Aware (Incomplete)

PART ONE: Chapter 1

My mother was an angel. She was the greatest human being I have ever known, and she was all mine. Dad went to jail long before I remember, but mum took it in her stride. I was her world. She would do anything to keep me safe. 

My earliest memory was of her soft arms around me, the salty wind brushing my skin, the sun wrapped around her face like a halo. I remember the beach, with the tide so far out and the birds pecking at the mud planes, searching for shellfish to feed their young. Mum's fair hair, laced with strands of grey was feathered with the humidity. But the underlying tone of uncertainty that I always associated with my mother hung thick in the air. Feelings that in my youth I struggled to understand. 

Without taking my eyes from her soft brown ones, I knew there were three children on the beach, siblings I assumed. They were happy and playful, emotions I understood well. Their father sat back on the park bench watching them in awe, reminiscing about the days when he too played on this very beach with his own siblings. I sensed his hopes that he would, one day, return with his grandchildren. I didn't need to lift my head from my soft bundle of blankets or to turn away from my mother. I just knew. Mum thought I was an empathetic child with an uncanny awareness of my surroundings, but it was so much more than that. I could feel the birds in flight and see the ground from their eyes. I understood that they were flying west to return home to their young flock. To me this was instinctual. My hyper-awareness didn't just appear one day, I was born with it.

It took a few years for me to find out that my awareness was paranormal. I was an outgoing child, boisterous and keen to meet new friends. Making friends was easy. At four years old I walked over to the sandbox to a boy about my age playing with a bucket. I could sense unhappiness emulating from his body. Its strength was overwhelming for such a young child. I smiled brightly and received nothing in return. I picked up a small, yellow spade and helped him fill the bucket. He wasn't interested. The playschool gate had caught his attention. I felt the adults filter in and line the fence searching for their children. We waited, the bucket long forgotten, but I could not find an adult who was linked to the boy. When the parents thinned out and we were the only children left I offered the boy the bucket again. A wave of anger emulating from the boy blew over me, standing my hairs on edge. In my head, I felt the boy reach for the bucket the throw it on the ground, but I pulled it away before he had the chance to act. With my eyes shut I pushed the barriers of awareness out like a bubble, searching for the link. Within moments, I felt a flicker of familiarity. 

"Your dad is on his way," I tell the boy. "Not very far. He's stuck behind cars." The boy looks at me, but instead of relief, I feel fear. Fear of shouting behind closed doors and the fear of tears that fall from familiar eyes. I don't understand these intense feelings, but I do understand the equally intense unhappiness it brings. "He is happy today." The boy looked at me for the first time, his pale blue eyes connecting with mine and he smiled. The smile was small and didn't touch his eyes but it was genuine. "What is your name?" I ask. 

"Evan." Came the soft reply. I was warm with the knowledge that I had made a new friend and took the time to analyse the aura he portrayed. I felt a familiar cloud of uncertainty and my smile grew.

 "Mum is here." I start to stand up, the sand falling from my knees. "See you tomorrow!" I rush over to the gate as mum's figure appears from around the bend. She opens the gate and I rush into her arms. Her light, coconut scent swallowing me whole as she embraced me. She was happy to see me too. Relief pushed her cloud of uncertainty into the background. With one last wave to Evan, Mum and I turned hand in hand to begin the long walk home.

Later that year Evan's family moved into our neighbourhood. Like me, he was an only child. He lived with his mum, dad and dog Baxter. I rarely saw his mother, but I grew to dislike his father immensely from the sinister feeling he gave me. Unlike mum's his would engulf his surroundings, hanging like smog. I thought he could sense my distaste because every time I saw him he would plaster a fake smile on his closely shaven face. He ran a beefy hand through his well slicked-back hair. It was as if he was mocking me.

On the second night, I woke up from a feeling so strong it tore me from my dreams. It was a fear I recognised as Evan's, but it was coupled with the most intense pain I had ever encountered. I cried out into the darkness curling up in agony. With my jolting, I threw myself off the bed and curled up in the foetus position on the floor. My screams woke mum and her footsteps slammed on the wooden floorboards, gradually increasing in volume until she burst into my room.

"Mina!" She shouted, throwing her body into a protective bubble around me rubbing my shoulders with her dainty hands. She was crying, but I could barely tell as her fear dimmed in comparison to the fear and pain that penetrated my thoughts from Evan.

"We have to help him!" I sobbed over and over again. For a moment the fear lessened but then it redoubled, joined with the pain of who I knew to be Evan's mother.

"Help who?" Mum cried. "Mina, who needs help?"

"Evan! Evan's mum!" My memory flashed to the sinister aura of Evan's father.

"What is wrong with Evan's Mum?" Mum was bordering on hysterical, but for my sake, she was doing her best to conceal it.

"He's hurting them!" My tears are uncontrollable, and I can't untangle myself from my defensive position. Mum wanted to help so very badly, but she didn't know what I was talking about and I was in no position to explain. I had no power in this world. I was a child. I was pathetic.

Evan didn't show up to playschool the next day. I told Mum that he was still hurting and that even though he wanted to leave, his father wouldn't permit it. His Mum never left the house. But that was normal. After my insistence Mum went to Evan's house. She took chicken and garlic soup to help cure Evan's cold and instructed me to stay home. I watched from the living room window as Mum crossed the street and knocked on Evan's door. His father answered, and I watched as they talked. Mum laughed at something he said and he chuckled in return. The lace curtains from Evan's lounge quivered and a small face appeared. Mum waved Evan's father goodbye and walked back down the drive. Evan's dad watched her leave. When the door finally shut mum turned one last time to look at the house. She saw the curtain move as I had and Evan staring from within. The left side of his face was misshapen as it had swollen so much in some places and little in others. But perhaps the most overwhelming sight was the colour. His face was purple and blue. I could see it from 80 meters away so Mum almost certainly could from the bottom of the drive. A small hand reached across Evan's shoulder from behind and pulled him back, the curtain closing and swaying from the movement. I felt Mum's horror, but stronger than that, I felt her uncertainty. Her eyes connected with mine and with determination set in her eyes she shuffled back across the road towards me.

She sat me on the couch and probed me with questions. "How did you know he was hurting Evan? Could you hear something? Why were you crying? What do you know about Evan's family?" I couldn't understand how she didn't already know and her uncertainty was thickening making it harder to breathe. I just wanted to help. Did I say something wrong? Mum got up from the couch and the uncertainty dispersed to a background hum.

Mum packed two suitcases, nothing more. She called a taxi and, without a word of goodbye, we left the only home I had ever known. It was a cloudy day, which was such a shame, as it was the last opportunity I would have to see the sky for a long time.