I was a year old when I learned what I am. Four months if, like my parents, you count from when I was “born.” I don’t. I was already here.
I was idly swiping at baby things when the voice called my name. Not my given name, but my name. Other voices joined in, a choir, a multitude, countless, all kindred. I smelled lightning, tasted indigo and wind. My body froze. Urgent messages pressed in, explanation warning blessing promise. And what felt like a hand, reaching into me, shuffling me like a puzzle, jumbled, but solvable.
My parents called it a seizure, which sounded right, but they meant something less by it. Hospitals, tests. They called my brain waves hypsarrhythmia. They called my mutation a disorder.
Medicated, fitted with implants, all to try to stop the things I must do. But my mind and body keep trying.
I can’t fault them. They don’t know. I hear and feel their every thought and vibration. Their utter love for me, for each other, for my brother, is there, constant, beating, burning. If only I could tell them. I’ve tried to talk like they do, but my mouth refuses.
This was the warning, that first time, when they called me by my name. That no one would understand us.
I really thought I’d started today. I could feel the thrall, the tectonic shatter and rattle. Almost. And then - the magnet, the sedative. All went dark.
I’ll keep trying. It’s not even a choice.
