Born Different

Copyright 2011
Faye Aitken-Smith

Smashwords
Edition

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All characters
in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real
persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Front Cover
Image © REN Photography

Front &
Back Cover Design by Kayla Wren

Because we all
have wings, but some of us don’t know why

Don’t be
afraid, love will mend your broken wings

Gabe had gone
as far as he could go and now he was stood at the edge of the steep
cliff. He was all out of options...there were very few choices
left, if any. The throng, of what seemed like over a hundred
people, inched closer towards him. Gabe was convinced that he even
heard some of them shouting for him to jump.

They had all
driven him here, each and every one of them, in their own way.
What sort of
world is this
, thought Gabe? He’d never
felt like it was for him! He was special and different and he had
carried that on his shoulders like a heavy weight for all of his
life. And now, after eighteen relentless years of it, enough was
enough.

Gabe drew in
one last deep breath. He looked down over the cliff’s edge, down to
the very bottom where the waves crashed, frothed and fought back.
It was a hell of a long way down.

Gabe looked up
to the bright summer midday sun and, believing with all his heart
and soul that this was what he
had
to do, Gabe jumped.

Still dripping
wet from his hot morning shower, Gabe strolled into his bedroom,
slamming the door shut behind him. The bedroom light was still
turned off and his thick lined curtains and wood slatted blinds
were still shut firmly tight, so as not to let any light or curious
eyes in.

Gabe took a
moment to stay in the absolute dark for a while. He let himself
disappear into its black hole of nothingness for a few luxurious
seconds more before getting on with his imposed morning routine.
Gabe felt peaceful as he let the sensation of just being at one
with the dark air fill his imagination. If he stayed still, he
thought it was like he wasn’t really there at all. He could
disappear. Gabe for a moment let himself believe that he didn’t
exist and this thought left him feeling absolutely serene.

A thought
surfaced in Gabe’s place of tranquillity, reminding him that he had
an exam to sit this afternoon. His last one. And this very real
thought, brought him immediately back to the present moment. Back
to a not as pleasant reality, where he did actually exist and the
feelings of peace and nothingness disappeared instantly, opening
the flood gates for all the worries he was trying not to fret about
so that they came through now in a torrent of abuse.

Gabe wasn’t
looking forward to the exam at all but, he reasoned to himself,
seeing as it was his last one it meant that there were no more
exams to sit ever again. No more school. No more lessons to sit
through and endure. No other kids to deal with on a daily basis. No
more school routine. He had made it. He was eighteen years old. A
man, legally at least, and he was nearly free of the place that he
had felt imprisoned him.

After today, he
only a week or so left before the real last ever day of school and
the only day that really mattered to Gabe; the final day, the day
of The Exhibition, Speeches and Awards Ceremony.

Gabe was only
interested in The Exhibition on the last day. He wasn’t planning on
receiving any awards but he was planning on exhibiting all his art
works and, with any luck, his artwork would grab some one’s
attention. Enough so, that someone would give him a job to walk
into of some sort or, ideally, buy all his paintings right there
and then with a great big wad of cash and commission him to do
more.

Ha ha. Dream
on boy
, Gabe thought to himself. But he could dream on.
‘Dreaming on’ was all he had going for him at the moment.

Gabe’s
paintings could be found hanging on the walls all over his school
and Gabe noticed that people were always stopping to look at them.
Gabe liked to watch how his paintings changed people, how some had
been left a little shocked, others confused and even some were, on
occasion, slightly repulsed by them. His paintings always drew
comments and, most importantly to Gabe, questions and stories.
Everyone always had a reaction as to what his paintings meant to
them. Gabe thought that that was what art was all about, how people
translated the images when woven together with the facts and
experience of their own lives. Gabe loved that about art. Gabe
thought that his paintings distracted people out of their boxed
minds so that a light was turned on for a little while, as the
painting or drawing reflected on their deep hidden souls.

Gabe had to
prepare a speech about his art which had been worrying him even
more so than The Exhibition. He should really be allowed to just
focus on the art and not be distracted preparing some justifying
waffle interpretation of his art works and inspiration and other
such bollocks.

Even if he did
prepare the best speech ever, which was extremely unlikely, giving
the speech up on the stage in front of the whole school, all the
parents, teachers and any other attendees, which were likely to be
certain influential people in the city, all full of themselves and
dressed to impress each other; all those eyes on him, judging him,
whispering! No! There was no way on this planet that that was ever
going to happen.

Ever since
attending The Exhibition in his first year Gabe had, on many
occasions, found himself rehearsing and playing out the day in his
head, the big day when it would be his turn. Seven long years, Gabe
had daydreamed about how he was going to arrange his little art
space area, what he might say to anyone that might ask anything,
how he would indeed respond if some big collector or gallery owner
gave him a wad of notes. And always, Gabe played out the moment
when it would be his turn to get up on stage, in front of a packed
school hall, the sea of faces and piercing pairs of eyes directed
at him. He went over how he would have to focus on the stairs, for
fear of tripping up in front of everybody. How he would have to
remember to shake some sweaty hand of whoever, probably the
headmaster who might even utter his first ever words to Gabe
personally. Gabe had succeeded in avoiding the man his entire
school life. One last handshake to go, “By the way, I was here too!
I know you know that I was because it is a bit obvious to everyone
that I am bit different. The teachers would have filled you in on
whatever gossip, or lies, they had collected proudly like good
little disciples. Good luck with everything and all that but I’ll
be off now!” And then Gabe would imagine taking to the
microphone.

At this point,
Gabe would feel sick. His legs would start to wobble, as if he was
on a small boat on choppy waters, then the ground would start to
wave and swell like the sea, antagonising the leg wobble so that
they gave in and turned to jelly. Then Gabe would feel his lips go
dry as, at the same time, the saliva in his mouth was being over
produced, sliding down the gills of his throat as his stomach
turned doing inside-out flip manoeuvres, as it worked whatever he
had eaten back up his oesophagus, causing Gabe to get a fit of
gulping swallows to battle the inevitable. Gabe knew there was a
good chance his nerves would compel him to projectile vomit over
the audience.

He’d even had
nightmares about it. Similar to the ones when he’d been a kid and
dreamt that he was turning up to school as usual, walking across
the gravel of the playground, head down. And then he would suddenly
realise, when it was too late and everyone else had stopped and had
started staring, pointing and laughing at him, was that he was
naked. Stark bollock naked. Naked without even a school bag to use
to hide himself. Gabe had the exact same dream about being up on
stage. Gabe took this as a sure sign that this was not his path in
life. Hell, Gabe spent most of his life trying to avoid people.
Trying to get them
not
to notice him, even if it was
impossible for them not to. Putting himself in their line of fire
was against every one of his natural and learnt instincts.

The more Gabe
thought about it, the more he thought that he should just give the
whole day, The Exhibition included, a miss. He only really needed
to get his art work down there at some stage and then he could let
it speak for itself. He just had to move it all from his studio in
the garden, to the big school hall and leave some cards out with
his details on it. And then he could just leave and never need see
another pupil, teacher or brick of the bastard school ever
again!

It was a very
tempting proposition. A far easier and less nerve wracking way of
doing things. He could get his friends to help him transport the
huge canvases, and a sculpture that he had goaded himself into
making this week in a final all-out effort to make the desired
level of impact needed. (The sculpture that he hadn’t started yet.
The sculpture that he had no material to sculpt it out of; no wood
or marble or anything suitable. Or no idea how to sculpt, which was
probably more of a problem. Or indeed, what to sculpt.) And then he
could be back hiding out in his studio, on his own and free, by the
time the hall doors opened up to the general public for The
Exhibition. Not going felt like the right thing to do. It felt nice
and relaxing as opposed to the other option which only ever left
Gabe feeling gut wrenchingly nervous to the point of neurotic.

But there was
just too much hanging on The Exhibition. Gabe knew somewhere deeper
inside of him that he
had
to be there. He couldn’t leave
anything to chance. The Exhibition was probably going to be the
most important day of his life so far and he had to go the extra
mile and give it his all. Even if he ran away before the speeches,
he had to show his face around his work. It was the least he could
do. If he was so desperate for someone to take an interest in his
art work, he had to at least show them the respect of turning up.
It was time to grow up and face a few fears if he was going to get
anywhere in life.

If no one
noticed, appreciated or liked his art enough to take it to another
place, then he would be truly fucked.

Gabe reached
over to the darkest corner of his room and he tried to locate the
little switch on the lamp that was always on his desk. But he only
succeeded in knocking down the precariously stacked pile of books
that had been balancing amid his computer, sketch books, plate of
half eaten food, discarded tubes of paint, brushes, dried up
palettes and God knows what else, with a great domino effect,
crashing din.

“You bloody
clumsy fool!” Gabe cursed himself and in a burst of frustration, he
swiped his arm over the top of the desk clearing it of almost
everything including a pint glass that smashed in the process. And,
once again, Gabe tried to find the tiny switch that he knew was
hiding there somewhere.

“You alright up
there?” Gina shouted up the stairs.

“Yes, fine
mum.”

The lamp gave a
low, warm, orange glow to the room. Just enough light for Gabe to
barely see what he was doing but still leaving enough darkness to
hide the mess and filth of his room. Enough darkness to hide in the
shadows, all of what Gabe would rather not look at first thing in
the morning.

But at least
the desk was looking neater now! That was a start. If Gabe’s room
was a tip, his studio was worse. His life was a mess and Gabe knew
that it was time to start clearing up quite a few things. School
was going to end and with that, so was everything about his old
life. Everything was going to change, at last. Everything had to
change! He couldn’t go on living like this.