Lunatics

Like any isolated, only child left to their own devices, I have always had an active imagination. My parents were too busy creating the life they wanted as children to know all that life provided me with was fear. I was terrified of how differently I felt beside anyone else, and how easily everyone else could point it out, but never quite explain. If I let myself be known, I knew some day, someone would come to take me away. Keeping to myself was the only way to stay safe.

Until my mother got her driver’s license, we spent the occasional weekend with my father. Even there it was the same. Most time was spent at my grandmother’s absorbing everything I could from her maroon encyclopedia set with spines of pearl. At night, staring out of her kitchen window, I pondered how many others thought the moon was hungrily eyeing its next meal.

Not me. I repeated that to myself every time I caught that hungry stare. Not me. As long as I kept it all inside, whatever was waiting would never reach me.

At least, so I thought until my mother started driving. The moon would rise high above the leaning, cramped houses so that I was clearly in its sights. I hurried to the car as it began its nightly chase while we sped through the winding streets. It stopped when we did, letting itself be known at heights above all else. Every night I huddled in the darkest corner just outside of its reach, repeating my mantra.

“Not me.”

Those must have been the words that kept it at bay for so long, but one day I mysteriously awoke without a voice. Beside myself, I ran to my parents who looked at me in confusion.

“What’s wrong?” my mother asked, concerned as she gave me a quick once over. “Do you think it’s his tonsils again?” she got me to open my mouth to check.

In frustration, nothing but tears came as I broke free and escaped down the stairs. Hidden among unused materials under the house, I pressed my hands against my ears while my name boomed in my father’s voice. Drawing in a deep breath in the wake of those waves of thunder, something unfamiliar surged along each hair it left standing. In a blur, I found myself back in my bed upstairs. I blinked and was back beneath the house where I began.

Cartoons taught me well enough to practice my newfound power as much as possible in what little time I had. It was only so long before my pursuer returned, and now that I knew I had been right about myself who knew what it would do. Looking into the darkening sky, I saw the moon perched at a distance in a wicked curve like it was observing my every move. That night instead, that wicked crescent caught up to me and whispered.

“You’ve only tapped into the tiniest inkling of what you’re capable.” it teased. “You could shape universes, or even shake this one if you please.” its grin was audible.

Since then I have practiced crafting life by weaving together its many threads. Beautiful scenes still appear to me whenever I close my eyes; some I have even seen. I have lived so many lives among these pages, and cut so many more short. Here comes the moon again.