On the day that I turned eight, my father took me aside and said, "You have to understand, you can't be human."
"But I want to!"
I clutched my teddy bear and decided father was wrong I would be human. All I had to do was try harder.
It was the perfect birthday for a little girl. I got the teddy bear - looked just like new, except for the missing eye - and a big maggot cake. I loved the wriggling and the squishiness, and they glistened beautifully with all the candles lit. My grandmother had prepared a little scene for the whole family, showing off her abilities in scaring the intestines out of all living beings. I enjoyed every moment of it. But in the back of my head, my father's voice kept saying, "You can't be human."
I went to bed happy that day, kissed and hugged by my whole family. In the living-room, I could hear them talking quietly, and I couldn't understand what they were saying, but it was a soothing background to my dreams.
I dreamed of being human.