[ TT ] `` Am I a monster ? '' The child asked .

I dab a wet cloth along the arm of the boy sitting on the carpet. It comes back dark red, stained with blood from the long cut on his arm. I struggle to keep myself calm. Children hurt themselves all the time, I try to tell myself. But in the face of this much blood, all around just one kid, that doesn ’ t help very much. Deep down, I feel like I always knew this was inevitable. In eight short years I ’ ve seen all manner of broken limbs, bruises, cuts and scrapes and everything else in the children who are brought to my office. And this is far worse. This child is different. I look into Will ’ s pale blue eyes. He is only seven years old, but his eyes are so intelligent. He watches me work as I finish cleaning the cut, not even flinching at the soapy sting. As I fetch another batch of bandages from the First Aid kit, he turns those eyes onto me. 
 
 “ Nurse Hammond? ” he asks, “ Am I a monster? ” His voice is calm, face inquisitive. It is unsettling. 
 
 I hesitate. Everybody on staff at the school knows who Will Barkley is. I ’ ll always remember my “ introduction ” to his condition. When you are told that somebody can not feel pain, your immediate reaction is usually envy. That quickly changes when you see them tear their knees up on the blacktop or receive burns from spilled coffee without even realizing it. It makes you nervous around them, like a set of fine china that you don ’ t dare touch for fear of shattering it. Yet despite his ailment -- and his age -- Will always seems remarkably in-control. He is clever, polite, charming even. Always quick to apologize even as he walks into my office cradling a bloody finger. He is not a monster; if anything he is a victim. I know this. Still, it takes my mouth a while to form the words as I gawk at a boy whose reaction to being painted in his own blood is a totally straight face. 
 
 “ Of course not, Will, ” I say. I force a smile onto my face, a bit of cheer into my voice as I bandage his arm. “ You ’ re just a little bit… different. In fact, once you get to be my age, what you have is almost a superpower! ” I turn around. “ Isn ’ t that right, Tobias? ” 
 
 Tobias, the boy ’ s teacher, stands behind me, face paled. It is the same expression he has worn since he came charging into my office only minutes ago, when he returned from his break to find this scene after Will snuck back into his room during recess. He is shaking with panic and probably grief. We ’ ll tell him later that it wasn ’ t his fault, that most of us accidentally leave supply drawers unlocked from time to time, but he knows he made a mistake. His eyes are wild, but at the sound of my voice saying his name they seem to come back to his classroom. He clears his throat, and smiles warmly at Will. 
 
 “ Yeah, that's right! In fact, to me, you ’ re basically Superman! ” He forces a laugh, throwing Will a strong man pose as he flexes his biceps. 
 
 Will smiles a bit, but then nods sadly at our response, as if he expected the answer but doesn ’ t believe it. He stares off somewhere to the side, and his eyes go distant. It is eerie how adultlike his expressions are. What could be going through this child ’ s mind right now? It strikes me how badly I would like to know. 
 
 I take care of a few more open cuts on Will ’ s arms, on his stomach, and one just above his knee. The bleeding seems to have stopped, mostly. Thankfully he didn ’ t cut himself too deep anywhere with those scissors. At least, he insists he did it with scissors, but we have n't found them anywhere. Tobias looks a little relieved, but I frown at the thought. Something isn ’ t right. Will had no more than six minor cuts on his body. Unpleasant as the thought of a child cutting himself was, what had really concerned us at first was that he was absolutely *covered* with blood. His clothes still were. I gently remove his shirt, then his jeans. There are no more wounds on his body. 
 
 “ Well, ” Tobias says, laughing nervously but visibly relieved, “ guess that ambulance might have been a bit of an overreaction, eh? They ’ re gon na be disappointed to find this. ” There are sirens in the distance as he says this. 
 
 Then Will pipes up, and what he says makes my skin crawl. “ Oh, they ’ ll still be busy, ” he says distractedly, “ but I doubt they ’ ll be much help. ” 
 
 My stomach turns as I look at Will ’ s eyes, and follow his gaze. His eyes still appear distant, but he is staring just past us, towards the closet at the end of the carpet where students hang their coats. The door is closed. Tobias and I share a look, and I see the panic return to his eyes as we both notice for the first time the droplets of blood dripping down the handle. Deep scarlet. The same scarlet that stains Will ’ s clothes and the carpet beneath us. Too much of it. 
 
 I reach for Tobias as he walks to the closet, anxiety in his every step, but I have no words for what I know he is about to find. He opens the door slowly, carefully. When we see what ’ s inside, he turns around and instantly loses his lunch. We've found the scissors. 
 
 And for a moment all I can hear is the sirens. 
 
 “ Thomas... doesn ’ t have a superpower, ” Will says indifferently. “ When it was his turn, he tried to yell. It was loud. I had to make him stop. ” 
 
 I go numb. It is then that the first of the paramedics comes rushing into the room, flanked by Rita, our assistant principal. They turn to me, then to Will and Tobias, and then finally, to Thomas. Rita screams. The paramedics rush forward, shouting about pulses, stretchers, blood. They bark questions at me, but I don ’ t hear them. I just stare at Will. Eventually an officer comes to carry him out when he notices his cuts, and his blue eyes stare back at me as he is picked up. There is a coldness to them. And he smiles at me. 
 
 “ Am I still Superman, Nurse Hammond? ”
