When I was nearly 8 years old, the police visited my elementary school on Halloween. After what seemed like an overly lengthy and detailed presentation on safety, they wanted to take everyone's fingerprints. It was for some sort of public registry, which they could use in case we were ever abducted.

At first I had been angry.

To think the police would just come in and terrorize and torture the class right before the best night of the year. Baffling.

I had categorically refused to give my fingerprints.

"Emmalyn, sweety, it's not because you give your fingerprints that you will necessarily be abducted. This is just in case," had said my teacher after having witnessed my distress.

"You don't understand, Mrs. Brossard. What if some of us want to keep our fingerprints? I have no desire to give them away, they said it's what makes us all unique!"

Mrs. Brossard had burst laughing. And not the sweet, subtle type of laugh. No, it was the full on belly rumbling, toppled over kind.

"They don't take them away, silly. They just take a print of your fingertips!" my classmate, know-it-all Josiah, had joined in.

"Josiah's right, Emmalyn. Come and see." She had ushered me towards the fingerprinting tables that were set up in the gymnasium. Just as Josiah had said, kids were asked to dip their fingers in ink before placing them on a special paper, leaving behind small circular stamps of their fingertips.

I had watched with a skeptical look as child after child left their fingerprints. Once I was satisfied that they would not steal away parts of my fingers, I had gone through the same process myself, although still a little reluctantly.

That very same night, as I was busy playing with my toy truck, which was more than a little weathered, what with being my only toy and all, my mother received a phone call from the local police department.

I knew it was about me right away when, after a few brief seconds into the phone call, she turned in my direction with the same deep scowl that tended to decorate her face whenever it came to me.

"The police department!" she said, then nodded her head as she held the phone to her ear, "Yes, that's my daughter. What did she do now?" she said with a sigh, crushing the remains of her cigarette into the kitchen sink.

She nodded a few more times in silence and I anticipated the moment she would hang up and let her wrath would fall upon me.

"Thank you, officers. We will be right there." She hung up and turned to me.

"Apparently you were asked to give your fingerprints at school today, is that right?"

"Yes," I squeaked. I just hoped to god I was not going to be in any trouble.

"Well, that was the police department just now. They said that you didn't do it properly or something. Now they want us to drive up there so you can do it again." She shook her head in disapproval, "Can't you just for once in your life do something correctly? Why must you be such a clutz? Come on," she grabbed my arm and forcefully pulled me up, making me drop my truck on the grimy floor of our trailer.

My dad came through the door just as we were about to leave. When he saw me being dragged by my mother, his face turned sour.

"What did she do now?" he asked his wife in a derogatory voice.

"She messed up something at school. Has to do with fingerprints or something... We have to drive to the police station. Should be back for dinner," she kissed him on the cheek and pulled me to the beat up Echo in the driveway.

When we arrived at the station, my mother explained to a junior officer that we were here to have my fingerprints taken. He then led us to an examination room where we were to wait.

"Now do exactly as they say. How hard can it be to dip your finger in some ink, girl?" she hissed.

"I did it right the first time, mommy!" I cried. It had taken me a long time to agree to it, but I was sure I had done exactly as I was told.

"Well apparently not, or we wouldn't be here!"

Another police officer entered the room with a fingerprinting kit and smiled in our direction as he sat down in front of us.

"Good afternoon, I'm Officer Anderson, nice to meet you," he shook my mom's hand.

"Hi," she blurted and an evident blush made its way to her cheeks, "Hmm, we're here because my daughter, Emmalyn, needs to have her fingerprints taken," her voice sounded so sweet it made my teeth curl. She was so ridiculous. I was always amazed at how she could switch from mean and angry to nice and gentle in a matter of seconds.

"So I've heard. It's not uncommon for kids to have to redo them," he looked down at me with a kind expression, "The important thing to remember, Emmalyn, is to move your finger as little as possible when it's on the piece of paper, ok?"

"Ok," I peeped. In my heart I knew I had done it properly at school, but I did not want to be too difficult and give my mom more reasons to hate me.

I dipped my index finger in the black ink pad and pressed it in the right square on the piece of paper. I prepared to dip my next finger when Officer Anderson brought the page closer to his face to inspect it.

"Oh, I think we'll have to do it again, the print did not transfer properly," he took out a new fingerprint form, "Make sure not to move your finger on the page next time, ok?"

"My god, Emma! What is wrong with you? How difficult can it be?" irritation laced my mother's voice as she angrily grabbed my hand, dipped my finger in the ink again and pushed it on the new page.

"Ow! Mommy!"

When the officer inspected my new fingerprint, he frowned.

"Why don't I try it out?" he sent a reassuring smile in my direction and motioned for me to let him take my hand.

He repeated the fingerprinting process, the exact same one we had just done twice, ad frowned again at the page in front of him. He looked at it in silence for what seemed like an eternity.

"Can I see your hand?"

He took it in his much larger ones and shined a flashlight on the tip of my fingers. It seemed as though his frown became deeper.

"How... interesting. I've never seen something like this," he turned off the flashlight and let go of my hand, "Wait here for a moment, please," and then he left.

My mom grabbed my hand and I looked at it the same way the officer had just done.

"What did you do now?" she growled. I tried to pry my hand away from her grasp but she would not let go.

We heard the door open and both of us snapped our heads towards it in unison. My mom let go of my hand and smiled sweetly at Officer Anderson, who was now accompanied by a much older gentleman dressed in a white sarong.

"Hello, I'm Dr. Collins," he nodded at us and sat on one of the chairs, "Can I please see your hand, young lady?"

I hesitantly placed my hand palm up on the table in front of him. He pushed his glasses higher up his nose and took out a magnifying glass from his pocket.

"Fascinating, I've never seen anyone with adermatoglyphia before," He kept looking at my hand with as though he was enthralled with what he was seeing.

"Adermato what now?" sputtered my mother who was just as confused as I was.

"It's an extremely rare genetic disorder. Only a few people on in the world have it." He mumbled, touching the tips of my fingers one by one, engrossed.

"I thought it was an urban legend," came Officer Anderson's voice who was leaning against the opposite wall.

"Oh, no. It's very real. Come and see for yourself," The doctor showed him my hand again, "Your daughter does not have any fingerprints, Ma'am."

"No fingerprints? How is that possible?"

"Again, it's a very rare condition. It probably runs in the family too. Can I see your hand as well?" he asked, seeming way too excited now.

"It seems as though you have yours, but perhaps her dad or her grand-parents did not have any," he remarked.

"So, I guess that means you cannot take my fingerprints?" I asked them both, kind of disappointed.

At the time, I could not know that this would be the start of a future filled with death, misery and servitude.

The nurse turns my hand in every direction under the bright light of the examination room, inspecting it with the same captivated eyes as Dr. Collins had so many years before her.

"Wow..." he cannot stop repeating, "this is so cool..."

Sophie looks at me from the corner of her eye, probably wondering what the hell is going on.

Having had enough of this, I jerk my hand out of his and hiss at the pressure it causes on my recently dislocated shoulder.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he offers, "I've just never seen anyone without fingerprints before."

"It's called adermatogly...ia something," I explain, "Look it up in your medical books. Can we go now?"

He looks stunned for a moment at my bluntness, but quickly recovers.

"Oh, yes! Make sure to avoid any physical activity for the next couple week. You can ice it for 15 minutes at a time and take ibuprofen for the pain while it heals." he writes something down on his clipboard.

"Great," I pull Sophie out of the room with my one good arm.

"What was that all about? Do you really not have any fingerprints?" she asks as we start making our way across the hospital parking lot.

I was weary of telling people about my weird condition. People had taken advantage of it in the past, but surely Sophie could know.

"Yep."

"Oh my god! Can I see?" she exclaims.

I show her my hands reluctantly, glancing at my perfectly smooth finger pads for a split second before turning away in annoyance.

"I've never seen anything like this! How cool!"

"It's supposed to be very rare," I state flatly.

"Ok," she looks at me with a raised brow when I do not add anything else and I can tell she knows something is up, "Come one, I'll drive you home," and I am glad she does not ask any more questions.