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What Is Abnormality In A Short Story

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Abnormality. The word in itself seems to resemble sin. Chaos. Hatred. I am a secret. A fish that never feels what it is like to swim in the water, or a sunflower that never gets to take in a ray. Since I can remember, I’ve been a mistake. Vinn, my older brother, had been calling me “Lefty Lydia” from the day my parents explained to him why society despised me so much, to now. Get it? Because I’m just not right? Yeah, I didn’t find it very funny either. To make a long story short, this damned world wants nothing more than a bunch of copycats. A ton of personalities put on mute, trying to be “normal” or “perfect”. My father tells me what he remembers from the day everything changed. “No one really recalls that day”, he says, “That’s the way they wanted it”. He tells me that he remembers a giant bang. Behind the ringing in his ears were sounds of terror. Screaming, running, crying. And that was it. Next thing he remembers was being here, in Suttford, surrounded by people wearing the same exact clothes, having every hair cut and styled the same, and seeing them all owning the same befuddled look on their faces as he had. “The Enforcers,” he called them, the name seemingly bitter as it left his mouth, “told us exactly how to be. They explained that anyone who is not ‘normal’ or does not fit into their perfect society, will be terminated.” The Enforcers had advanced technology that allowed them to make this so-called perfect society possible. Their team of “Creators” were responsible for making sure every reproduction was the way they wanted. This meant a naturally fit-looking body, brunette hair, and deep brown eyes. For years this strategy worked flawlessly. Until I came along. My parents had been down the reproduction road once before with Vinn, and now they decided they’d try it a second time around. They went through the required processes, and did everything they were supposed to. However, it was not enough. What they had planned to be perfect came out to be… well, not. The world around me has lead me to believe none other than the fact that my blonde haired, blue eyed self, is imperfect. But what does that word really mean? In all the time I’ve spent locked up in this room, away from windows and the

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