“Jesus.” The horrified whisper of the woman, Karen, who is gathering the uniform I am meant to wear while employed at this large shopping center doesn’t faze me.

At one point, many years ago, when I was still a youngling, having someone look at me and feel compelled to call upon their personal deity may have bothered me, but I long lost any sense of caring. At least when it comes to how I look. And I know what I look like.

Not only am I keenly aware of every jagged etch and groove in my skin. I can remember, like it was only a turn ago, how they were made with claws and teeth, sometimes broken metal and stone. The blunt points were the worst, poking and prodding until they finally breached the flesh.

But the memory of that pain is nothing compared to the rage I feel at my lehti, Ivy, the one responsible for my suffering. It's a rage I doubt she knows exists.

But she will soon.

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