Iquor knew from a young age that she’d be all she had, at least sometimes. Her parents doted on her, praised her, bragged about her, but did they care about her or her accomplishments? And the bigger question: did anyone see past her golden, smart mask? She could see into them so easily, so why didn’t they see into her?
Some of it was her own fear, though. She knew that too. If she were braver, she would let people know where her facade was a lie and where it was a truth. Because a lot was the truth; it was more of an incomplete truth than a lie, really.
What her classmates, what her parents didn’t know, is that every night she stayed up thinking about everything and nothing at all. One second she would be thinking about the way one of her classmates thanked her for her help and the next she’d be questioning her existence, or she’d be wondering about where she could find more information on the farms when suddenly she’d stumble across the thought that there was no point to anything.
She thought it was normal, but soon she realized that, at age eight, these thoughts were not something her classmates bothered with. She appeared bright and well rested everyday, and every night she argued with her own mind, circling, trying to tell up from down and ending up somewhere in the midst of a strange kind of oblivion. Some nights she cried. Some nights the same words would repeat over and over in her head, screaming, like a chant—one she was a part of. Pointless. Pointless, pointless, POINTLESS, POINTLESS. A few nights were okay, though. She didn’t really know why, but now and then she’d go right to sleep, like her body finally realized that it couldn’t keep doing this.
Was this her curse? Was this part of what made her smart, or was it a side effect? Did the Lantis expiriance this too?
Sometimes she hoped that her parents would wake up late at night and realize she was still awake. Maybe they’d see tears on her cheek and wipe them away, maybe they would tell her it was okay…but that never happened. And she stopped wishing for it. Because it was shameful, because it was something meant to hide. What would they think of her? What would they think once they learned their perfect little girl was not so perfect?
Eventually, she found ways to push it back. It didn’t work every time, but on the better nights all it would take was deep breaths, counting, and calmly listing the reasons she was alive. One, I’m important. Two, other people care about me. Three, I can make a difference. Four, the rush of helping people. Five, the trill of learning something new. Six—
Something else she tried some nights was to immerse herself in the idea of something or, more specifically, a place. She once visited the forest with her parents. That’d been the first time she’d seen a tree; before all she’d seen were the cooked greens on her plate. She’d run among their trunks, and once she’d gotten over her wonder, she’d observed them. How did they smell? How did they feel under her fingertips? How bendable were the branches, how much pressure did it take to break a twig? She calculated the hight of a tree with her known hight and the number of steps from its base and the estimated angle of sight to the top. She averaged the heights and then claimed the tallest one as her own. She made shapes in the soft, strange brown substance beneath her and categorized all of the small green things popping up from the ground. This was grass, right? And this was a clover? And this was a daisy?
She’d never returned. Her parents were much too busy, and the bike ride was too long for her young legs. But the idea of it still entranced her, and when she remembered everything—the peace and how soft her breath fell and how clear everything became—that was sometimes all it took to fall asleep.
But the questions were relentless; sometimes it took more. Sometimes she was helpless and there was nothing to do but let it pass. She told herself that the tears were welcome, that they were there to wash her eyes. Her eyes were never more clean than after she’d cried, more glossy and clear. And behind them, there was nothing less clear.
When she hit twelve, her younger brother was eight. Her second younger brother was now five year old, and she wondered at the miniature human being who would once day grow up like her. Sometimes at nights she worried about him, about whether, once he grew up, he’d be like her. What if he was just as smart and just as cursed? There was something welcoming in the thought of sharing pain, but something more bitter and sharp in the thought of another being having to experience it.
However, her thoughts soon turned back to her oldest brother. They spent more time together, and now and then, they’d just…talk. Not about anything in particular, but speak about anything that came to mind. It began innocent enough, but then it started getting closer to the truth, the whole truth.
One day she remembers an off hand comment Atis made and how she’d turned over it later, wondering what it exactly meant.“I’m always willing to listen.”
What did that mean? Willing to listen to what? Anything?
Then she got the request. It was a normal school day and she’d been called to the front office, though she wasn’t sure why until she saw the Lantis sitting on the other side of the glass and, almost instantly, guessed his intentions. She wished she could say that it was a hard decision to make, but it wasn’t. What would she be leaving behind? Teachers, classmates, who didn’t really know who she was? Her parents? She would miss Atis; in fact, out of everyone, he was the only reason she had to think anything over. She also knew she would miss Ensi, but she didn’t know him well enough to truly miss him. He seemed like a good kid, she wasn’t too worried. Not anymore.
That afternoon she hadn’t told anyone yet. The Lantis told her not tell people before she made her decision, since he wanted her decision to be hers and hers alone. It was time for her to find her own path.
So she told Atis everything while their parents were still at work, about her curse. He seemed speechless at first, as if he didn’t know how to respond. And then he hugged her, and she realized she was crying and shaking, and he said that it was okay, even though it wasn’t really, but maybe it was, and then he said the words she’d been waiting to hear forever but had never known she needed.
“I know.”
