A/N: I do not own Jessie or Elsewhere
Eight months
I'm two now, with my pigtails, too big of eyes and hardly able to speak.
At this age you are put into a special home so you don't do anything bad. But there is one problem, you can't look out of the lighthouse telescopes anymore.
I miss my mom's voice, my dad's childishness. My younger siblings, but nothing can stop it. I am gone from their lives now.
I sit in the home, surrounded by toys that will not satisfy my need for something to do, something entertaining.
I am not a child; I am a teenager, so why do they treat me as though I am a child? That's right, because I look like one.
I'm the only one that still has my mind, everyone else's has either aged down or disappeared, leaving in their place as young child who doesn't know what is happening to them.
What I wanted was chocolate, and when I wanted it I tasted it. It was as though I was getting it invisibly. The teacher who told us what was happening explained.
"Now that you are only a month away from being born again, you need to know what is going on. Sometime in the fetal period of pregnancy the fetus, which is you, will be able to feel and hear. But what they don't know is that we, you, the fetus, can also taste. But only what you crave. You crave chocolate, the mother craves chocolate, and they get chocolate." He had explained.
But when they put us to sleep at night I heard distant goodnights, I heard someone singing, I felt as though someone was trying to sooth me to sleep, which is what they were. They were trying to sooth the fetus, me.
I could never make out the voice though, no matter how hard I tried, which bugged me. I wanted to know who my parents were. I wanted to see my parents. I wanted my mom and dad back. But I couldn't have them back, no matter how much I wanted them.
"Telescope!" I cried. I wasn't allowed to go. I was told I had to forget. I wasn't going to be theirs anymore. Jennifer was gone, now I was no name. They called me by a number 412. I was 412. Girl 412. I was nothing now.
With only a number, I was stripped of my identity. I wasn't the girl who wore shades of grey, had blonde hair, was the daughter of a director and model.
I was now the number child, waiting to be born. Because I am nothing, and they let you know you are nothing. Because if you are nothing, you don't think like you use to. You think like they want you to, childishly.
But I won't, I will keep myself. Because I am, and always will be, Jennifer Fyre Ross.
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