“That’s you and Kyan?” Jonah nods.
I watch when I notice the mittens sitting on the grass beside Kyan. My heart skips a beat as I realize who I’m looking at.
“That’s me?” I question softly. I notice another little baby and know it’s Eziah, who is just off the side of Jonah. Kyan helps me stand while I watch. I’m just a wobbly baby and he holds onto me carefully until I have my balance to stand. He gently lets go of me and I toddle over to little Jonah, who catches me.
“That was the first time you walked. You couldn’t pull yourself up on the furniture as Eziah could. Kyan said you could walk, that you just needed the mittens off; they made pushing off the ground too slippery, so he took them off you.” His words make my heart squeeze. They were always a hindrance to me. Even the gloves make things difficult.
“Because of the mittens,” I muse softly, sighing. Oh, how I hated my gloves when I was younger. They restricted me so much. Nothing hurt more than seeing the other kids play with toys or nature at school but being forbidden to take off my gloves by the teachers.
It hurt, knowing that I couldn’t explore or do things like the other children did. That was when I truly noticed how different I was. I remember a time back in primary school when a group of kids I was playing with found a lizard, and I wanted to hold it. The excitement as a child who wanted to experience it, too. I remember how the other kids were saying how funny its skin felt.
But when I pulled off the gloves, and they passed it to me, the lizard died in my hands. I couldn’t even explain how terrified and scared I felt. The guilt that I felt, knowing that it was my fault.
The kids told me I killed it because I was a bad omen.
To this day those words are still in my mind, the accusations, the nasty remarks, the fear and hatred in their eyes. I remember thinking I didn’t ask for this… why me? I had run off, hiding in the girl’s bathrooms and crying my heart out until my brother found me sitting in the cubicle, still holding the lizard I killed to my chest.
All I had wanted was to feel its skin like the other kids did, but instead, it died because of me. My touch killed it.
“Why are you crying?” my brother asked, looking under the gap of the cubicle door.
“It died, I touched it and it died,” I sobbed. My brother crawled under the gap to me.
“What died?” he asked, confusion clear on his face, and I opened my hand, the small lizard still in my palm.
“He isn’t dead. He is sleeping, like granny Marge; she looks dead too when she sleeps until she snores. Lizards don’t snore, that’s why he looks dead,” Eziah told me, stroking his fingers down from its head to its tail, the lizard squirmed, and its heart started beating quickly as it moved in my palm, making my heart leap with happiness.
“See, he had a nap, like Marge does when she naps on the couch with her mouth wide open,” Eziah laughed and I managed a weak smile, feeling relief flood through me, but even then something deep inside of me, I didn’t truly believe him. I had done something to that lizard.
I shake the memory away. We were six years old, and that was also the day I realized why everyone freaked out when I would play with their kids.
It was then when I noticed they would subtly call them away for dinner when I came out to play or ask for the children to come to help them. They would approach me with fear in their eyes before making some excuse for their child to move away from the bad omen.
That’s also when I noticed Eziah was not like me. Eziah had friends and always tried to include me to everyone. He was the good child, the safe one. While I, well, I wasn’t. I was just something that everyone avoided and wished didn’t exist.
Yet after that day, I began to notice the looks I would get. Notice the nervousness of everyone’s parents, their polite excuses finally seen for what they were. I saw it all, my eyes opened to the reality around me. Even the concerned look my mother used to give me.
But that was also when I understood I could protect them from it and protect my family from me. That I would try my best not to be a bother to them.
They didn’t need to worry about me; they did nothing wrong, they never asked for an evil daughter, so I hid it. I always smiled, and pretended nothing was wrong. I would always make excuses not to play, or say that I was too tired, or that I wanted to finish my book. Anything, so I didn’t ruin Eziah’s fun or get the worried eyes of my parents.
It wasn’t their fault I was the rotten egg because that was how I felt. That’s all I was. I was a burden on them. Just something that maybe someday they will grow tired of. My family shouldn’t be punished for it, and so that my brother and our parents wouldn’t worry, I would pretend.
It became a game, in a way. A coping mechanism for me. I thought I was making up for being the bad one, giving them some relief. So at lunch, I would hide in the library, reading my books and pretending the characters were my friends, that their story was mine, pretending I wasn’t missing out on the fun outside, when I could have fun in my head. The stories in the books were so much better than my life anyway.
I could get lost in them, picturing myself as the main character. Going on these amazing adventures, spending time with those who loved me. With time, it became easier and easier to lose myself in the pages of a book. Although I could never truly forget reality, it helped take the edge off the pain.
It was harder at home, though. My mother would organize playdates, and I stuck to Eziah like glue. The fear that someone might say something to me always hung above me like a gloomy cloud. It was that or otherwise, sometimes I would keep my distance and watch him play with the other children and pretend it was playing with them, too.
I began living through him and his memories, knowing if I played, I would ruin it for him, pretending his friends were mine. After a while, it wasn’t pretending anymore. It became my safe place. It was no longer a game but survival, and everyone forgot about the inquisitive girl.