The rage Within

The first time I had any indication that I was different, in hindsight of course, was at the beginning of my junior year. I was walking to one of my classes and had to go through the city bus terminal. It was busier than usual as several buses were loading and unloading at the same time.

I was walking past one of the bigger, higher end, cross country buses as its travelers were departing. There was a steady stream of passengers exiting, so I had to cut through them as there was no other way around. As I attempted to dodge the weary stream of travelers I accidentally bumped into a young Asian woman. I remember her specifically because she had gray eyes, which was unusual, but what really struck me as odd was that this small woman was, for lack of a better term, solid. She didn’t look overly huge in her baggy clothing, but she had to have been solid muscle, because I almost fell over when I ran into her. She barely budged.

“Oh, excuse me. Sorry.” I said.

She didn’t say anything at first. She stared at me intensely, but she didn’t look angry. That being said she didn’t look overly happy either.

“Are you okay?” I asked, even though I was sure I got the worst of the exchange.

“I’m fine.” She said, still staring unflinchingly. “What are you?” she asked.

Even though she didn’t have a heavy Asian accent, I assumed she was asking who, not what.

“I’m a student, again I’m sorry.” I said, but this time I said it as I was walking away. The last thing I wanted was to get caught up in either giving directions or a history lesson about Ann Arbor when I was late for a class.

I don’t think that woman stopped looking at me until I rounded the corner. I thought the encounter was odd, but I didn’t give it moments thought until much later.

Things were still going exceptionally well, like I said, and I was happy and content with life. Trust me when I say that life did not consult me about the changes it had in store. If it had, I may have objected to a few things.