“Why is my aberration scary, daddy?” I remember asking dad.

        His gaze lifted from the newspaper gripped in his hands, resting on me. Those orbs of cyan matched mine. Mine had a tad bit darker shade than his.

        “Scary?” he repeated, looking down at me. “Delilah, we’ve had this discussion before. If you’re careful, your aberration will not be scary.”

        A lump had formed in my throat, unable to protest. I could not be careful forever. I was going to be attending a public school system soon. Any resurface of that power, and then . . . something bad would happen. It had happened a few times, with disastrous results.

        I nodded. “Yes, daddy.”

        That conversation was thriving, always in the back of my mind. The word careful haunts me everyday.

Mom and dad wanted the best for me. I was not a Natural. My parents had enough money to turn me into an Artificial when I was at the age of five. They themselves yearned to be Artificial, but dropped that idea to focus on raising me. I was now the only one from their bloodlines with a power brought up from the hidden material under my skin.

        They were overzealous, thrilled that their little girl could become somebody special. I was excited when I had the knowledge to understand what it was like to be an Artificial. I was uncertain what my aberration was, yet I could feel it under my skin. It poked and prodded, begging to be used.

        One day, it bursted out.

        It was a few days after the awakening, I was growing observant and curious with everything around me.

I was in the backyard, playing with porcelain dolls dressed in raggedy clothing. They were settled in a small chair or on top of a plastic bucket, listening as I discussed matters that were of utmost importance.

        “Mommy has been hiding all the cookies,” I stated, slamming my tiny fist onto the plastic table. The porcelain dolls stared at me with their lifeless eyes. I pretended one had a voice.

        “Yeah, yeah! It’s time for a change!” I shouted in response to the doll's influencing words. “I’m just as great as an adult to have cookies whenever I want!”

        Their voices chanted, cheering me on.

        I was so enthralled in my actions, that I did not notice what I had done until I felt something drip from my hand.

Liquid dribbled from my hand, staining the grass in a light-pink color. The table was disintegrating under my chubby fist, turning into a puddle of plastic. My mouth gaped, backing away.

This was my aberration.

        I began to run across the house, rubbing my hands against the wall. The cream wallpaper melted, cascading gloppy liquid down onto the wooden floors. It was strange, as my hands were neither hot nor cold. That power pulsed into my palms and fingertips. I felt like the tyrannizing adults, the power in my hands.

It was fun the first five minutes, until things started to go wrong.

        A burning sensation filled my hands and arms, causing me to stop running. The hotness began to grow, causing pain. I whimpered, scared of what was happening. I then proceeded to scream in agony. The skin on my arms began peeling off, clumps of it falling to the floor. Blood pooled around those slabs of human flesh, more falling soon after.

        My agonizing cries caught my parents’ attentions. Medical services were immediately called for, and I was sent to an emergency medical facility.

        The horrible toll resulted in multiple skin grafts. The patches of skin were always lighter or darker in skin tone, as they lacked in donors. Mom was a bawling mess at the time, and did not care what would happen to my image after the surgeries.

        I prevent moments like that from happening now, but what scared me the most is what happens when I am not paying attention to my aberration.

        It was months after the incident. Mom and dad always kept eyes focused on me. I was a costly mess, wrecking both my skin cells and the walls. They both costed a lot in repairs.

        I was watching a show, unknown to me now as it is blurred in my memory. It was colorful, and kept me in a dulled state of brainwashing. Mom was walking up behind me, informing me lunch was prepared.

        She rested her hand on my shoulder, and soon let out a shriek. I turned in a hurry, and became horrified.

        She collapsed down onto her knees, howling in pain. The skin on her right hand was melting off. I felt the imprint of her hand burn on my shoulder.

        Another trip to the hospital that was, more bills added up related to skin grafting. I was filled with confusion and guilt.

        “I never wanted to hurt mommy,” I uttered out to dad in a sad tone. Tears brimmed my eyes. It hurt more emotionally, as dad kept a seat between us. He refused to come near me, afraid to fall into the same condition as mom.

        “Your mother will be fine. Fortunately it was just her hand, and they have enough donor skin to replace a few layers,” he reassured. “She will recover, and things will go back to normal.”

        Days later, mom threatened to send me to a foster home. She had broken down into fits of hysteria, begging for dad to give me up or save up enough money to have my aberration removed.

        This resulted in mom leaving a week later. I remember dad telling me, “Mommy is going to be staying with grandma, Delilah. She needs to relax her mind, and rethink her choices.”

        I never saw mom again.

        I was fortunate that dad still cared, even if he was scared of me. He was against giving up on me, and wished for the best in my future.

        Other small moments like this occurred. I would accidentally melt the skin cells of animals, objects, and people. I started a method of forcing myself to pay attention to that power always wanting to burst out. It worked, especially when I began grade school.

        Moments did happen when those mental barriers of mine slipped, the aberration slipping away unnoticed. During gym classes some children lost patches of skin because of me. They grew wary of me, too scared to stand five feet in range of my person.

        Rumors spread about me at age twelve.

        I was in the girl’s bathroom, observing myself in the mirror. My caramel-brown hair rested on my right shoulder in a messy attempt at a braid. I had observed other girls my age styling their hair, and wanted to appear normal. At least I had tried.

        Three girls from my class entered the bathroom, clinging to the walls when they noticed me. They began whispering under their breaths.

        “Look, it’s Delilah,” one breathed out. “Is she plotting something?”

        “Don't whisper so loud! She could melt us like she melted Tommy’s leg in gym last month!” the other whispered hurriedly.

        “I’m surprised she hasn’t melted her own face off . . . or melt some kid into a large puddle . . . ” the last one muttered out.

        I turned around, causing the girls against the wall to let out a yelp of fear. I walked up to them, connecting my feet together.

        “W-What do you want!?” one of the girls shouted.

        “You’re blocking the door,” I said.

        Their eyes shifted to the wooden surface, scattering away as they cleared my path.

        When I opened the door, I realized in that moment…this was my life now. I was the Artificial that could melt anyone’s face off with just a finger.

        And I was fine with this.

        Fear lead to avoidance, and that is what I wished for.