Marked Different

By the age of three, I was marked different. By age three, I was causing more trouble and turmoil than a teenager. By age three, my parents were terrified of me. Why? Because my eyes weren't changing color, as they should be.

"But that's stupid," You say. "Why would anyone care about that?"
And I laugh.
"Because," I tell you, bitterness in my voice. "Your eye color shows how you feel. It tells people if you're being honest, trustworthy, or deceitful. Without that assurance, how can someone know if you're telling the truth?"
I'll answer that for you. They can't.
At age three, I was marked with the fact that I would never be trusted, because my eyes didn't change with my emotions. They didn't change to deep blue when I was sad, or emerald green when I was jealous. And so, I was immediately isolated from those I may have called friends. One heck of an introduction to life, wasn't it?
"It's just a phase. He'll grow out of it." I remember my mother saying, her eyes slowly turning a deep shade of purple.
  "Yes. He'll be fine." My father reassured, although his eyes acquired the same hue, for they were afraid. Very afraid. Afraid I would be too different.
But they had no need to fear, for my difference was not a curse. It wasn't a problem. Although, I suppose it was something to be very, very afraid of. Just not in the way that they had expected. Oh, no, I had not been cursed. I had been blessed. Blessed with a gift.
Now, I dramatically sweep my arms out before me, and your eyes follow along. "This," I say, looking you dead in the eyes. "Is my story. The story of an abnormal boy in a normal world. A world that was calling – aching – to be changed."