What's it like? Being Different

Prologue

I only found out when I was ten. I was very surprised. I wasn't even aware that their were people like me out there. And even if I had known, I would never have dreamed that I was one of them.

I think that the only reason I ever found out was because I have an odd habit of clicking. I do it all the time. Even now. I don't know why, but I just love the feeling of snapping my fingers to create that high pitch sound. Sometimes I do it softly, so all you can hear is the friction between my finger and thumb. It keeps me calm. But if it wasn't for this weird habit, I may never have found out.

I was in boarding school when it happened. We had been stuck inside all day, for the weather was stormy, but I really wanted to go outside.

It was the same day that she came, actually. I remember when she first came into the classroom. She looked very nervous. She was hiding behind her mousy brown locks of hair, her arms hugging her body as if she wanted to protect herself. She seemed a rather unassuming person.

After I left boarding school, I completely forgot about her, until something unusual triggered a memory of her. To be honest, the only reason I remembered her because of one incident in our class. We were in art class, cutting out pictures to stick in a collage. She was cutting a particularly tricky picture, and her hand slipped and cut her finger. I remember the blood start to trickle slowly down her finger. It was quite deep. However, she never made a sound, not even as she made the first incision. She simply closed her forefinger and thumb around the cut and held it their for five seconds. When she let go, all that was left was a small scab.

But I'm not here to talk about her.

At least not yet.

The first time I experienced it was in the evening. The weather had cleared up, and the sun was poking up out of the clouds. I was thinking how lovely it would be to go outside for a few minutes. The storm had been going on for a few days, and we hadn't been allowed outside for PE, and since we had "Wet Break", we hadn't gone outside for lunch either.

I was walking back to my dorm from the common room. My friends had been feeling tired, so they had gone on ahead, and I was alone. The only sound was the snapping of my fingers as I clicked them subconsciously to an unknown beat in my head. I remember gazing out of the window as I passed, admiring the expansive gardens that the boarding school owned.

There was a particular tree in the centre which caught my eye. It was an old oak, hundreds of years old, stretching high above the other shrubbery. It was a majestic centre piece, one that you could draw comfort from, and I did, every time I passed this window.

Now, the leaves glistened in the sunlight, the water droplets from the rain reflecting the light. The rusted bench that sat beneath it was dry, protected from the wet by the cover of nature.

I smiled, wistfully, and thought to myself: I wish I could be sitting on that bench right now, soaking up the fresh air.

Then it happened.

The world darkened around me, and the sound of laughter drifting down from the dorms faded slowly. For a few seconds, I could not see a thing. It was eerily silent, and when I reached out to try and touch something to orientate myself, I touched nothing but emptiness. However, I started to feel a small breeze brush across my face, and my world began to brighten.

My vision began to focus, and I saw a bed of flowers encased by a small hedge, no bigger than one foot high, in front of me. I felt a cold sensation on my bottom, and when I shifted, I realized that I was sitting on something hard: metal.

I bolted upright and turned around. The trunk of the large oak tree towered in front of me, rising into the sky. I could see the deep callouses of the bark, the rich brown substance scarred in places where people had carved letters into it.

I had never been this close to the tree, for this garden was always closed, as it was private, but I saw it every time I passed by the window between the dorms and the main building.

In a trance, I stepped forward and traced the indentations with my fingers, awed by the magnificence of it. Then reality came crashing in from above, and I jumped back, startled.

What was going on?

I tried to recall what I had done to get myself hear. I had imagined this place, and then I had wished myself here, right? I glanced at my watch, knowing curfew was coming soon, and I had to be in bed by then.

Closing my eyes, I wished to be back at the dorms. I waited a few seconds before opening my eyes.

Nothing happened.

I tried it again.

It didn't work.

I closed my eyes tightly, and wished again, and again, and again.

It still didn't work.

I stamped my foot in frustration, and let out a strangled noise: I was going to be stuck here for a while.

I curled up on the bench, trying to make myself comfortable. I really hoped I wouldn't be here all night.

* * *

I woke up a few hours later with a crick in my neck. I shifted, and began to click my fingers in an attempt to keep my fingers warm.

My warm, soft, comfortable bed would be nice about now. I wish I was there.

* * *

The next morning, I woke up to the sunlight streaming in through the curtains. My back felt a bit stiff, so I stretched and my hands hit the wood at the head of the bed.

Bed.

I sat up with a start. The sight of girls snuggled under their duvets, clutching teddies greeted me. A couple of the girls were snoring softly.

I blinked twice.

Wow.