like always mom." I plopped down at the table, where my dad was already seated, hiding behind his daily stocks.

"Morning dad," I said, pulling his paper down so that I could see him.

"Morning kid," he jerked the paper away, burying his nose in the NASDAQ. I didn't mind, my dad was always gruff, I still loved him.

"Breakfast is ready," my mother sang, dumping the bacon into a tortilla, where eggs and salsa already waited. She rolled it, bringing it to the table and setting it in front of me.

"Careful, it's hot," she warned, only half-jokingly. My heat and cold senses were often off, and I had burned myself quite a few times- much to the dismay of my mother, not necessarily me.

I grabbed the burrito and bit into it hungrily, savoring the taste I could taste. If there was one thing in life I loved, it was flavor. The assault on my tastebuds almost made up for my disease. Almost. Eating was the one thing I could do like everyone else, if my food wasn't too hot or cold, that is, or needed to be chewed an extraordinary amount. Food was my vice, my delicacy, my foray into the natural. And I loved it.

I let the salsa spill over my tongue, felt the texture of the eggs roll in my mouth, heard the crunch of the bacon as my teeth did their job. Utterly delicious.

I finished my breakfast with no further ado and pushed myself away from the table, rising to give my mom a kiss goodbye.

"Have a good day, honey," she said, reaching onto her tiptoes to peck my forehead.

"I will, see you after school." I turned toward the door, grabbing my bag, hoping to make it out before she remembered.

"Oh, honey?"

I stopped short, "yes, mom?"

"Don't forget your friend."

She calls my helmet my friend. I sighed, picked it up, strapped it onto my chin, feeling stupid even in my own home.

"You look so cute, honey."

"Tight," I opened the front door, hoping no one was watching, wishing my hair would stay perfect. It never did. I made it out to my car in record time, my feet pounding on the pavement, my bag bouncing on one shoulder.

School is a nightmare. Even now, in 12th grade, with the days of dodgeball long behind, I am still alone, still known as "that girl." the pokes have stopped, but the looks that replaced them are far worse.

It is all a blur these days, the hurried walking, the effort to get to class on time. It all gets lost as I wander in my mind, dreaming of a different life, a normal life.

Before I know it, school is over, and I am heading home, ready to spend another day on the couch, reading, watching tv, sleeping, before my mother blesses me with another of her dinners.

I unlocked the door to the house with my key, poking my head inside, before stepping through. My parents weren't home. I wondered briefly where they were before closing the door behind me and heading for the couch. I grabbed my book on the way, a mystery, my favorite.

I love to read. It's awfully hard to injure yourself on a book. I flopped on the couch, opening to my bookmark, and began my journey.

It was two hours later before I looked up at the clock, feeling uneasy in my silent house. Where were my parents?

A half hour later, I called my mom's cell phone. No answer. I stayed calm. After all, it was only five.

By seven my breathing had quickened, my book lay forgotten on the table. My parents had never stayed out this late. Where were they? My stomach grumbled hungrily, but I ignored it, in the firm belief that dinner would arrive soon.

At seven fourteen the phone rang. I grabbed it mid-ring, pressing it hastily to my ear.

"Mom?"

"It's Auntie Lissa."

"Oh. hi. How are you?"

"Listen, I have some news." her voice was slow, dull, and I felt myself tense up. Something was wrong.

"What kind of news?" I stayed casual.

"Your mom-"

"Where is she?"

"Your dad-"

"And him?"

"They- there-" her voice broke, and for the first time, I noticed sobbing in the background.

"Auntie Lissa?"

"There...was...accident."

"Accident?"

"Mom...dad..."

I could barely make out the words, but I knew what she was saying, "oh."

"We're sending...get you..."

"No, it's ok, i'm fine."

"No-"

"Thank you for telling me, Auntie Lissa. Goodbye."

I hung up the phone, and felt- nothing. I willed myself to have an emotion. Something, somewhere. Some kind of recognition of my loss. Nothing.

I tried harder. All I could manage was a blank stare at the wall. I focused, my hands shaking, every ounce in my body working to feel. Nothing. Invincible.

I could not feel.

I screamed. My throat did not burn. I launched myself at the wall I had stared at, feeling my body thud against the plaster. It did not hurt. I screamed again, tearing with my hands against the drywall, urging myself, for once, to understand. The streaks of blood were my only memoir, as my nails ripped and my hands scrabbled.

It was then that I realized I was padded. In a second, I knew. It was the padding that had stopped me, that had stolen from me my parent's death. I tore it off, not bothering with buttons or zippers, feeling my surety grow as my clothes came off. At last I stood before the wall, naked, proud, certain.

I threw myself against it once again, with all my might, hearing a crunch as my head rebounded. Nothing. I growled, moving forward with determination, knowing I was right. I had to be right.

This time I backed up fully before rushing toward the wall, arms straight out, ready, at last, to feel.

My arm bent as I crashed into it. I moved backward, looking at it as it hung limply, dismissing it.

I moved again.

Again.

Again.

There was more blood on the wall. I guess it came from my face, as I frantically pounded it. This was my last effort. My last testimony.

At last I hit the wall and fell to the floor, spitting out a tooth. Invincible.

I whirled to the tv. To the entertainment center, covered with glass doors. I would show that nothing. I was not nothing. I was strong. I was willing. I was- above all- vincible. Vulnerable.

I screamed, my voice giving out as my vocal chords broke. I ran for those glass doors, feeling my body move freely, without my safety net.

The sound of breaking glass was music to my ears as I hit it headfirst. It shattered, pieces flying everywhere, cutting me, slicing through my skin, falling beneath my dancing feet. I bled.

And then. Suddenly. There was a-a-tightening of the stomach. A sick, rotten feeling, rising up within me. A sickness boding in my body.

My parents were dead. And I knew it.

My legs gave way and I dropped to the floor, hearing the shards breaking beneath me. They were gone. Forever. Dead.

I cried. I took a deep breath and opened my mouth and cried. It felt as if a damn were bursting inside of me, and at last, I was free. My body rocked back and forth, keeping rhythm with my panting, moving to my will.

I cried.

And I sat there, watching the blood stream from my body, feeling the tears run hot down my face, and I smiled, for at last, at last. I. Knew. Pain.