T.B.A.
an excerpt

I was born this way.
No conscious decision of my life has ever made me who I am, what I am, easier for people to accept. No side-line country town or easy-going parents could ever hide the truth from so few people, and yet so many pairs of watching eyes: judging, watching for anything the least bit suspicious.
People with gifts don't get praised: They get martyred.

December 4th, 1988 is a day I'll never remember, and yet a day I will never be let forget. From the beginning, this day has meant something to me, because it marked the beginning of all of my suffering that I hadn't yet been able to concieve: my mother, on the other hand, concieved pain quite thoroughly with that day being the day that I was born.
She brought forth Alexander David Marshall, son of Mackenzie Marshall into the little town we call Hamlet, with the three hundred other people who live within the borders of our not-so-square home. Her name was Priscilla, and she smiled that day as she passed me to my father, and blinked twice. She was doing fine until the machines in the room started to fritz- graphs started fizzing, results were inverted, the heart moniter was showing feedback, not a heartbeat- and a baby was crying.
By the time the last tear had been shed, the Doctor had already signed the death certificate, and due to unexplained magnetic interference with the equipment, resigned from his position. My father was left, by unhappy accident, to manage me all by himself. As that in the magnetic overthrow of the hospital's safety instruments my father left me at the foot of the bed, cradling my mother, trying to wake her, you can tell as well as I know now that it wasn't a good start- born, and within minutes, forgotten.
Now, here's where the unforgettable kicks in: my father picked me up, and brought me over to my mother, lying in what I was told looked like she was very still. Being an infant, I was laid on her still-warm breast.
Then I hiccoughed.
Once again, the magnetic surge in the room made the machines go haywire- the Doctor, who had decided to resign, had his hand on the door, in fact, had not yet left. As he heard this, he must have shouted something similar to, “Aw, Christ. Not again! She's dead, leave her alone already!” From the interpretation that my father gave, it seemed that way, in any case.
For blinking back the tears from his eyes, my father ran his hand through my mother's matted blonde hair. He was crying as the surge quickly recounted the exact situation that had killed his wife, who he had tried to have a child with so unsuccesfully for years before concieving me.
Then the magnetic surge stopped, the Doctor sighed, and my father crumpled beside the bed. Too heart-broken not to sob, he poured out his heart. So much so that only the Doctor, having open the door heard a faint noise he thought too peculiar to have anything to do with that room he was in at the moment- a ringing in his ears from the magnetic surge had resolved itself into a sound he had heard daily for his entire career as a physician: the steady throb of a heart moniter.
The hand that was lifeless in my father's twitched, and he screamed, throwing himself back from the bedside. Slowly, the opposite arm lifted into the air and brushed that matted hair off of my mother's forehead, and the Doctor saw her eyes: bright, life-filled and sparkling, showing for all the world that she had not just spent five minutes dead.