Hardly Special

• Annabelle Needham, Grade 7
• Short Story
• 2011

I knew I wasn’t special. I knew I wasn’t perfect. But I knew I would have to say those lines again and again until the day I died. I wasn’t special, or perfect, or smart, or popular. I was nothing. Just a shadow, something that no one noticed. Something that no one wanted to notice. I was ugly, and disabled. People were embarrassed to notice me; they would point and whisper, then turn their heads quickly. That’s what happened if someone did see me wheeling myself along the path way, crunched up in the corner. I was invisible to them. And I hated it. I hated the way they walked passed me, their own two legs carrying them away from me. I wished I could do that. But I knew I never would. My legs had gone when they were crushed in the car crash. They would never come back. Never! But I still hoped. I still hoped that one day I would be told I was getting the operation to get fake legs. No one would tease me then. No one would see straight through me. They would notice me; they would talk to me and stop pointing. I would be happy.
My arms strained as I rolled myself along the path way towards ‘Wendy Street.’ I pushed the gate open and rolled myself to the door.
“Mum!” I yelled out. The cement were my ramp was going to be was still damp. I heard my mother swing the squeaky door open.
“Lily, you’re home!” She cried, hugging me tightly.
“Yeah...” I muttered.
“They came, Lily, but I suppose it’s not dry yet.” She said, her eyes flicking to where my legs used to be.
“Can you help me up the step then?” I asked in a choked voice, looking at the empty space between my rump and where the end of my wheel chair was. Mum patted my frizzy red hair.
“It’s ok, honey. They’ll get you a... fake set.” She said warmly, as hot tears ran down my pale cheeks.
“They don’t see me anymore, mum.” I said in a strangled tone. Mum took in a shallow breath.
“They will, in time. They don’t know what it’s like to be...like you.” She said quietly, rolling me into the familiar house and stopping me at the table. I sniffed.
“But no one at school can see me. They walk straight passed me. I saw someone look at me and she turned away really quickly. It’s like they aren’t allowed to look at me. It’s –" Mum cut in quietly.
“Darling, it’s ok. It’s alright.” The phone rang, and I could hear the doctor’s familiar voice drift out of the speaker.
When at last I came out of the hospital, I had two legs. The doctors and nurses who had helped me along to recovery clapped when I stumbled out of the recovery room. Mum started to cry. So did I, because I knew, now, that I was special.