I grew up wishing that people’s darkness lived outside of them. I wanted to see behind the smiles and blank faces, because who wouldn’t? Who wouldn’t want to know how rotten a person’s insides could be? It’s like spoiled fruit. If you could see the insides, you don’t have to bite to know if it’s gone bad.

Even then, sweet things-people-can be dangerous.

Ma used to fret over my health. I was quiet, and a little skinny for my age, so Ma went out of her way to make sure her little girl was all right. Did I eat my broccoli? Did I make new friends at school? Was there anything troubling me?

I loved her, although she could be bothersome at times, but I suppose it came from raising me as a single mother. She only had me. And I only had her. I think she recognized that and taught me the value of love. “Love everyone you meet, dear,” she used to tell me, “because love is a precious thing.” I knew she was referring to her parents that died in a plane crash, and the father I had never met (despite her not ever saying so). So I believed her.

But when the bullying started, and I came home angry that the girls at school who had been so nice would fire insults at me like it was nothing, Ma thought it wasn’t their fault. “Dear, think about why they said that. They’re hurting just as much as you are,” she would say, hugging me. “Be nice to them. Eventually, they will too.”

It happened during the regular side show. Some poor freshman was pushed against the lockers by a towering senior-Mike. A crowd has gathered to watch, so I had to peek over tall people’s heads. The spectacle gave us a momentary high from the dreary school routine, even if it was brief as it was insignificant.

But there it was. The miracle. A lone storm cloud, hovering over Mike. It shrank, and grew, shrank and grew, like a pulsing heart. There was a cloud over the boy too, but it was small and pouring rain that turned into the nerd’s tears. It was nothing like I’ve seen before. Transfixed, I watched as Mike’s insults fueled his thundercloud and tore the nerd’s esteem into shreds.

I couldn’t see his cloud for the rest of the day.

I decided to investigate this deeper. Between walks on rainy days and studying my classmates’ social media posts, I gleaned new information-not only about what the clouds meant but the people around me. White clouds were happy, rainy clouds were sad, and almost everyone weren’t feeling what they seemed to be.

Now I saw what Ma meant: in class, grey clouds hung over the group of girls like wilting flowers. When they got the chance to snitch on others, however, the clouds swelled like balloons on ecstasy.

I am their sun, I thought. They didn’t want to believe it, perhaps they didn’t realize it, but their lives revolved around my suffering. Around me. That gave me a brief moment of elation, but it was pushed back with a darker realization.

I was the sun, but they were the black holes.

This only became more apparent as years passed and I honed my gift, all while maturing into a young woman. Sad clouds helped no one. They were only the start of a vicious, unforgiving chain-like reaction. Sorrow, anger and darkness were the same thing in this respect: They were infectious, and I had to find a way to protect myself.

Sometimes it was far from simple. Like Ma, for instance. I don’t know what drove me to stay with her day after day after day at the hospital. Her grey, almost non-existent cloud would lighten up when she saw me, like the sun had appeared behind it. She would hold my face in her wrinkled hands and whisper, “My darling,” and I would kiss her forehead before leaving for the night. The visits sapped all that I had, but I kept coming back, if only to see Ma a little happier than she was before.

After her passing, something inside me disappeared. My fascination in others’ sadness, my drug, vanished. It left me floating, untethered to the world. I started to disconnect myself from others. Avoid relationships. Hope that the four walls of my apartment would keep me safe from...from whatever was out there. The people? The unknown? Perhaps they were the same thing. The more I used my ability, the more I understood that this was the harsh reality. This was the only way to save myself. And nobody could see it until it was too late.

Now, as I sit by my bedroom window, I watch city life unfold in the morning haze. Despite the sunny day the weather has predicted, there’s more rainy clouds than ever hanging over people’s heads. Birds sing to each other, their chirps somewhat muffled by the thick glass. I’m happy, I think to myself. Happy as could be.

I smile at my translucent reflection. It’s a shame I can’t see my own cloud.

#ability #emotions #girl #mother #special #cloud

It was loud. Too loud.

Not only that, but the colours were jarring, and wrong. Like someone had cranked up the saturation, rendering the subway and its commuters to be lost in a mass of unpleasant hues.

Everything except for the little girl, it seemed.

She blinked a few times, looking around from the safety of the sidelines. A plethora of platforms and rail lines levitated above and below her, connected only by escalators and stairs. Subway trains sped past, occasionally stopping to load before screeching away. Everywhere the little girl looked, streams of people bustled about, eager to catch the next train that would take them to anywhere in the world.

That was the rumour, at least. But the little girl had learned that rumours could take her to the most interesting places, and this was no exception.

Weaving through the crowd, she came to a digital subway map. It made little sense to her; the colourful lines that sprawled over each other were nothing like what she'd imagined the outside world would be. White dots along the subway routes were labelled with the names of near and far away places.

So different. So different from the small, suffocating orphanage she'd run away from.

She turned around, and after a moment of hesitation, mustered the courage to tug a woman's sleeve. "Excuse me ma'am, can you--"

The woman jerked her arm away and rushed past.

The little girl bit her lip. She made eye contact with a man carrying a briefcase. "Hello, I'm trying--"

"Sorry miss, I'm trying to get somewhere too." He gave her a strange look before disappearing around the corner.

Maybe it was a mistake to hope for something that sounded too good to be true. And sure, the subway was much like walking into another world, but somehow she had envisioned the people to be less...cold.

A small part of her yearned for the familiarity of the orphanage. It hadn't made her feel loved, no. The rooms were too cramped and the caretaker was too cold for love. But until now, her life had always been simple. Quiet. And very dull.

It didn't make sense, to mull over the life she was so close to escaping. But she suspected that being contradictory was not uncommon--at least, not here.

Something green caught her eye. Not the neon shade that matched the peculiar fashion statement adored by everyone else here, but a natural, forest green. The girl turned to see an odd little man standing near a set of stairs.

She looked around again before walking up to him. "Hello," she ventured.

He tipped his bowler hat. His crinkled eyes met her inquisitive ones. "A pleasure to meet you, young miss."

He looked like a leprechaun, she thought. The green hat, matching suit and pants, and his pointy-looking shoes only supported that idea. 

Something nagged at the back of her mind. She couldn't place her finger on why, but she felt that she should know the strange man.

"You're not from here, are you?" he asked. "If you don't mind me asking," he said quickly.

She looked down at her worn, donated clothes from the orphanage, then back to the leprechaun man, then at the bright, colourful outfits of everyone else. She shifted her feet, but refused to let her embarrassment show.

"Where are we?" she asked.

The man chuckled. "Everywhere and nowhere, in a manner of speaking. I can't figure it out either. But all we need to know is that this place, it'll take you to wherever your heart desires."

"And where is that for you?"

He smiled wistfully. "Oh, somewhere nice and pleasant. It's so hard finding exactly what you're looking for these days. Right now, my wife and I are thinking of Florida."

The city, or place, or whatever it was held little meaning to the girl. It was the word "wife" that caught her attention.

As if on cue, an elderly woman stepped up to them and looped her arm through her husband's. "That's right," she said with a smile. To her husband, she asked, "Who's this?"

He shrugged, then glanced at his gold watch. "About time we head off, honey. Don't want to miss our train." They turned to leave.

"Wait!"

The little girl ran and blocked their way. "So I really can go anywhere from here, right?"

The leprechaun man furrowed his brows. "Well, yes--"

"Are you sure?" she pressed. Adults had the tendency to agree with anything a child said, especially when they wanted them to get out of their way.

"Very, young miss. We've used this station several times."

"Then how do I go home?"

The couple looked at each other. "I'm sorry, but I don't understand," said the man.

"Home is wherever you want it to be, dear," said the woman.

The girl frowned. "But...my parents! They're probably waiting for me. I want to find them too..."

"Your parents aren't with you?" asked the woman, as if she had just realized that. "Why would you run away?"

"I didn't, I'm looking for them--"

"If they weren't with you before, I can't imagine them waiting for you now," the leprechaun man said firmly. He shook his head. "Apologies miss, but we need to catch our train."

The girl could only watch as the couple bustled off. In no time they were swallowed up by the crowd.

And slowly, she began to understand.

Balling her fists in resolve, she once again located the subway map. Her finger traced over a curvy green line, and she read outloud the names of the stops. "Cadmen County, Traverse Hill, Mount Pleasant...."

Where had the couple come from? And why did they want to leave? Perhaps she was assuming things. After all, not much differentiated them. They were all looking for something. They all wanted to move forward. Even now, despite what had happened, she still had something to do.

She needed to move on, she thought. Nothing would change otherwise.

Her finger lingered on a particular stop, then traced it back to where she currently was. Station EN8, apparently.

She ran around a bit, using a mixture of observations and asking people to find what she was looking for. After finally locating the correct platform, her ears picked up the rumbling of the nearby traincar. Just in time.

As the traincar eased to a stop, the girl realized that once upon a time, the couple could have been her parents. Or her guardians. People that could've given her a home. And maybe, they both would've had what they wanted for so long.

But she knew she couldn't think like that. Because if there was one thing the orphanage had taught her, it was that there was no point in wondering what could've been. She had to focus on the now.

Focus on putting one battered shoe in front of the other. Focus on whatever lies ahead of her, and not behind.

She stepped into the traincar and sat. As a pleasant female voice announced the name of the next destination, the girl let out a breath, closed her eyes, and listened.

It was quiet, she noticed.

#subway #girl #metaphor #magical #rush #reality #orphan

How long have I been here?

Long, I think. Very long. Long enough that I'm starting to forget what happened.

Or maybe the rain, or the cold ground, or the sun that refuses to rise is erasing my memory and sense of time. Lying at the end of an dark alley doesn't help, either. I don't usually complain. Most of the time, I can absorb the stuff people throw at me like a sponge. But I guess a lot of things have changed since that moment.

How long have I been here? I stare at a puddle, the gentle drizzle making ripples across its surface. One, two, three, four...

Eleven. Somewhere, a bell tower chimes eleven times.

It was his fault.

I didn't see this coming. During the days and weeks and months leading up to it, everything seemed normal. He was a normal guy doing normal things. He volunteered at the local hospital, hung out with his friends, and even made it into the school swim team—something he had always dreamed of.

And then there were the not-so-good times. The nights that his parents fought and argued. The days where his friends would avoid talking with him. And the crying. Lots of crying.

I used to comfort him. Whenever he needed someone to understand, someone to be with, I was there.

And yet he left me. Why?

I try to tell myself that the answer is simple. In a busy city in a busy world, no one has the time to worry about others. Society moves at its own pace, and whether I decide to move on or get left behind is my problem.

A man's sudden laughter startles me. It takes me a few moments to realize it must be coming from the alleyway opening. I can't see him, partly because I don't want to, and partly because despite the opening it's still somehow pitch-dark here. Instead, I focus on the sounds of footsteps sloshing by in the rain, the traffic noise and the hum of the city as life goes on.

It seems so far away. Life, I mean. When was the last time I did something normal? Taking walks around the city at night, diving into a pool and competing against my teammates...It's all gone now.

But was that even my life? Or was that his life? Or both?

My head hurts, and this uncomfortable position isn't helping, but moving takes more effort than it's worth. Don't overthink it, I tell myself. We both knew he was always the one in control, anyway. His decisions and his thoughts mattered, while mine were less significant. That's just how it was.

He used to love sketching. Both of us did, actually. He would pick the scenery, perhaps a park or a piece of urban sprawl, and we'd sit under a tree. I'd make the skeletons, the rough base, then he'd fill in with the finer details. Sometimes he drew people. A little girl feeding a bird. A man reading the morning newspaper with his legs crossed. Normal people doing normal things. Though he added other details too. Stuff that didn't make sense, like having the bird's shadow in the shape of a vulture, or giving the man milky white eyes that were half hidden beneath his fedora.

I wonder what he would think of this scene. A boy lying on the ground in a dark alley, isolated from the rest of the world. Perhaps he would focus on the rain, and the way it seems to touch everything but me. Or maybe he'd shade most of my face in a way that looks like I'm crying.

If it were up to me, I would draw what I see in front of me. No symbolism, no artistic alterations. Just stark reality. Unlike him, I don't need to hide from the facts.

I once told him that. He said I was heartless.

But can I really be blamed? All I did was look out for him. I made sure that he'd avoid the wrong people so he wouldn't get hurt. I reminded him to put himself before others. I did the things that he was too afraid to do, like acknowledge the truth that nobody really liked him.

Maybe that was what made him snap. The truth.

Thinking hurts. Everything hurts.

But am I wrong to complain? Does it make me foolish to still care about him? Does it make me selfish to think about what I've been through, and not him?

I wish somebody would answer me. It's all so silent.

My vision blurs, and tears begin to slide sideways down my face. At least, I think they're my tears and not his, because I'm not sure of anything anymore. They reach the ground and join the raindrops that have begun to fall faster, harder.

Now that he's gone, there's nothing to do but lie here and wait. Soon, somebody will find me—or not. For some reason I keep forgetting that people don't care about each other. Maybe they thought the gunshot wouldn't be worth checking out.

I stare at the slick, crimson liquid that's spilling from my head and pooling onto the ground. A pistol sits a few feet away from my hand. His pistol.

I remember now. I remember, so vividly the moment he put the gun to our head and ended our life without so much as an explanation, an apology, a goodbye. I remember crying for help before he tightened our vocal cords and made us blend into the night. As his soul faded away, I remember the feeling of warmth being steadily drained from me, like the world was glad to let us go. Just like he was glad to leave me behind.

I wonder if he knew.

I wonder if he planned this.

I wonder if he abandoned me, his body, so I would know what it feels like to be alone.

#alone #abandoned #rain #death #emotion