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.

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