Purple Skin

How different do you feel? How out of place are you? Allow me to tell you my story. Let’s see who claims victory.

My name is George. At least, that is what my mother calls me. My friends don’t call me that. That is because I have no friends.

No one talks to me. In class, the teacher praises my skill. She tells me how brilliant I am and smiles with pride. When I sit, the whispers change my shy happiness to dampened tears.

I don’t have any friends. I had a cat once. He followed me to school and tried to eat my breakfast. I gave him some. I think my classmates tried to feed him too. I think that was the last time I saw him.

My name is George but the school gate man calls me purple face. Because of my hat and my purple skin. I used to think it was a temporal thing. The name never left. Neither did the color.

My mother never talks about my father. She says he left a long time ago. That he once worked in the village mine. And that one day, he quit to travel the world. Sometimes, in my dream, I see his face in a white shirt.

What my mother doesn’t know is that there are no whispers. There is no gateman and my teachers don’t love me.

What my mother doesn’t know is the my classmates have never hurt me. That the wounds I have come naturally. That they tried but found out that they could not come to.

What my mother doesn’t know is that I knew when my cat left because he told me he had to leave. And that when I shiver at night, it’s the other me I see. The me from a time to come.

My name George here and I have a purple skin.
Where I come from, water is our currency.

And I know where my father is.

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