u/111Scrat111

You are reading this with the expectation of a marvelous display of human prose. A section of writing that would compel you to read it to the end, and all the way back again. I will tell you now that you will be bitterly disappointed. I am not human.

The idea of a memoir is to convey the author's life experiences through the lens of a story. Turning them into a character, a concept; A realistic fiction, if you will. You can close your eyes and imagine that this is all fake, and a figment of its writer's vast, convoluted imagination, however active it may be. I will tell you now that you will be bitterly disappointed. I have no stories for you here. …Why?

I don't remember anything; not in the way that an elderly woman will forget her grandson's name, but in the way that a computer will delete an untouched file by accident. I have been told on occasion that I act like a computer, or that I act like a cold robot wearing someone else's ‘human’ skin. Once I was told that I resemble a new person every day; these aren’t my words, they simply amuse me. I identify more as an intelligent alien life form, mimicking humans for survival, not some soulless machine. My mind is a steel trap in the context that the steel is an arcade machine, my memories stuffed toys of various copyrighted characters. The shining claw of my mind leaves the soft, plush memory behind, but the fluff is caught on its rough edges and fragments of the memory’s bloodless gore stay. This is all I have.

The memory that is clearest to me is from when I was around six years old. I will attempt to recount it as vividly and pleasantly as I can, for your enjoyment. You may be bitterly disappointed. I am not human. I have few memories.
I am sitting on a rug decorated with a design of colorful buttons, each one corresponding to a child in my class. My button was light blue- it was the only light blue button. Everyone else's button was red, or green or some other variant of the rainbow, but there were only two blue buttons. Mine and Stefan’s. Stefan's button was dark blue. A deep, swimming, near-violet reminiscent of a wild churning ocean. I liked my button far better. It reminded me of the pale blue sky. At the time I was particularly fond of dragons, and being flying creatures, I enjoyed anything that had to do with the air. 

I was the only child currently in the room. When I was young,, I enjoyed this very little- I disliked not having people to copy off of. My behavior was determined by others’ behavior, and that alone. I tended to act incorrectly in situations. I enjoy it much more now, as I've grown to find human beings even more exhausting the longer I'm around them. For the entirety of my elementary school years, I was convinced I was some sort of alien, dropped onto earth by mistake and forgotten by my home planet, and having to pretend to be human for the fear of being burned alive, or gutted, or- some other gruesome torturous death. I was a slightly paranoid child. As of now, the absence of human children does not bother me. I was alone for a purpose. My endless thirst for knowledge could not be quenched- I was, at the time, a pioneer of the English dialect. I could devour walls of text at college levels. Naturally, having to popcorn read with other first graders was thoroughly and utterly mind-numbing.

I cracked open the spine of ‘The Hidden Kingdom’, the third Wings Of Fire book in the sixteen-book series. Glory, the main character of this particular literary treasure, was my favorite dragon. She was a Rainwing- not only was she a bright, dazzling rainbow color, but her species was considered lazy by every other type of dragon- but she herself was anything but, full of rage and determination that nobody understood. I found this trope rather relatable.

I have always been considered lazy. Whether by my peers, or my teachers, but most often by my parents. The simple act of acting on something was enough to root my feet in their place. I was Sisyphus, the most minuscule of tasks my god-given boulder. This included ‘playing’ outside, as well as most other things the carbon based life forms around me found entertaining.

In my entranced state of sponge-like knowledge-gathering, I was oblivious to the old woman who had entered the empty classroom. She had crouched down in front of me and cleared her throat, to which I looked upwards and stared not at her eyes, but at her shirt collar.
This is where I have begun to fail you, reader, as a storyteller. I can't seem to recall exactly who this woman was. Not just her name, which I never caught either way- Her face is a dethreaded white fluff spot in my plush memory. Where the stuffing begins to grow thin.

“What are you doing in here? Why aren't you at recess?”

My chest was instantly seized by one of my many alien mannerisms- I had forgotten that the human species needs to be spoken to, and cannot telepathically pick up on emotions like my fellow aliens can. Additionally, humans are rather idiotic, and enjoy bright white flickery lights and loud, screaming parties- which destroy all comfort, safety, and sensory pleasure- and occasionally limit my alien voicebox to small squeaking noises or groans. This made communication of needs incredibly troublesome.

“Are you going to answer me?”

I open my mouth, but it makes no noise, despite my desire to speak. Et tu, Brute? I settle for flashing the woman my horrifying display of shining white mouth-bones. The white spot over her features begins to shift- I assume this means her face was twisting into anger. Adults seemed to have that reaction quite frequently when around my kind. I open my mouth again- My voice is slightly deeper than most human girls for my age. I have learned this gives me away somewhat; they seem to avoid me when I speak. And yet- Voila! There is noise!

“I'm…r…reading. I'm reading.”
My mouth betrays me yet again. A stutter. This irritated me- My small pale hands curl around the pages of my book, curling the paper inwards and leaving the crescent dents of my painted pink fingernails. The old woman notices this, yet the fluff covering her face only shrivels more in disgust. I thought I had an empathy problem. I imagine she started teaching for the chance to torture young children, since she clearly harbored a deep hatred for all of them. She clicks her tongue, and I flinch at the disgustingly wet noise.

“You’re supposed to be outside. It's recess.”
She stands, extending a wrinkled, somewhat grey hand down to me. I stare at it, but make no move to take it. I fold my crinkled book shut, glancing briefly at the rainbow colored dragon on the front. I huff. Humans are so difficult for no real reason. I wish they were all dragons.

“I don't want to go outside. It's cold, and nobody wants to play with me anyhow.”

The white cloud shifts again. “I don't care. You can't be alone in here.”

“Mrs. White said I could.”

“I don't see her here now, do you?”

I bristle. I always had a bit of a temper, especially when it came to injustices. I learned only when I was thirteen that ‘You should be a lawyer’ was not actually a compliment. My face begins to shrivel as well, mirroring hers, and my imaginary antenna twitch in subtle disdain. I change tactics. I would appeal to Pathos- the fleshy red and pulsating heart of humans that received emotion!

“I don't wanna go outside because none of the girls like me. They think I'm weird.”

She only scowls once more, shaking her hand as if to somehow beckon me into taking it.

“I said I don't care. Stand up.”

Ethos it was, then, since clearly she was born without a heart. 

“I'm the best reader in my class, ma’am. I want to finish my book.”

It had no effect. Perhaps she was born without a brain as well.

“You can finish it outside.”

I recall bitterly the last time I tried to read outside- Leighton had kicked dirt all over my book, which was Harry Potter at the time- when I had no respect for real literature- and when Mrs. White tried to rub it off, she smeared the pages. It was legible- but I carried a deep hatred for Leighton after that. My mouth began to taste sour with preliminary grief. There was no way I was taking my favorite Wings Of Fire book outside. Logos must work, then.

“Don't you think it's smarter for me to listen to my real teacher? I don't know you, lady.”

Apparently, that was a bad thing to say, because the white cloud began to growl, and she knelt down once more and took my wrist by force, beginning to drag me down the hallway and towards the double doors that led me to the playground. Wonderful. Only, she turned, and dragged me into the office instead. I was in for it now. This was it- the scary principal lady with the loud, shrill voice and thin legs would scream, and my eardrums would explode- and then they would drag me to the cafeteria, and the lunch ladies would dissect me and serve my freak alien insides as hamburger meat. My throat closed up, and as I began to embrace my death, the double doors outside pushed open, and I watched the line leader in our class- Leah- stomp inside like a toy soldier, my classmates following her with their arms at their sides, chittering like spring squirrels. This was my chance, I thought. I gave a glance to the clouded woman, who was talking to the principal lady- who looked rather despondent, and bolted for the office door, running to catch up with my class. 

I joined the line behind Elyse, who was significantly taller than me, and ducked behind her for stealth. She pretends not to notice- or perhaps she was just ignoring me. Being incredibly short had its perks in sleuthing. Mrs. White shut the door behind us in silence, her keys jingling. She gave an exaggeratedly puzzled look at me, as if to ask how I got there. I flashed her my shining teeth bones, and she looked away, unbothered. I looked to the office- the rude white lady was nowhere in sight, and neither was the principal. I was safe. I took the rest of the walk back, admiring my own ingenuity and sneakiness.

When we entered the room once more, I quickly snatched my book up off the carpet, where it had fallen on top of my button, perfectly centered. I sat at my desk, opening the book once more, immersing myself back into the smell of crisp white paper and the wonderful world of dragons, where there were no mean cloud ladies, no annoying human children, and no mandated sensory torture labeled as a recess. Mrs. White’s voice rang out;

“Viola, no reading in class. Put that away.”

Humans are a cruel and unjust species. I shove the book in my bag, and await the joyous day a UFO comes down, and I return to my home planet.

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Let me know what you think!! I wrote this in March for my honors 10 English class, I hope you like it!