I stare at her in bewilderment. Does she know who she's talking to? Maybe all that lightning she likes to fling around finally got to her brain. I stare into her eyes as she earnestly tries to tell me that there is nothing to cure, nothing wrong with us. Nothing wrong with mutants. Well, maybe there's nothing wrong with her, but as she talks a buzzing sound fills my ears. And when she stops, my eyes are still on her as I lift one hand. At first it seems that she isn't sure if I'm trying to halt her impassioned speech or what. Then, finger by finger, I remove my glove. Smooth skin and blood red nails I lovingly file and paint because I can, my pale hand reaches for her face, and she moves back. I see the fear in her eyes.

“If there's nothing wrong with me, Ms. Munroe, why won't you let me touch you?” I ask bitterly. I glare at them all, even him, standing there just watching me, their collective breath held against what I might do. “Maybe there's nothing wrong with any of you, but there's sure something wrong with me.”

I pull my glove back on and leave the room before the tears that burn the back of my throat can fall. Damn self-righteous hypocrites. Sure. Nothing is wrong with any of us. Especially not me.