• I suppose the best place to start is with my name. San Miatello is the name my parents gave me. The name I’ve given to myself is Muspaz, which may not make much sense to you, but it will eventually. I’ve lived my whole life in the big city, surrounded by odd smells, strange people and the continuous honking of car horns.
    My mother works weeks and my father works weekends, so they rarely see each other. In my opinion, this is a good thing because when they’re actually together, they spend most of the time fighting. When I was little, these fights always made me cry, while my sister, old enough to hold back her tears, sat in the window seat, staring bleakly down at the street.
    If I could, I’d spend as little time as possible in our large apartment, but certain conditions prevent me from staying outside for too long. So, I spend most of my time in my room with the windows and door shut, and the fan on high. I suppose this wouldn’t be so bad if I had a hobby, but being no good at drawing, writing, and other such activities and being unable to play an instrument meant I spent most of my solitary time thinking.
    By this point you are most likely wondering “Okay, so you’re an un-talented kid with a lot of alone time. Why am I reading your life story?” Well first of all this isn’t my life story. If it was, it probably would have started with “There were many bright lights and men in white coats, and a sweaty screaming woman who turned out to be my mother” Or whatever it is a newborn baby would think if they were capable of such extensive thought at that stage in their life.
    However, I assure you that I might be a bit more interesting to read about than you may believe. There is one thing about me, just one thing, that sets me apart. It doesn’t necessarily put me above the rest. In fact, in most people’s opinions, it puts me below the rest. It is, nevertheless, interesting. Or at least, I think it is.
    I don’t know exactly what causes it because most doctors don’t know what to make of it. Some of them don’t even believe it’s real. I have been diagnosed with Narcolepsy, several forms of Mental Retardation, and in one interesting case, the curse of God. (This doctor, while the least credible, was definitely the most fun to visit) Eventually, my family stopped seeing these specialists, and decided to call my little ‘defect’ “San’s Gift”.
    What happens to me is this: Sometimes, I go into trances. Not the kind of trance where you’re standing still and can’t move or anything, I’m still able to move and know what is happening, I even know that I’m in the trance. These trances are caused by one thing. Music.
    Wheneve r I hear music, I slip into a trance where everything I see, smell, touch and taste is affected by the music I’m hearing. The first time I can remember going into a trance is when I was watching Sesame Street, and a happy song was suddenly sung by all of the characters. Immediately, my vision went yellow, and everything smelled overpoweringly of flowers. The smell was so strong that I vomited on the floor, bringing my alarmed mother to the scene to find her son looking around the room fearfully and screaming. She switched off the TV and picked me up, trying to calm me. As soon as the music vanished, everything went back to normal. I stopped screaming and sniffled, blinking rapidly.
    These trances are not necessarily un-enjoyable, in fact, some times it can be quite relaxing, if set to the right music. A calm symphony playing through my headphones while walking down the street makes everything move smoothly, the entire world is made of curved lines. Other times, when I’m feeling depressed, a cheery song brings the world to life, where everyone I pass is smiling, and all of Mother Nature’s happy little creatures twitter and purr in the air. I find Tiny Tim to have the greatest positive effect on my trances, so much so that I once began to sob when his song ended on my iPod, causing the world to return to it’s normal self, and everything to stop smelling faintly like maple syrup.
    My condition is not a secret, my whole famil y knows about it, but they’ve kept it to themselves pretty well. My sister is the one who worries me the most, because, being the popular teenaged girl that she is, gossip is her life force. She dislikes me, this much I know. It is a slightly stronger dislike than what one finds in a typical sibling rivalry, something extra, a special distaste for me which I suspect is fueled by my defect. I do not know why it matters, it does not affect her at all, except for perhaps preventing her from having a normal family. This cause for her contempt for me strikes me as a tad selfish, and because of this, her negative feelings are matched with those of my own.
    Still, I’m confident she won’t tell a soul, having a “defective” brother is not usually something one brags about. I rarely see her anymore, she is out with friends, partying a little harder than she should. I do not envy that aspect of her life, but I do envy the fact that she has a life at all. Being un-able to walk about without good music constantly pumping into my ears for fear of even a note of bad music slipping through, socializing is a tad difficult.
    Mostly, I sit in my soundproofed room, staring out our second floor window onto the busy streets, watching people rush by. I’ve considered buying earmuffs, but realized that it would be the same as going through the streets with my iPod, minus the calming effects of my pleasant music.
    My room is plain with nothing in particular to describe, which matches my appearance perfectly. I am average height with blonde hair. I am sure, according to my sister’s appearance, that if I lived a normal life, I would be able to pull of the jock look. My arms are naturally strong despite my lack of exercise, and I am sure with the right crew cut and styling products my hair could be put into the spiked blonde look I see so often on my sister’s numerous boyfriends.