St. Katherine's Convent, Minnesota, 1986
It was hot. Far too hot. Flames licked at her skin but she could not see them. All she could see was the man, smirking at her, his eyes an unnatural yellow. She tried to scream, but nothing came out of her mouth.
Someone else was yelling though. Someone was yelling her name.
"Braelynn!"
The small girl shot awake in her bed, jumping as the it returned to its place on the ground with a thud. Oh, not again! Nervous eyes darted to the door, praying it would remain shut. When the room remained quiet, she let out a breath of relief. She reached for the light on her bedside table, flicking it on to see the damage she had caused this time.
The room was small, and the miniscule amount of belongings were scattered, but the windows were still intact this time, so that was good. She had never been sure why things happened when she got upset; at first it had been fun, to get a book from a high shelf without needing the ladder, or to make a cookie zoom into her hand right behind cook's back.
But the sisters at the convent had quickly taught her that it was no laughing matter. They said she was cursed by the devil. Braelynn knew she wasn't, but took little comfort in it. The man with the yellow eyes was most certainly not the devil, but he had cursed her.
Several years ago when one of the sisters had brought her to Mother Superior after finding her on the front steps of the convent, they had called her their little miracle. There had been no note with the baby, no sign of where she had come from save for what she was wrapped in: a small, red hand-knitted blanket that smelled like smoke. They had gotten her name from the purple stitching on the side 'Braelynn.'
The girl despised the name, and had quickly taken Brynn as a substitute. Things had been good for a while, perhaps being raised in around only adult women and no other children was not the best thing for her, but it was all Brynn had ever known, and it made her happy. She liked hearing stories of the angels and the saints, she liked learning prayers, and she liked being the sister's 'miracle baby.'
That had all changed the day after her fourth founding day. As they didn't know her birthday, the nuns had founding day parties to celebrate the day Brynn had come to them. There had been games, presents, and cook had made a cake with her name spelled out in chocolate.
Brynn clutched the St. Anthony medal that still hung around her neck. St. Anthony was the patron saint of miracles and lost things. The medal had been a gift from Mother Superior; there was an engraving on the back that read 'To our little miracle.'
Brynn had gone to bed happy and full of cake. The next morning had been the first time she'd woken up with her bed not on the floor.
As any child would be, Brynn had been eager to show off her newfound skill. It had not been received well. That had been the first time she had been locked in the shrine room to plead forgiveness.
Except she hadn't. She had prayed, but for answers instead. She didn't understand why the man with the yellow eyes was haunting her, she didn't understand why she had these powers, and she didn't understand why the nuns were suddenly so afraid of her when they had told her they loved her and kissed her goodnight the night before.
She had not received answers, and perhaps she never would. The nuns continued to be afraid of her abilities, even when she did her best not to use them. She couldn't help it sometimes, they were tied to her emotions, and there was nothing more upsetting than having the only family she had ever known insisted she had been cursed by the devil.
Soft brown eyes fell on the wooden cross that hung on the wall, a crucified Jesus carved onto it. Brynn knew the story well, but had begun to wonder if it was just that: a story.
Surely if there really were angels and a God like the nuns said someone would have come to her aid by now? The man with the yellow eyes was a monster, weren't angels supposed to protect them from the devil and his monsters?
She laid her head in her hands, her light brown hair falling over her face. It wasn't fair! She was a good girl, she prayed, she paid attention in her lessons, she listened to the nuns – well, except for when they locked her in the shrine room. It was cold down there.
Pulling the old red blanket she kept under her pillow into her chest for comfort, Brynn ran her hand over the purple stitching. Someone out there had made this blanket, someone had taken the time to spell her name in thread. Someone had loved her, at least a little. But they had left her at the convent, turning on her as quickly as the nuns had. Brynn wondered if they knew about the curse, if perhaps they had been present when it had been set.
Her eyes again fell on the door, fearing the world that lay outside it. A world where she was no longer a miracle, she was a curse.
Truthfully she didn't want to be either. She just wanted to be a kid.