I hate this.
I cannot do a thing. Moving around is the hardest thing and what's even worse are these caretakers. I wish I could have some alone time without being watched. Eyes lurking at every corner of the world.
Even the ceiling is looking down upon me.
I try to sit up but my arms can barely even move up against the cushioned mattress. I flopped around like a sack of potatoes.
"There he goes again," a soft mumble from nearby.
Dark curls. A mischievous grin.
Oh how could I forget her the first caretaker I ever had always trying her best. She always acted like my personal growth was her own victory.
"My turn to play with him," my brother proudly says.
His eyes bright white as a star and his physique defines even though he was extremely young. I attempted to crawl away. I hated getting squeezed by him. But before I can get my knee to land to move away he hoists me up like a rag doll.
He's only like 6 years old—but to me he was a giant. My body was crumbling crying for air as my soul slowly starts leaving my body. I screamed. Water poured out of my eyes and aura streamed out pushing my brother away.
That's right even though its been 5 months now I can pour aura out. But, to be honest I only do this so my body doesn't worsen since the magic gravitates much faster and stronger if there is more aura.
Footsteps rush in. Heavy.
The door flung open.
My mother saw me first with a radiant gold glow. She then stares at my brother, wide-eyed. My brother dropped me softly onto the ground.
I wanted to say, "get these people away from me let me have my own time." But all I could do was a hoarse cry, whilst emitting immense amount of aura that was creating mist.
My mother grasping me in her arms. Her body was warm—lit with gentle white magic swallowing and easing the aura out of my chest like a breeze. I dropped my breathing.
My father stomping his was into the room, boots skidding across the ground. My brother catches his eyes—bolts away into our sisters room.
He glares at my brother noticing the air then watches me.
"She's stabilising," my mother murmurs grasping me close to her chest.
"Five months old and already your getting his identity wrong," he chuckled.
"That doesn't change the fact he is repelling the force," my mother shouted, her face burning up slapping my father right across the face.
I chuckled flailing my arms around. You know what's one thing I hate about this. I can't control a lot of my actions and emotions. Now I sleep at the most random times fainting almost, with this flailing my arms around not even being me. This is so annoying, but at least I seem like a baby I wonder if it will slowly move into my control.
You know what's the worst part?
This isn't even me.
My hands, my legs and not even this stupid drool can't be controlled. I laugh when I don't want to. I cry when I'm not upset. I fall asleep in the middle of my own thoughts like someone is hitting a switch on me. It's making me insane. It's maddening.
And yet they think I am free. Just a baby. No responsibilities, no rules, no weight and no desires.
If only they knew.
I wonder if I am truly free cause every second in this body I feel like I am cursed. I may be safe, but free I do not think so. I believe the cost to regain the freedom to relive my desire was my safety at this point I don't know if it was truly worth it.
Drowsiness was catching up to me dragging me down. I could feel the switch gradually changing my settings. I couldn't have this.
Then his shadow blocks the light. Wakening my senses luckily.
My father he crouches behind us. His gaze sharpens on me with study. Almost like I'm a puzzle that he is assessing.
Caressing my face with his finger.
"You're going to burn her out," he says to me. His voice low and controlled.
My mother shifts her arms closer to herself like holding me is weighing her down.
"You can't keep drawing this much aura with no structure," he says, voice low but sharp. "You'll drain her. Or worse—draw in something you're not ready for."
I get it. I do. His words cut through the mist like a blade, clean and deliberate.
So I try.
I know what he wants. I know how to do it. I've done it before in flashes, in sleep. But my limbs twitch uselessly and my chest fights against itself. It's like trying to pull a thread with mittens on. Still, I attempt something.
The mist falters. The glow thins. The chaotic pulses slow from a roar to a trembling hum. It's not perfect, but it's less. It was a dormant sun still lashing flames.
His eyes follow the shift. Not impressed. But he nods once, a quiet confirmation.
"He's adjusting," my mother breathes, her grip loosening just slightly.
"No," my father says, still watching me, expression unreadable. "He knows."
That silence that follows is heavier than the magic. He's not talking about instinct. He's not talking about talent.
He stared into my eyes. He was searching for my intent.
He looked away exhaling the gas filling his chest.
"I'll speak to a doctor," he says. "Not for a fixing. Just an assessment. He's destabilizing too quickly."
My mother lifted up her chin. Shoving me into the arms of my caretaker.
Pulling my father's shoulder. "He's five months old," she snapped, the words spat right into my fathers face. The words hitting him like spit.
My father's lips curled into a slight smirk, but it wasn't amusement—it was a warning. The air around him changed, cold enough to bite.
"He's five months loud," he replied, voice steady and low, the kind of calm that sits just above fury.
His voice echoed the room like stone on ice. The caretaker held me now—gently, like I was heat she'd grown used to.
"Shh," she whispered, though I wasn't making a sound.
My mother drags my father out of the room to the hallway. The hallway carried sound like a whisper passed from god to ghost.
"It's happening faster than expected," my mother said.
"Yes and we need to find a way for him to control it or bind it," my father replied pacing back and forth.
Their voices gradually started to blur down the hallway, slipping form the cracks of the door. The caretaker's arms warm and steady. My head nested unto her collarbone.
The world slowed.
The mist in the room thinned, but the fog in my mind grew heavier. Colours lost their edge—walls, shadows and lights melting into one another, like wet paint left in the rain.
I tried to hold the shapes. But, the outlines were slipping away.
My eyes sagged. No longer in my command.
Thoughts came screaming for help, dissolving into unfinished words.
A breath caught in my chest. The faint scent of cedar and lavender.
Then she hummed. Gentle. Almost off tune.
The room vanished.
Gone.
I was.