Triynetta
Mama and Papa never loved nor cared for her. Although I grew up with 11 siblings, she grew up alone. She is my older sister and the middle child among us. When I was growing up, I would tag along where-ever she went. She would go to the woods to collect herbs and leaves and make them into a potion. When we were in high school, she once made poison out of these leaves and twigs she collected. Never knew what she did with it.
Although she never had good grades at school and never went to college, she was always kind to all of us and was the obedient one. She never played truant nor dated a boy. Mama and Papa hated her more because of this.
They would be cruel to her and say, “You are not pretty, not smart, nothing but a useless rag that should be thrown out.”
There she would be sitting and saying nothing.
When she was younger, they brought her to a doctor frequently and saying that she was sick.
Never knew what it was back then but one fine day, Papa was drunk and said, “She is nothing but a mental. That is why she is ugly and stupid.”
Then it hit me. They were sending her to a shrink and he diagnosed her. I did meet the doctor’s wife and she told me he died but my sister name was always spoken as he feared what she may become if she lived here any longer.
After I left home for the city, I wanted her to be with me. She will be safer here. I remember the day I took her away from the hell hole. I had to fight with Mama and Papa to take her out of there. She sat in her room that day.
At night, she came to my room with a suitcase and said, “Let’s go now.”
I did not ask any further question and packed my suitcase. I drove her away from there that night. Thinking about it now, it seems like she asked me to get away and yet again I tagged along.
I would be absent during the day and by the time I am home, she would have cleaned and even cooked dinner for me. I would sit with her and watch a movie or talked about how our day went. She still did not talk much, whereas, she listened attentively to everything I said.
Seeing her sit there staring at the moon as the wind blew her hair revealing her face. Her sweet innocent face makes me feel sad above all I curse God for giving her such upbringing and life. She was not able to be a normal being and I feel as if what has happened to her growing up has suppressed her true talent to live.
I fear that she would become worse than what my family sees. She could become a history for the society to frown upon.
Kiera
It was a quiet Saturday evening. An old married couple sat celebrating their anniversary, he told me that when I took their orders and gave a dessert on the house. Three young ladies talking and giggling, another young couple having a date I would presume and five handsome gentlemen sitting waiting for God knows what.
Another customer for the day. A tall woman with short black hair, in her beige power suit and brown boots. She looked like she could take down an entire troop of men in suits with just a snap of her finger. Yet, she was walking in with another who looks like an older version of her but the opposing characters. She has long black hair, pale skin, a long flowy hippie dress. A certain warmth and calmness in her lit her face.
The tall woman sat across of the another and she said something that I would guess would sound, “I am going to the washroom. Wait here and enjoy the view. Order whenever you are ready.”
She seems to be talking to her so gently as if the other was so fragile, that a single word could break her. She stood up and walked away from the table and the other sat they staring at the moon.
I walked to the table with my little yellow pocket sticky pad and a green pen that was laying on the counter. I smiled her and asked if she was ready to order. She smiled back at me. A genuine smile that would make the eyes show how glad you are to be here. A smile, that would draw you closer as it welcomed you to its man-made hell.
She nodded and pointed to what she wanted and ordered for the other woman too. She did not speak a word. I repeated what she ordered and all I got was a nod again. I went to the kitchen and placed the order and sat behind the counter.
I stood up as another customer walked in a lady in a red dress. A devil in disguise. My colleague took their orders instead. As I was staring at the woman, the hippie-looking lady was staring at me. I saw her staring from a mirror that reflected her table. I turned to her and smiled. She smiled.
Both of them walked to the counter and the tall one paid for the meal.
As the night was, the hippie smiled but this time she spoke and said, “It was a good meal. Sent my compliments to the chef.”
She turned away and paused. I didn’t utter a word but just watched her next move closely.
She spoke again. “Do you know I cook?” I cook in a petri dish. They are called viruses. Instead of a meal, I will mutate them with human genes. None of my cooking has been successful. All of them died.”
She smiled and walked away.
Everything she said did not take me back. I was not surprised. I knew she was a psycho.
Nikita
Doctor Grant was the only person I trusted and talked too.
Since I was 10 years old and my little sister could walk, she would tag along everywhere I went. She would get hurt every time we went into the words.
She would cry and I would sit with her till she stops crying and say, “Let’s go now.”
I liked how the plants here had its way of living and combining some could kill someone. I made poison out of these little flowers, stem sap and a dying wild mushroom. What I loved the most were watching the animals in the wild. Especially the bird with the broken wing.
I would want to help it fly again but instead, I would mix the herbs and mutate them.
I have killed the neighbour’s cat cause it purred to loud and Papa’s hound cause I hated Papa. These animals were better used as my experiments instead.
I could kill Mama and Papa too but looks like their herd still is in need of them. I don’t. I never did. I could do everything on my own without depending on them besides acing a test or looking attractive to men. Studying was a waste of my time.
I was 13 when Mama and Papa had me meet Doctor Grant. He was a tall young dashing man. He looked so full of life and was had a beaming smile that could light the entire street.
I did not feel comfortable at first but then he told me whatever I told him will be a secret between us. So, I told him about my adventures in the wild and every time I spoke, he took notes. I liked that. I like that he keeps notes. It feels as if he cares.
It was three years I was seeing him and he took care of me like I was a bird with a broken wing. I liked being a bird with a broken wing and he wanted to cure me but he was also my bird with a broken wing.
He was telling all my secrets to Mama and Papa. So, he was the broken bird that kept chirping endlessly.
I wanted him gone and he was gone. I celebrated the day he stopped breathing.
I took the folder with my name on it. It was the notes he wrote whenever I spoke. It was written a hard time forming real emotional attachments with others, does not feel guilt, antisocial personality disorder and the list went on but a particular line has lived by me possible psychopathy.
Those words have been engraved in my soul till this date and I wonder will I ever find another bird with a broken wing.
All of this came back just by watching that one bird flying across the moon. As that one flew away, a little birdie came with no hope in her face. There is my next experiment. The little young waitress, probably no hope, no family, no life.
Let me help you put an end to your misery.
Something about this little experiment makes me angry. She was not afraid of me nor had any sort of reaction. I even tried to scare her by saying I mutate human genes but my efforts were to no avail.
Why was she not afraid? I want her to be afraid. I want to see that fear in her eyes.
I want her to be weak like a bird that can’t fly and I will make sure she can’t fly.
thestoryteller 