A Life Not Meant for Me
Disclaimer: I gather I'm supposed
to talk about how Sailor Moon, Hotaru, and whatever else I might use in this
story that I can't think of right now are copyrighted, and don't belong to
me. Well, of course, you think I'd have that much time on my hands? I wish, but they don't register as my
creations, they are forever Naoko's.
A Life Not Meant for Me
Ever
wonder how something can be a gift and a
curse at the same time? Such is the
story of my life.
I
breathe, but do not live. I am present,
but not existent in the world's eyes.
I
guess, in a way, that would make me safe, safe from the prying eyes of the
public, safe from anyone noticing my mistakes, but it's more of a curse in
itself. I roam the alleys of the world
half-heartedly, as if I am dragged through this reality by some cynical,
uncaring master.
If
only there were another like me; he or she would understand about my seizures,
healing power, or darkness. That's all
I've ever asked since I started walking this world. Why me?
Why am I so special that I'm alone and everyone has to be afraid of me?
Do
they understand me? You decide. I stumble past two girls conversing, feeling
the beginnings of a fit. Papa, the
medication you gave me this morning didn't work. I can't even hold on to my book bag while
surviving this attack.
Papa,
I hate bending over during a fit. It's
so hard to get up again. But I have to,
because no one will help me. I try,
Papa, I really do, but I can't hold on to my bag. Those two girls, I can feel them gaping at
me. There's something hidden in their
eyes. Do they laugh at me?
"Stop
looking at me funny," I snap quietly at them.
"I'll be fine."
But,
Papa, they aren't concerned. One of them
steps on my bag and rips it from my hand.
Her companion kicks it across the street.
"Do
you need help, Tomodachi?" they
sneer. I think I can hear the laughter
behind their voice.
And
then, Papa, I don't know what happens next, but when my vision clears up and my
body calms down again, I find them huddled as far away from me as possible,
terror on their faces. Oh, Papa, what
did I do this time?
I
walk over and pick up my bag with ease.
As I pass those girls, I can feel their glares burn into my senses.
I
whip my head around to address them and answer their stares calmly.
"Don't
look at me like that," I inform them.
"I'm just like you."
But
I'm not. We all know that. It feels so hurtful to deceive myself,
Papa. Why am I so different? Everyone else has the advantage in
numbers. I just want someone to talk to.
Sometimes
it feels like there's a voice in my head, another claimer to my body, another
me who destroys everything I find dear and dominates my life latently. I feel like a firefly trapped in a glass jar
by destiny, residing in my own company.
I don't even know my glow's going out.
Help
me, Papa. I feel so alone. I don't want the others to know, but in one
aspect, I am just like them:
I
am afraid of my own body. Afraid of what
it could do to my life, my loved ones, the world.
Papa,
I'm trapped by my own spirit and body.
It's taking over my life, tarnishing it until I am no longer living
it. It has become a life for someone
else.
Papa,
I don't want anything for Christmas or my birthday. All I want is for you, or anyone gracious and
caring enough to hear the pain of one little girl, to give me my life back.
My life.
The one I was supposed to live all along.
