After writing more than 5,000 words in one day, I have this to show for it. I hope you all enjoy this story that came into my mind this afternoon. I'll update whenever I can, though it's important to remember that I'm still a student.

Today's chapter is dedicated to my amazing mother and grandmother. All the mothers in the world, really. You'll see why upon starting to read. Enjoy!

Current music: Getting Away With Murder - Papa Roach


I didn't remember much about my father.

Most people grow up surrounded by both of their parents, whether that be a mom and dad, two moms, or two dads. They're paraded around in front of their families when they're too young to know what's happening, and the relatives will often coo at them as though they're too adorable for this brutal world.

And then you had me. Barrett Ashland, the sort of boy whose fate nobody likes to think about. Let me explain.

You see, I lived in the Sacred Heart Institute from the age of three. To some people, it was a boarding school of sorts. I mean, we took classes in all the subjects typically covered in any other New England curriculum. We lived in dormitories, two to a room, sleeping in twin beds adorned with sheets from home.

Some might also consider the institute a hospital. After all, all of us were there for treatment of a health condition. It did not matter that it was our brains, rather than our bodies, that needed fixing; in the eyes of our parents, we did not fit the correct mold. Therefore, we had to be shaped into the proper configuration like Play-Doh being used to make a sculpture.

Personally, I found the place to be more akin to a prison, for reasons that will become obvious soon enough.

Anyway, back to my parents. My side of the room contained several pictures of my mother holding the toddler version of me, infant me sleeping in a crib, and other pictures of my younger years. There was also the occasional photo from later in my childhood, but they were as few and far between as the visitation days when she actually got to see me in person.

By contrast, my father was totally absent from my bulletin board. I didn't even know what he looked like. According to Mom, that was a good thing.

We (by which I mean, the other "students" and I) spent the hours by reading books, doing homework for the varied classes we attended, and through surfing the Internet. That last activity rarely accomplished more than making us wistful about the outside world that we could not join.

I resided within the Sacred Heart Institute's walls for most of my childhood, but it didn't take me long to start asking questions.

"Why am I here?" I remember asking a staff member when I was maybe six years old.

The staff member turned to me and smiled before giving me an age-appropriate version of my condition.

"You see, Barrett, your mind works differently from most people's. There is nothing bad about that, just that you need support you can't get in the outside world. That is why your parents have sent you here, to ensure you can get that support."

On some level, I liked feeling special. I did not yet know the word for how I was different, just that it started with the "aww" sound that speech therapists were employed to help us master. Doesn't everyone want to be different in some way?

Of course, in this case, different isn't always glamorous, not when you're trapped in the Sacred Heart Institute, Tullamarine (often referred to affectionately by its initials). Many nights, I could barely avoid crying myself to sleep when I pondered what it would be like to have a normal life.

The classroom aides, of course, tried to make us feel better about it. We were different, not deficient. But it's easy to say that when it wasn't your parents who had cast you aside.

Anyway, we were allowed four visitation days a year with our parents or legal guardians. One of mine came around on the late summer day our story starts.

Around 4 PM, someone knocked on the door of the room I shared with my friend Danny. "Come in" I said, stretching my legs to iron out the ache from the growth spurt I'd recently experienced.

My mother entered the room, enveloping me in a hug and planting a kiss on my cheek.

"Thank you for coming, Mom," I told her.

"You're very much welcome. I wasn't going to miss my visitation day, not for anything."

After exchanging a few of the small-talk pleasantries I constantly felt untrained at, it was time to go. My mother had planned an outing for us, she said.

"We're going to walk by the lake, and then we'll get dinner at Timmy's! How does that sound, Barrett?"

I wasn't going to complain so long as I got time with my mother, as well as some time in the outside world. If Mom had a specific idea of what we should do, I was more than willing to do it.

As she drove to the lake, me in the passenger seat, Mom frowned. "It's a little off-putting to pick your nails, Barrett," she muttered.

"I'm sorry" I said. That's one thing I said a lot. Sorry.

"Don't be sorry. The best way to apologize is to learn from your mistakes. I mean, Barrett, you're sixteen now. You have to be able to forgive yourself - you're going to make mistakes."

We stopped at a very long red light, which gave me enough time to formulate a response.

"Right," I replied. "It's just…it's hard."

"I know it's hard," my mother responded, "but we can do hard things. Just remember that, okay?"

"Okay."

After the light stayed red for a full minute, my mother honked the horn. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph - I swear that the traffic gets worse here every year."

Maybe that's because people keep moving here every year.

Finally, the light turned green, and we reached the edge of the lake, a giant reservoir ringed with pine trees and an easy hiking trail. My mother parked the car, and then we tucked our pants into our socks to avoid the numerous ticks that inhabited New England.

"Have you thought about getting driving lessons?" my mother asked me. "You know, you're sixteen now - you could get a learner's permit."

I remained silent. Truth be told, driving scared the hell out of me. As much as I might want more freedom, there were "adult" activities that continued to intimidate. With driving, you had to focus on so many things that I might easily get overstimulated. Besides, where would I even go? Fairview was a small town without many amenities, and the nearest major city was many miles away. Plus, there was every chance I'd still be stuck in the Sacred Heart Institute for a few more years.

"Okay," my mother continued. "If you don't want to answer that question, how about…how are your classes going?"

"Okay" I echoed.

"Be more specific, please. What class is your favorite?"

"Writing" I replied, not caring that I'd just given a one-word response. No doubt my mother would press me for more details, and who could blame her? She only saw me a few times a year.

"What sort of writing?"

"Creative." Truth be told, fantasy was my favorite genre - there was something appealing about worlds full of dragons, castles, knights, royalty, and other mythical concepts like magic. I especially enjoyed the niche trope of a kid from an abusive situation who finds out that they can use magic.

The reason? Simply put, I wanted to believe that could be me if I imagined hard enough. Even if I had to fake it until I made it.

"Did you get a good grade on your last assignment?" my mother continued.

"Eh…if you consider B a good grade" I muttered.

"Hopefully you proofread enough to get an A next time. Because that's what you should be getting. You are a very smart, capable boy, and that needs to be reflected in your work."

"Right."

"I hope you're paying attention in class, Barrett," Mom continued. "Teachers always like to see their students engaged when they are speaking."

"I'm doing my best."

I braced myself for how my mother would respond, which would almost certainly be that doing my best just wasn't good enough. But it wasn't my fault that I couldn't sit still and stare at the SMART board without fidgeting or doodling. It wasn't my fault that my brain was wired differently.

The walk was halfway over by the time my mother brought it up. A topic that I always hoped to avoid when she came to visit, and one I never managed to avoid.

"Do you remember anything about your early childhood, Barrett?" she inquired, glancing out at the reservoir.

The day was hotter than it looked, and I would have loved to swim in the lake. Alas, since it provided drinking water for several communities nearby, this was understandably prohibited. The best I could do was to shield my eyes from the sun, which I always seemed unusually sensitive to.

"Uh…like what, exactly?" I asked. "Did I do something awful at age six or something?"

"No" my mom replied, then clarifying with, "Well, if you did, I wasn't there. They don't tell me much about how you're doing at Sacred Heart."

"No emails or anything?"

"Only a cursory monthly update."

"Ah," I muttered.

We didn't talk much until we got back to the car, which is when my mother broached the subject again.

"So what do you want to tell me about my early childhood?" I asked her. "Or, what do you think I remember about it?"

My mother was silent for a while, gripping the wheel tightly. Then: "I don't know. Do you remember your father at all?"

She wasn't beating around the bush at all. Instead, my mother went right to the point.

"Uh…just some very vague things" I muttered.

"Do you remember what he looked like at all?"

I shook my head. "Nope. It's hard to remember stuff like that when you don't have any pictures of him."

"Right" Mom sighed. "Well, I'm sorry that I had to withhold them from you. But you at least understand why, right?"

I nodded.

"I know it's kind of left a hole in your heart, as they say at church. But I had to make it for a reason. Your father wasn't a good man, you see."

That was what she always told me about my father. It was said in the same breath as more basic facts. Two plus two added up to four. We drew on paper only. Vegetables were good for you, candy bad. In other words, I had no reason not to believe her, because it was just the default. My father wasn't a good man.

"He insisted on working at his top-secret job, and he couldn't even tell me what he found. And he had to make that a higher priority than our marriage - a higher priority than you. Isn't that just awful?"

I nodded again, because what else was there to do, let alone say?

"And now that jerk doesn't pay me any alimony. That's why you were raised at Sacred Heart."

I'd been told some variation of this story numerous times before. My mother hadn't been able to afford raising a three-year-old with special needs, so she'd been forced to turn me over to people who could. It didn't hurt that the Sacred Heart Institute professed her Catholic faith, making her more comfortable that I would be raised well there.

She wanted to give me as good a life as she could. That's what she always insisted, and as with the facts above, it was just a foregone conclusion. Why would you think any differently about your mother's intentions?

We sat down at Timmy's, a 1950s-era diner that looked as though it hadn't been renovated in at least that long. There was a fine layer of dust on the floor, fuel for the allergies I'd suffered from at an early age, but if the food was delicious (and it was), who was I to object?

While we waited for our food to come, my mother decided it was time to ask me another personal question.

"So how is worship going there?"

"Pardon me?" I enquired in between sips of water.

"I hope you're participating regularly at mass. And I hope your relationship with the Lord is blooming."

I leaned over, putting my face in my hands. "About that…?"

"What is it, honey?" my mother offered.

"Uh…" I trailed off, not knowing how best to phrase it. "I'm not sure I believe in all that stuff."

My mother gasped. "But I taught you that from when you could walk. It's true. Don't you trust me?"

"I do," I whispered. "I would trust you with my life if I had to." In fact, I guess I already did, though it wasn't by choice.

"Then why don't you trust me on this? Jesus Christ rose from the dead, and He can give you salvation if you accept Him into your heart."

My mother went on and on for a while, extolling the virtues of being a faithful man of God. But I'll admit that I tuned her out long before our food arrived.

I don't think it was fair to call me an atheist. As silly as I thought organized religion might be, it provided bad answers to good questions. Where did we come from? What was the meaning of life? What happens when we die? There's a reason it remained so resilient into the present day, depending on where you were.

Of course, there were many disagreeable things about what we were taught. In some of the history texts we'd been assigned, the authors described how religion was used as an excuse to subjugate people in the colonies of countries like Spain and Portugal. The Christians of that time believed they had dominion over the Earth, meaning there was no need to protect the environment. We still saw some of that today, with executives determined to pillage the planet's resources like there was no tomorrow - because for those believing in the Rapture, there really might not be a tomorrow.

While I didn't subscribe to the finer points of the doctrine we were, well, indoctrinated into, I'm the first to acknowledge that I wanted to believe. Not in Catholicism, necessarily, but in something greater than myself. But we could do far better as a species than to dream about the Son of God descending from on high to absolve us of all our sins. No - we had to make things right ourselves.

"Do you at least believe in miracles, Barrett?" my mother asked eventually.

"Excuse me?" I replied. By this time my entree was long gone, but my mother still had half of hers left.

"Do you think there are things that occur out of the ordinary?"

"Well, yeah" I sighed. "People survive cancer all the time when they're not expected to. But it's a big world out there."

"True," my mother responded, emitting a sigh in turn. The implication was clear: I regret that you can't experience the world like most people.

Truth be told, I wanted to believe in miracles. Wouldn't it be cool to turn into a mythical creature, or tame one? That was the appeal of fantasy novels, after all - they let you picture yourself living a life that was impossible in reality.

"Well," my mother continued. "What is that series your friends are all into? Pokémon?"

I nodded. "It's been all the rage lately. I hope you don't think it's Satanic or whatever."

Mom chuckled. "I might be Catholic, but I'm not like those Catholics."

I ran my fingers through my black hair, then asked the following question: "What if Pokémon were real?"

"Oh?"

"I just think that the Bible is boring. Yeah, heaven sounds cool and all, but being able to fly sounds like heaven to me."

My mother snorted. "Barrett, you've always been afraid of heights. Don't you think you'd hate flying?"

She had a point. I was reminded of a time a few years ago when the Sacred Heart Institute had taken us on a rare field trip, this time to a high ropes course. There had been a telephone pole there several stories tall, with rungs hammered into it. Everyone who climbed it had to wear a full-body harness clipped to a rope while doing so.

Well, when it was my turn to climb, I stood about twenty feet high, then looked down and started panicking. I couldn't climb any higher, nor was I eager to climb back down that rickety ladder. But in order to be lowered down to the ground, I was told that I needed to climb just a few feet higher.

And I burst into tears that time, because I just couldn't fathom taking either of the options available to me. It took all my courage (of which I possessed very little) to get up two more rungs so that I could be belayed back to safety.

So yes. I was afraid of heights. But flying under my own power, with my arms as wings, sounded so much less daunting.

"Maybe it would be scary," I mumbled. "Maybe it wouldn't be."

"You'd just have to have faith that you would be okay."

"I suppose so."

"So do you believe in miracles, Barrett?" Mom asked again as she pulled into the driveway of the Sacred Heart Institute.

I sighed. "I want to. I guess. Yes."

My mother smiled. "That's the spirit! You just have to believe first, and God will make it happen."

But it was a different God I found myself praying to when I reached my bedroom again. Danny was still down at dinner, which I was exempt from that day. (It was just as well, given how overwhelming the noise of the dining hall could be. Besides, the food at Timmy's was a cut above whatever the institute's kitchens had to offer.)

You know, in that land of Pokémon…their God is Arceus. He seems pretty chill - he lets people do whatever they want, within reason. He does not care who you love or how you spend your free time.

Okay, "praying to Arceus" is an overstatement. In reality, I just imagined what it might be like if He were real.

Arceus resembles a stag - a giant, graceful deer, the likes of which always carry ticks here. But in that world, He is a glorious deity. Maybe he could even make my wishes come true.

As I dressed in my pajamas, I played a mental game with myself, the sort that was often what they called an "icebreaker" in the social groups the staff made me attend at Sacred Heart.

In this game, we were asked to tell the group what wishes we'd tell a genie if we were given any three options. It did not matter that genies didn't exist - it was the imagination that counted.

I want things to be different. That was the easiest one, but it was so vague that it could mean almost anything.

I want Pokémon to exist. Those adorable creatures featured on all those trading cards my peers played with, engaging in games I could never work up the bravery to join…if they were real, my life would be complete. Except that I still had one more wish.

Choosing carefully was important, because there were so many conceivable things one might wish for, and so many unintended consequences if you made the wrong choice. You might think you want to be a football star, for example, but you might not know about the lifelong health problems many such athletes face in retirement.

Then again, who was I kidding? There was no reason to think any of these wishes would come true. Might as well reach for the stars, right?

I want to be a Pokémon.