Power of the Heart

Chapter 1: Crash Landing

TW: Death, panic attacks, blood, slight gore, repetition

What a lovely start to a fanfic :)

I'm not fast. I'm not strong or athletic. I'm not even strong emotionally, as self-aware as I may be. I try to be kind-- kind, not just nice, because there's a difference and one comes from the bottom of your heart while the other is simply polite-- I try to be kind as much as I can to as many people as possible, even if it's usually at my own expense. I try to make people smile, I'm pleasantly surprised when I make them laugh. If they desire my companionship, I offer it. But in return, my heart is an open book. Anyone can see it or read it. As such, I am easily manipulated.

I know this, yet I cannot stop it. I'm only aware of all of this in hindsight. I've begun to build walls, but they're hardly finished. The construction of my walls feels as if it's barely begun and progress is slow. I'm unsure what I should or shouldn't say, because usually I just speak my mind. Sometimes, I wonder if I've built my walls up too high and knock them down myself, because it feels strange to hide. Everyone wears masks, yet none fit me. Am I meant to wear one too? Is that how everyone stops from getting hurt? How do they not go crazy with all of these secrets stowed away in hidden corners of their minds? I can't hide my emotions. I've tried.

People tell me I'm a gift or a treasure. But... I'm just me. I'm just some kid who doesn't know how to hide what she thinks, who can't protect myself when the time comes for me to do so. I try not to ask for much. It isn't as if I matter. If other people want to use me because I can be helpful or useful in some way, I'd gladly let myself be used. Just so long as they're not using me to hurt other people...

If I get hurt along the way, so be it, right? It really doesn't matter. I don't matter. I prefer it that way.

I'm not fast or strong. I can't fight like the Secret Ninja Force can. I don't have any special powers. I'm not even emotionally strong because I constantly put myself down to remind myself of my place in the world. Everyone is above me. That's fine. I'll let myself take on their pain and burdens. Mine don't matter, but theirs do.

At least, that's what I'd always thought. That's how I'd taught myself to live. I've seen cartoons, stories, and television shows where the protagonist is cocky. I didn't want to be cocky. So instead, I dipped in the complete opposite end of the scale, afraid that any confidence I gained would be my undoing. Whatever confidence I'd subconsciously gathered, I'd realize that it was there sooner or later and hate myself silently over it.

Ironic how I hated myself over this silently, suffering under the noses of my family, when I was just saying how I didn't know how to keep my own secrets. I suppose that's the one that I made an exception for. Not that my family didn't know I thought little of myself, but... to the extent of which I deep-rooted it into my soul, I suppose.

If I ask for something truly for myself, I'm selfish. If I have confidence in my abilities, I'm arrogant.

All of these thoughts were laws of the land-- rules carved inside of my eyelids so that I knew them better than I knew myself. It was my need to be selfless, to help others, to forsake myself, and to beat myself up over any mistakes I made.

All that being said, though, I wasn't unhappy. I think. It may have taken some mental convincing, but I learned how to smile at other people and provide for them whatever they desired. I'd look in anyone's direction and think how can I find a way to help them?

A weak, soft, small little girl like me couldn't do much. But I tried anyway.

Papa was selfless and kind, too. He gave to everyone he met, even to us, whom he'd adopted fifteen years ago. The first thing Jack-- that's my older brother-- did when he met Papa was steal his wallet, and when Papa finally managed to corner him as he unwittingly led him back to our little hiding place, Papa didn't call the police or anything. He fed us, clothed us, and even prepared a home for us in his own house. Lucy was still all but a newborn back then. I was two years old, nonverbal, my throat raw from misuse. Jack was four, our knight in shining armor, a master pickpocket.