Author's Note: This weird little piece was posted on PhilosophySphere under my nick there, Angel Island.
You are far too young to be doing this. You close down the files you've been working on, and stretch, sliding slowly into a kata until your whole body and mind are concentrating on the proper way to move. Without the break, you might go insane. One side of your activities must be hidden, the other public, and you cannot mess them up. If you do, you might die.
And you cannot die now. Too much depends on you living, continuing the existance of the species within you, preventing yet another species from becoming just another memory. Starting a second kata, you attempt to bring your mind to peace, to prevent the costly mistakes so easily made. A face swims before you, and you pause to blink back the tears.
Giving up, you sit on the floor, your arms laying on your knees. You glance at your palms, at the slight streak of red visible on both of them. A true sign of how different you are, but only a few know to look. You place your thumbs over them and then ball your hands into fists, as if to hide the incriminating marks.
Staring aimlessly at the wall near the window, you wonder if you can go on, if you can survive. You are alone, caught between those who don't understand and those who would understand you right into extinction. There is no place to be yourself, even if you understood who you were. Which you don't.
You cannot cry. Not now. Even though it's late and nobody can hear you, you can't bring yourself to let the tears out. So you sit, just staring, trying to find your way. Eventually, your eyelids drop and you sink to the floor, falling into an uneasy sleep.