I had a beautiful childhood. I was home grown and raised on a Maryland farm, about 3 hours away from the city which I would later call home. The air around my parent's home smelt of sweet tall grasses and corn fields. It was such a fresh scent; I can almost feel it twirling into my nostrils at just the thought. I was the only living child my parents had conceived. I had inherited my Mom's looks mostly. I had her long dusty blond curly hair, which I wore long. The only thing I inherited from my father was his blue eyes. My mother had two unexplained miscarriages before me. She once told me I was a special gift sent from heaven, her own little blessing. I can't help but wonder if her opinion wavered at all after I hit puberty. That's when everything changed, that's when I started to become what I am. What I was destined to be. It was during the summer I turned 14. That's when the blackouts began.

It was a normal day. I had finished my chores around noon, and headed out to the small meadow behind our house for a quick picnic, and alone time, which I filled with sketching. I love to sketch. I never fancied myself as a particularly skilled artist, but even still, it helps me relax just the same. I ate my lunch, and began to sketch a horse. I woke up around 6pm to the sound of my father calling my name, and sketch of an octopus. I wouldn't be returning to school that fall.

For the next two years my illness would progress. I'd have several blackouts a week. My parents took me to all sorts of specialist who wanted to diagnose me with this or that. Funny now to think that this so called illness I was being diagnosed with was really just me, it was really just my normal.

I had turned 16, and was in my room crying. Due to my blackouts my parents deemed it unsafe for me to operate a vehicle. Which of course, looking at this situation with more mature eyes now, was probably a safe bet. Still, news like this would be devastating to any teenager who was longing for her freedom. I just found mine in a different way.

So there I was, sobbing, cursing, throwing pillows… and then, there I wasn't. As if I had simply blinked and missed it, I was in New York City. I was just standing, on a street, in the city. I must have been a sight to see really. I had stood there wearing a deer caught in the headlights expression for a solid 15 minutes. I was startled back into reality by the sound of a small boy crying.

He was sitting on a stoop about 5 houses down from where I was standing. He was a young boy with flaming red hair, who I guessed to be around the age of 9 or 10. He has his head in his knees, and was huddled into himself. He looked so small and fragile. He was shaking ever so slightly and trying to catch his breath between sobs. I felt pity and worry swell up in the pit of my stomach, and it made me forget myself. I approached him.

"Hey, are you okay?" I asked.

He peeked up from his knees and wiped his nose with the back of his coat sleeve and nodded. I noticed he had a black eye.

"Whoah! That's quite the shiner you got there. Did you get into a fight at school or something?"

He stared at me. Eyes cold as ice. Emotionless. He nodded. I knew he was agreeing to my words to get me to leave.

Just as I began to ask him if this was where he lived, a shrill voice cried out from an above window. It was ear piercing and nasty.

"WALTER! GET YOUR ASS BACK INTO THIS HOUSE!"

The boy gave a look, which I imagine was similar to the one I had given just moments before, and then took off into the house. It all came together like a puzzle in my mind. I lingered only for a minute, just long enough to note the street address and the number to the apartment building. Then, I just walked. There was nothing else I could do.

I couldn't tell you what caused me to do it, because I can't really explain it myself. I searched for a police station, and after several blocks I found one. I talked to an officer for nearly an hour. Expressing my concern for this boy I had ran into. I gave him the street name, and the building number, hoping that this was the right thing to do for this little boy.

When I was done I walked out of the police station and rounded the corner on a news stand. I picked up a paper. Apparently, it was 6 years ago.

And just like that, I was back in my bedroom. Dumbfounded. Shocked. In denial. I heard my father talking to me through the door I was starring at. He was saying something about a drivers license. In that moment I had to agree with the specialist, there was something wrong with me. Something terribly terribly wrong. I had lost my mind. It was over for me. I needed to be shipped off to an insane asylum and put into a straight jacket.

I looked down, and in my hand was a newspaper. From 6 years ago.