It began the way everything notable begins in history: something went wrong.

 

A woman became ill from an overdose of Harx 6 while working at the local factory. That was not out of the ordinary. What was is that she was pregnant. By law, she should have been sterile. Her name was Jennifer Smith.

 

In a damaged barn, she gave birth but only one person made it out of that makeshift maternity bed alive: Abo Smith. Me.

 

The mutant creature that I am was abandoned at the city’s orphanage. I deserved worse.

 

* * *

 

“Why are you blue? And squat and bald? And have four raisins for eyes?” Just more questions a school child asked me on the playground. This time, it was a girl.

 

“I don’t know," I said. “I just am.”

 

“Oh. Wanna play Norms and a Freak?”

 

Of course, I fell in love.

 

It was only when I counted to two thousand after I was pushed in a trash can by her friends that I realised playtime was over.

 

“Are you trash, Master Smith?”

 

“Excuse me, Sir?” I asked the teacher, Mr. Cane, who peered down at me.

 

“Hop out and I’ll tell you what you are.”

 

I struggled out of the trash as Mr Cane watched idly.

 

“Master Smith, walk with me. I’m sure in your tender years, you have learnt already the cruelty of this world. You carry with you its stink and stigma, which make you vulnerable to its slings and arrows… however outrageous.”

 

I nodded, hobbling around the playground, trying to keep up with his long stride.

 

“What you are, what every child is, is unfinished. You are a work in progress. You can grow. And like everyone else, ultimately, you make yourself into the final product.”

 

I frowned.

 

“Now wander off to the lavatory. You smell like you were born in that trash.”

 

* * *

 

Time passed as time does, and I found I was as academically brilliant as I was pretty. Life returned to its circle, and I ended up back at the factory that killed my mother and created me.

 

We would sift through the chemicals on the factory line. Because I was already affected, they told me that they wouldn’t waste a hazmat suit on me.

 

“What kind of a name is Abo?” asked Hazel, the woman that worked by my side. The voice came out muffled due to the suit, but one of the perks of being the type of freak that I am is better hearing.

 

“It’s short for something,” I said.

 

“What?”

 

“Abomination.”

 

“Ha. Cute. It suits you.”

 

And that was the start of our friendship. The hours would pass, the day would grow dark, and then we would go home.

 

I remember one of our conversations more vividly than the others:

 

“So, what do you like to do away from here?”

 

“I like to read.”

 

“Oh. Anything interesting?”

 

“Anything I can get from the library.”

 

“Sweet. I’ve been there a few times. I like to use the AI machines. Outside of that, do you ever hang out with anyone at all, like, you know, friends?”

 

I was quiet for a while, and then croaked, “Just you.”

 

“How come?”

 

“It may have escaped your notice, but I’m a little bit different from the others.”

 

“What, because you’re a mutant? We’re in the 23rd century, Abo, you can’t move without bumping into a mutant! My landlord's a mutant, heck, my hairdresser's a mutant! There’s nothing stopping you from getting out there.”

 

“I guess.”

 

She sighed, momentarily stopping her work. “But yeah, you are different. But who wants to be ordinary when you can be extraordinary!”

 

“You sound like a shampoo commercial.”

 

She laughed, “Sorry to bring up a sore subject.”

 

“Who’s to say my hair won’t grow back and I’m just keeping it like this to pull off a macho image?”

 

“Good point, muscle man.”

 

“NOISE LEVELS PAST OPTIMUM LEVEL.” The floor manager bot whined at the end of the room.

 

We carried on working for a while, and then I said, “I wish I were normal. But what I am hurts. And I can’t see myself escaping the dark.”

 

“Look, Abo.” Hazel said in a whisper, “I’m ordinary. I will slide out of these days like trash from a can. But you –”

 

“No, you won’t. I’ll remember you.”

 

“And I’ll remember you. You know why? Because you’re painfully extraordinary.”

 

“Now you sound like a doctor after revealing you’ve got an embarrassing disease.”

 

We laughed so loud that the Robot manager told us to leave without the day’s pay. I managed to work extra hard the following week and add it to Hazel’s wages. I worked harder to keep it secret.

 

* * *

 

The week after Hazel died from an influx of Harx 6, I attended her funeral. Because I wasn’t at work, they fired me. Good. The next place I worked, they used me for my cellular resilience to Harx 6. And that is why I am talking to you now, as you attend my hospice bed. Turns out you can have too much of a bad thing.

 

What wisdom can I sift from my wretched life to give to you, kind stranger?

As dark as life can be, the lights within it can guide you through. Every life is extraordinary. Every life is painful. Every life is painfully extraordinary.