I’m used to people whispering when they see me. Or, even worse, they stop talking completely and just look at me with such palpable sympathy I just want to meld into the shadows.

Today was no different. I walked into the bustling village market. The air is thick with the smells of freshly baked breads and pastries. There are a rainbow of colors along the clothing stall section. Wares from around the continent glimmered and shined in the sun on still other stalls. People were everywhere. Happy mothers with their babbling babies. Old women eyeing up produce as if they had a sixth sense for spotting the ripest apples. Friends linked arm in arm as the looked at everything that was on offer.

Then there’s me. Nothing about me is worth noticing. I’m an average height, with boring brown hair and green eyes. I wear nondescript, neutral toned, clothes with the hope they act as camouflage to help me go unnoticed. It never works though.

Today I make it about three stalls in before someone does a double take after seeing me and taps their companion with an urgency that must match what they feel in the inside. Soon they are bother staring. The companion gasps and at the same time a small crackle of lightning fizzles from her fingertips. The stall down is soon staring and a girl of no more than 9 drops the apple she’s holding. Her mother throws out her hand, freezing the apple mid fall. The young girl quickly snatches it from its frozen state, her blonde hair cascading down her face as she immediately looks down at her feet, and the mother relaxes her hand.

After all this time I still feel a twinge of hurt in my heart, but I get it. I’m twenty-five years old and have no powers to speak of. In my world that is unheard of. Starting from about the young blondes age we start getting powers. The hope is to get them at the just-right-age of fifteen. Getting them younger means your powers are both not as interesting and not as strong. Any time after fifteen usually means very strong and interesting, boarding on unnerving, powers. The latest age for power manifestation that was ever recorded was twenty. People either believe I will never get powers, which is why they feel sorry for me. Or they are scared shitless over what my power may be and how strong I will be. If this burden was on anyone else, I’d probably stare at them in the market. That doesn’t make it hurt any less, though.

Given the two options, I don’t know what I’d choose. Which is better, sympathy or terror? Either way, it seems like I will never have anyone close to me. No one wants to be with the weirdo or the horror.