"Life is a gift. Do not forget this, Sondra,"
--
The night's cold air wisped into the Dockson's house. Sondra and her dad were seated at the dinner table.
"Daddy what do you do for a living?" the five year old Sondra asks.
"I work with the-CRASH- what was that?" screamed her father. The sound of glass windows shattering surrounded the house. A familiar scent of smoke filled the air; the cold King Row breeze pulling it into the kitchen. Sondra's mother rushed from the living room.
"John, the house is on fire!" she said, clutching her stomach. The woman was six months pregnant with a baby boy.
"Sondra, get under the table now. Terri, stay here. I will get the syringe,"
As John ran into his office, the little girl curled up under the table. She was stricken with a slap of fear as fire quickly filled the room. John reentered the kitchen, setting himself down next to his wife and child. He lifted up the back of her shirt.
"Terri, call 911. Sondra, this may sting," he commanded. Sondra's father said these words so calmly, like he would when she sang his little princess the heartfelt nursery rhymes. He pulled out a long needle. Squirting it twice, he injected into the five-year old's back.
Energy pounded up her spine, flowing throughout her body. Little did she know that she was being granted with extraordinary power.
"John, are you sure she will be ok?"
"I..I am positive,"
"You're sure there is no other way?"
"There is no escape,"
Bowing down next to Sondra, he whispered.
"Life is a gift. Do not forget this, Sondra,"
These were the last words Sondra would hear from her parents.