I look in the window's reflection. The paste has turned my skin into a clumpy mess.
The other children are fighting the urge to snigger.
A monster.
The others won't say it aloud, not with Sister Constance's watchful gaze right there, but I know they are thinking it.
Thomas is a monster because he is missing something.
I am a monster because I have too much of something. Too much hurt. Too much rage.
I do not care.
Only monsters, it seems, know that there are worlds and worlds and worlds, and ours is only one.