A mysterious individual with many hats and equally many disguises shows up at a mental institution, offering (with no apparent motive for doing so) two inpatients a chance of escape.
My name is Seoc. I am fifteen years old and I reside almost exclusively in my own head. I have to. Outside of it, I am little but a short, dirty, emaciated corpse in a windowless tomb.
Please don't accuse me of whining for attention. I've gotten enough of that--both accusations and attention. I don't want people to feel sorry for me; I just would prefer it if they would acknowledge my existence as a human being rather than words on a page. Prodigy. Epileptic. Genius. I despise those descriptors. If every label thrust upon me over the years was tattooed upon me, well, I'd run out of skin. Bipolar. Diminutive. Weak. Short-tempered. Suicidal. Effeminate. Abnormal.
I would rather generate my own list. But at the current moment, I don't know how to describe myself without any of the aforementioned titles and adjectives. I think I could bear them all if it were not for one additional label, one that actually is tattooed upon me, on my right forearm:
Class C, Hx/B