Robin

My name is Robin and I am different to most children in the world.

That's why I'm here. To make me 'conform'. I hate it. I hate rules and regulations. When I was sleeping on the streets, no one cared what I did. And now I'm boarded up inside a room and I feel like screaming. I feel so claustrophobic I can't move. I hate it. I hate it I hate it I hate it.

I move one of my hands and conjure up a butterfly. It sits in the centre of my hand, a pure white. I haven't coloured it yet. I give it four sets of wings. I colour its body purple and it's wings a deep scarlet red. Upon this, I paint with my mind tiny swirls in gold. I carry on with my swirls and make a curling golden tail for it. Then I draw eyes on the tips of its wings. The butterfly takes off and dances in the sunlight, its bright gold tail flashing merrily. It linger for about a minute, then it disappears.

That's my talent, if you will. I can create illusions. I create things in my mind's eye and project them onto the real world. I used to create a haven for myself. But it's not permanent. Most of my illusions last for around half a minute then fade away. The people here say it's because I'm not trying hard enough. They seem to think I can do real good with my illusions. They're not real, I keep insisting. They're not permanent. They're not meant to be. No one listens.

I look in the mirror opposite me. My dark hair falls down my back in thick waves and my eyes gleam purple. That's how they found me. I lost the glasses I use to cover them up and they saw I was different.

I go up to the door and try to open it again. Still locked. Looks like they don't trust me just yet.

The End

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