The Y-shaped scar on my forehead that I have no recollection of getting.
The ones on my throat and hand that I'm convinced are a physical manifestation of my nightmares.
My hair is so black it shines blue. I actually think it might just be blue but the darkest shade of blue possible.
My skin that is so white it's almost translucent, except for a beauty mark like Marylin Monroe above my lip and another that kind of looks like a pink wing on the inside of my left thigh.
Nobody saw that one today though.
Nobody has ever seen that one but me.
Then you toss in the fact that I'm relatively flat chested with minimal curves anywhere on top of my height—I'm five-foot-one on a good day—then yeah, I definitely look like something out of a Tolkien Book.
I'm not usually self-conscious but I tend to avoid people simply based on my appearance, mainly because I have no answers to most of their questions. Those questions are what make me sometimes self-conscious, and definitely a little nervous. Maybe it’s more nerves than anything else really.
Sure, there are the basics.
No, I don't wear contacts or dye my hair.
I've never bleached my skin, and wouldn't in a million years.
I'm a size two, thank you very much, not a double zero or some negative number and no, I do not shop in the children's section at most clothing stores.
But it's the deeper ones, the ones that lead to more meaningful answers that I can't handle.
I don't know what my heritage is; don't have a clue where my family came from.
I'm not sure if I was born this way or if my pigment is from something I was exposed to as a kid.
I have no clue if I have an autoimmune disorder or some other disease that makes my eyes weird or skin like porcelain.
That inevitably leads to even harder questions.
What was foster care like?
Didn't anyone adopt you?
Were you abused as a child?
Maybe malnourished or neglected?
Did your mother leave you that necklace? Where did the cogs come from? Is it a family heirloom?
So instead of welcoming all of that bullshit, I keep to myself, put my head down, and power through the best I can until I move on. I don't care what other people think of me but it's hard not to question yourself when you find a small town full of beautiful people, seemingly inside and out.
"Hey." Posey nudges my arm. "You ok, Gypsy?"
I blink several times and lift my gaze from the beer bottle I'm apparently stripping. "Yeah, sorry. What did you say?"
She smiles as she takes a drink. "I just asked what Alaska was like, but we don't have to talk if you don't want to."
"Sorry. I just… I have a tendency to get lost in my head."
"I hear that." She giggles and I can't help but do the same.
After I dropped to the floor during my interview, Posey was pretty worried about me so she followed me outside when I went to leave, asked me to get a beer with her before I went home, and for some stupid reason I agreed.
I know she's just trying to be nice to me, to make me feel welcome in a new town, put me at ease and help me relax in my new work environment, but this is how friendships start. A drink, a little chat, casual getting to know you stuff. Normal. Polite. All things someone my age should enjoy, embrace even, but I can't.
