Post by dreamwriter on Jul 13, 2012 22:21:32 GMT -5
I am powerful. There are lots of people in the world who believe the opposite is true about themselves, but I know that I have an incredible power. But I also have a problem. I can't control my power. I can't make it do what I want it to. I can't keep my power from hurting someone. That's why I haven't stopped running, haven't stopped trying to alter fate and turn back time. I could do it if I learned control.
Perhaps I should start at the beginning. My name is Meerue Darrows. I've been alone for as long as I can remember, because every time I find someone to take care of me, they leave with no explanation.
But I should tell you, part of my exile is self-inflicted. I can't be with anyone for fear I will kill them in a fit of anger.
It wasn't intentional; none of my outbursts of power are. I didn't even know the man's name.
I was seven years old, before I learned to control my emotions. I had to beg in the streets for money and food that I needed to survive. Relying on the kindness of the human heart didn't always get me the things I needed. I ran into the man just before five o'clock in the evening and I was ready to quit for the day and find somewhere warm to sleep. The nights were getting colder as we moved into early October.
One look and the man seemed to hate me instantly.
"Get off the streets, you brat," he hissed, "and tell your lazy, good-for-nothing parents to go find some work and quit living off of others."
"My parents are gone." This usually shut people like this up right away. They don't help me out, but they at least leave me alone.
"Then you should be in a foster home. I pay enough to the government for them to give to brats like you when your parents die or go to prison or whatever. Why don't you go back to your foster home?"
There were a whole slew of reasons I could spout for not returning to the foster home, but my mind went blank with rage. I had done nothing to this man; I hadn't even asked for anything. Why was he so angry?
His anger was contagious because suddenly, I was consumed. I had felt frustrated and upset before, but nothing like the white hot anger that poured through my body then. It welled up inside me for a moment, as I watched him get in his car. Then the feeling was gone. A second later, the car exploded.
My anger was replaced by a sick feeling of guilt when I realized that I was the one who had made the car explode. I was just angry; I didn't want to kill him. But I had.
The police said that they couldn't find any reason for the car to explode. There was no detonator, no accellerant, no defect in the design that could explain the spontaneous explosion. I was only seven years old, and I had become a murderer, but no one ever knew.
That was the moment I started running, and I haven't stopped since. There's not a day that goes by when I don't wonder if he had a family that would never see him again, if there was a boy or girl who would never see their father again because I killed him. My worry now is that if I get close to someone, how long will they be safe from me?
Perhaps I should start at the beginning. My name is Meerue Darrows. I've been alone for as long as I can remember, because every time I find someone to take care of me, they leave with no explanation.
But I should tell you, part of my exile is self-inflicted. I can't be with anyone for fear I will kill them in a fit of anger.
It wasn't intentional; none of my outbursts of power are. I didn't even know the man's name.
I was seven years old, before I learned to control my emotions. I had to beg in the streets for money and food that I needed to survive. Relying on the kindness of the human heart didn't always get me the things I needed. I ran into the man just before five o'clock in the evening and I was ready to quit for the day and find somewhere warm to sleep. The nights were getting colder as we moved into early October.
One look and the man seemed to hate me instantly.
"Get off the streets, you brat," he hissed, "and tell your lazy, good-for-nothing parents to go find some work and quit living off of others."
"My parents are gone." This usually shut people like this up right away. They don't help me out, but they at least leave me alone.
"Then you should be in a foster home. I pay enough to the government for them to give to brats like you when your parents die or go to prison or whatever. Why don't you go back to your foster home?"
There were a whole slew of reasons I could spout for not returning to the foster home, but my mind went blank with rage. I had done nothing to this man; I hadn't even asked for anything. Why was he so angry?
His anger was contagious because suddenly, I was consumed. I had felt frustrated and upset before, but nothing like the white hot anger that poured through my body then. It welled up inside me for a moment, as I watched him get in his car. Then the feeling was gone. A second later, the car exploded.
My anger was replaced by a sick feeling of guilt when I realized that I was the one who had made the car explode. I was just angry; I didn't want to kill him. But I had.
The police said that they couldn't find any reason for the car to explode. There was no detonator, no accellerant, no defect in the design that could explain the spontaneous explosion. I was only seven years old, and I had become a murderer, but no one ever knew.
That was the moment I started running, and I haven't stopped since. There's not a day that goes by when I don't wonder if he had a family that would never see him again, if there was a boy or girl who would never see their father again because I killed him. My worry now is that if I get close to someone, how long will they be safe from me?