I am not human.

I am not human, and the fact haunts me. I was born flesh and blood, from a mother who screamed during, and cried happy tears when she saw my face. I have hands and feet, a face and eyes, everything that you do. But I am not human. Convinced so, by people on the telly, and the ink in the newspaper. I am just an unfortunate being, caught up in an unfortunate event, at an unfortunate time.

No matter how much I plead, no matter how I cry, I am labeled as a convict. A murderer who has harmed no one. What I happened to stumble upon, was the rapidly cooling body of a woman. I had dropped my pile of firewood then to try and help. But she passed away while I tried to search for a way to aid her. A group of hikers had found me with her, and alerted the police. The people in uniforms did not understand what I signed to them, or maybe they simply didn't want to.

Conferences were held; medals were distributed. People rejoiced at the news of the killer finally being caught. A series of killings, all tied to a man who did not speak. I had no name, no home. Yet the one at large slipped away scot-free.

The killer, however, had left something behind. Something that I now carry in my possession. And maybe, that thought alone scares them. Because I know they are after me; worrying that should I reveal the lock of hair I found clutched in the dying woman's hand, they would be found. But until I do reveal this damning piece of evidence, I remain something inhumane.