Phoenix- The Rising

In the beginning

My name is Aerin Magnolia. My parents, Arson and Dawn Magnolia, were scientists, working for a privately funded organization known as R.I.S.K. (Resurrection of Imminent Superhuman Kind) It dealt with the abilities of superhumans. As a child, my parents would allow me to tag alongside them to their lab. Whereas normal children my age would be playing with cars and their pretty-faced Barbie dolls, I was combining potent mixtures into concoctions of liquid power. Power in its absolute purest form. So dynamic and so raw, that it could grant an individual a specific superhuman ability. When they came by to check up on me, my proud parents would smile fondly, and ruffle my mousy brown hair.

"Great job Aerin," they'd chuckle, inspecting my workspace. "You just might be the next child prodigy."

In return, I gave a toothy grin, the smile reaching all the way up to my eyes.Then they would take the concoction away, and store it in their specialized insulated cellar, locking it with a firm click. Exiting the lab, and closing it behind us, we'd skip, with not a care in the world, to Lickety Splitz, the ice cream store. It never failed. We passed by the bakery, where Mr. Bernard's fresh pastries gave off a heavenly aroma, wrapping around the neighborhood like a warm blanket. As we entered the store, the little bells tinkled, alerting the staff of our existence. My tiny, warm hands would press on the cold glass of the selection window, leaving small shaped handprints. My breath would fog up on that clear border, my eyes roving the valley of endless choices. Finally, I'd choose a double scoop of cold, delicious mint. A perfect ending to a perfect day. However, as the years flew by, at the age of eleven everything changed. The company my parents had worked for had suddenly gone bankrupt. Funds weren't coming in, and my parents were dismissed, left with no jobs and no source of income. Stressed, they had gone from the loving, vivacious parents I once knew, to unstable volcanoes, erupting anger every chance they got.

"Mommy, can we go get ice cream?" my younger self would plead. As I was homeschooled, I was cooped up for days and days on end. Gone was the lab I had such fond memories of, and I longed for a taste of my old life.

"Aerin," she would say sharply, "Don't bother me. Mommy's trying to find a job so we can eat food. Not ice cream." Her tone was something I never heard before. It was so hard, so frigid. I doubt there was an undertone of love underneath it all. My Father was worse. Gradually he had taken to drinking, drowning all his failures and misconceptions away with alcohol. By the time I was thirteen, my mother would often accompany him. They would come home late, sometimes even at one or two in the morning, appearing at the door, disheveled. So drunk they couldn't even clean their vomit stained clothes. It seemed that they just stopped caring. That's when the abuse started. Tense, like a rope stretched too far, they snapped, leaving me to pick up the shards of sanity they had left. It started with open ended slaps to the arm, on my mother's part, then evolved to full-blown punches to the stomach and face. The physical abuse I could take, I was strong, and my well-built frame was far from feeling pain, but the verbal abuse, I couldn't. My heart, was not as protected as my exoskeleton was. Every word they threw at me, every insult, shattered me.

"Worthless," she would say. "Useless. I wish you were dead."

I did too.