The Power of Thought-2

         Am I supernatural?Or am I more natural than anyone else? I don't really feel nine years old any more.



         Regardless, I can sense the growing fear in my parent's hearts. I can hear their wobbly voices spilling from the kitchen window like a potent fog. I scratch at the cast that covers my left wrist with discontent, swimming in the sickness creeping in the pit of my stomach. I know what fear does to people. When I was six, I brought a large arachnid inside and set it at the table with me for lunch. I knew he knew that I wasn't afraid of him, and he, thus, had no reason to suspect any danger from me, nor I from him. We were at an understanding. But, my mother took one look at his hairy, spindly legs and bulging, nightmare-black eyes and granted the natural rouge color its leave from her face. I remember the twanging pain of her screams vibrating around in my little head. The spider, of course, was startled from its own rationality, jumping towards my mother in what I assumed was an attempt to ward her away. Instead, in one fear-stiffened swipe, the life was crushed from my little acquaintance's body, and from that day on I understood how much fear disrupts the concrete unity of nature.

          I understand that without fear there can never be clear comprehension of another being. I understand how it clouds judgments and distorts feelings of affection or humanity. And I understand perhaps most clearly of all, that the jello-like nature of my hushed parents' voices dawn the birthstones of fear in their hearts. Fear of me.

         "As long as she's in this house, Dilivia, she can't get any help-she can't get any better. She'll never have a shot at normalcy if we don't get her help."

         "Gregomer, she could hurt people.Besides, what would people say?"

         "She's still just a little girl for cryin' out loud."

         "I've seen time-and-time-again what that 'little girl' is capable of. She's not natural, Greg. She's not. I don't know what she is, and I just don't know what to do about it."

         My mother's voice fades out in the distance as I meander towards the back corner of the yard, my face to the sky, watching the gray storm clouds whispering to each-other above me. I don't know what will happen next, and I'm not able to think about it very well, my thoughts keep being scattered by the twinging pain in my broken wrist. Among the chatter and discussion exchanged between my parents this morning after my mother found me sleeping soundly against the ceiling, they had forgotten to ration my pain medication.

          The grass is still warm beneath my feet from the sunshine that's just retired from the sky. I drop gently into it, hooking my fingers into the grass, dragging my toes through it and feeling the gentile wind brush past the tip of my nose. I can hear my breath rhythmically inside my body, the gentile thrumming of my heart persevering. I feel the pain separating my arm from my hand, and then I feel the rush of my mind beginning to whirl.

          Can things really be broken? Aren't they meant to be? What would the point be, being born fixed, if your intent was not to experience being broken? Seemingly material things... are really millions of very small parts agreeing with each-other. If there are actually a lot of really small separate things making up one big thing, then how can it be broken? As this comes to mind, I take a breath and open my eyes, finding myself to be a few feet above the ground, with the cast lying beside me on the earth, as solid as my now naturally functional wrist.