My fuzzy, dark-eyed complexion astounds strangers.
Am I the product of some tinkerer’s experimentation?
Am I the daughter of a strange couple?
How did I come to be? I don’t know. I remember foggy memories of rustling around rubbish bins.
Then I see snapshots of self-realization. I recall a shiny piece of glass. I looked at myself and knew that I was… being… thinking.
I don’t know how to describe it. I deliberately poked at my face. It felt soft and strange.
Then my memories flash to a bright light. Someone had seen me rummaging for scraps. I was very scared. I may have hurt them. I’m sorry…
Here I am, sitting in an open field. I learned to read from discarded books and magazines. The images in them do not look like me. I clearly don’t belong.
Yet I understand them. I don’t seem to be like the other raccoons I’ve seen. I don’t really belong anywhere.
So I’m writing this on a broken laptop. Half of the screen is cracked. It had been thrown out after a mishap. So much gets thrown out that I find useful.
I don’t know where to go from here. I never do, but I keep on going. The hope that a new day will reveal more to me keeps me going.