^Galileo^Hart^D2 [FIN]

The names of my past swirl around me. Galileo, Sleipnir, Freak, Creep. The list goes on and on, each more degrading than the last. But one of them has always stuck with me, spoken by a particularly creative girl, who rejected my futile attempts at flirting. She called me an Imp. And I laughed for almost two entire minutes. The word was perfect, absolutely perfect. I laughed and laughed, until I looked down and saw my six fingered hands, and suddenly it wasn't so funny.  

Polydactyly, the growth of supernumerary body part. Polydactyly, also known as the cause of an outcast. My world has been caused by four little stumps of flesh. Two extra toes, and two extra pinkies. Born with a disfigurement, living with a disease. It drew forward the curiosity of my peers, it brought out the disgust within all of them, it caused the ruthlessness from the pits of their stomachs. I've listened to it all, I still have the scars of their words. The words live on in my heart, causing constant resent and hatred, but I use it as fuel, as a form of diesel that sustains my drive in everything I do.

My father was never in the picture, he held himself to a godly standard. He would never deal with an illegitimate child like me. He would check in at sporadic intervals and leave mayhem in his wake. My mother was under a sick illusion that he loved her. She was convinced that the reason he refused to stay with her was the blond haired, blue eyed boy, with six fingers. After each visit she would grab my small frame, sobbing as she threatened to kill me. "Damned boy. You bastard, its all your fault. He doesn't love me, he would stay with me if he could. Everything would be fine if you weren't here." I would look at her with large tears threatening to leak out of the edges of my eyes. And her hand would shake, each and every time, it shook and fall to her side. Her hand of death would collapse, and she would turn away. I never knew if she was ashamed of me, but each time the hand of death did not harm me, I knew she loved me. I also knew that her love would run out and I had to leave. So I took my horrifying limbs and I left.

There was nothing to take. As I looked at my bedroom it was pathetically unoriginal. A beat up mattress and a splintery wooden dresser were the most interesting part of my life. The only flash of color came in the form of a pair of clear red dice. They were the only thing I took, a simpler reminder of my father who always left chaos in his wake. His randomness and uncertainty took form in the little red dice. On his first night on the icy ground he rolled them over and over again. The soft clink became a sound of comfort, but as I rolled them over and over again, I found a strange pattern. Watching the dice tumble over and over again, I began to see that these dice were not designed for a fair game. Seven. Ten. Seven. Seven. Four. Eleven. Seven. Twelve. Eight. Seven. Seven. I never knew what exactly my father did, but it was clear that he was not a man with a clean record.

My father was a man of chance, but it did not matter on the streets. At 5' 3" I was the perfect target for the rolling waves of muggers. I spent the nights in cardboard boxes watching the gangs rise and fall. I learned the pattern, and I perfected it. Each gang was motivated by a different emotion. Anger, resent, lose, or fear. Whatever it was, they all ended up wounded or dead. I knew what was going to happen to these kids who wandered into this world. I spent almost 3 years on my own, learning the way of this place. I no longer tried to hide my extra appendages, because in a world where many kids were missing a finger or two, having one extra was like a sign of wealth. But I was never recruited into a pack, instead I lay on the edges of this society. I hated being driven into these filthy places. On a night of a hallow stomach I silently decided I would no longer be a boy of chance. I would not be like my father, I would be consistent and reliable. I would make my own path. I would make my own luck.

I found them in a particularly dirty alley. They were a group of kids with wild eyes and lost minds. I immediately felt at home in their world of emotions. It became perfectly clear to me that these children were more than just simple peasants. Their eyes were untamed, wondering within their sockets. Their emotions were evident on their faces. Many toyed with small tokens. They were chaotic, disorderly, and my new family. I do not know why I fit in with these people. They were lost causes, a futile attempt at a gang, children of the wilderness of the alleys. Most of their minds were deteriorating, but I knew that I was not to far behind them.

It became clear these kids were perfect for my calculating mind. Assessing them quickly, I began to get an understanding of how their minds function. Although the first few nights were rough, I knew these kids would accept me for what I was, no matter how troubled I was, they would not turn their backs on me. I struggled to reciprocate. How could I accept the girl who is rumored to rip her guardian's guts out? How could I enjoy the presence of a boy who spends days awake without a minute of sleep? They were strange, unnerving, and agitating. I never wanted to be an outcast amongst the outcasts, but by joining the group it was clear that was what we were. The anger and resent built up within me, and so I lashed back at the taunts and jeers. No matter how hard I tried to distance myself from them, I always ended up right back with them, sleeping on the ground next to them. And every time they welcomed me with open arms. Their damn acceptance of everything chaotic and crazy, that is what I most enjoyed. That is what I fell in love with.

My mind enjoys assessing each and ever situation we run into. I love to let the prey think that I am not in control. With my loaded die I am in control of the randomness. I am the maker of my own fate. I enjoy being the deciding factor between life and death, and if I can ensure the fate of another, well then I'm gonna jump on the opportunity.

A boy pushed onto the streets learns what is expected of him. A boy on the streets learns that being small is a disadvantage. He learns that a small set of shoulders is not helpful, and a large nose only leads to jeers. He learns that extra appendages are something to be proud and disgusted of. A boy on the streets learns that being weak in body can be overruled by having a quick and clear mind. And I have always been a quick learner.