Stigmata

During one particularly boring day in high school physics, I sat towards the back of the classroom talking with my friends in hushed tones so that our voices wouldn't rise above the monotonous tone of our teacher and signal our disinterest. The question-of-the-day was: if you could be a super-hero, who would you be?

The girl with the pet ball of wax (they were inseparable) wanted to be invisible and able to stop time. The boy to my right wanted to be able to levitate ... not fly ... just levitate. Me? I aimed my wrists in my best Spiderman-like-imitation at the blackboard and whispered much to the delight of my friends, 'I want to be ... [insert dramatic pause] ... Stigmata Man!'

Unfortunately, my teacher heard this, and although I didn't get detention (this time), I was 'encouraged to complete a mandatory extra-credit assignment'.

A few days ago, I noticed that I was starting to develop a small hole in the palm of my hand. In actuality, it is more like a split right in the center of my life-line. I still can't decide. My life is either coming to a major decision point ... or I am about to realize my dreams and finally become ... yes, you guessed it, Stigmata Man. I gotta get on making a costume ...