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Chapter 1- Mercy

I've always been able to remember way farther back then most people, even when I was just a baby. I can remember my first steps, and my first words, and being carted around in a stroller. Most people don't believe me when I say I remember being that young, but it's the truth. Its because of this trait that I remember the first time she spoke to me.

It was a rainy day, I remember that clearly, because my parents had placed my crib beneath a skylight in the attic of our tiny cottage. I was woken by an ominous crack of thunder and lay on my back watching drops of rain strike the glass like bullets. Lightning flashed, and I sat up in my bed, tiny forehead creased with worry. Just seconds after the lightning, thunder crashed down like a tidal wave, too loud for my young ears to handle. I started to cry, little whimpers at first, then loud wails. I guess the noise of the storm was too loud for my parents to hear me over, though, because no one came.

I storm raged on, and I cried and cried, waving my tiny fists and gasping for breath between wails. Then, as my distress reached a climax, she came to comfort me. A softly accented woman's voice echoed inside my head. Despite the cacophony of the storm, I could hear every word as clearly as my own thoughts.

Hush, little one, she said, there are many things in this world worth fearing, but thunder is not one of them. I stopped crying, more out of surprise and confusion than anything else. I looked around for the source of the voice, but of course, I couldn't find it. The voice was inside my own head.

I had never heard a voice without a person to match it, but I wasn't very frightened. After all, I was still very young, and I had no way of knowing what was or wasn't normal. The woman kept talking in that strange accent, and after a while she started to sing a lullaby in a strange language I had never heard before. I was for too young to understand any of this, of course, but her voice soothed me, and with a stream of words echoing against my skull, I fell back asleep.

After that, she spoke to me from time to time, comforting me when I was sad or entertaining me with stories when I was bored. When I was very young, she didn't speak as often, and looking back later, I realized that she didn't really know how to talk to children, despite being trapped inside one. Even when she was silent for long periods of time, I could feel her looking out through my eyes and listening with my ears. She felt small and light inside my mind, like a little perching bird riding along with me wherever I went. Having her there didn't bother me, as I had never really experienced life without her. In a way, she was as familiar to me as my own mind. Later on, I would come to see the irony in this, as I realized I didn't really know her at all.

I was five years old when I first thought to ask her name. I can't remember why I chose then to ask, or why I had never wondered before. I was lying in bed on a hot summer night. My sheets felt sticky and my hair was plastered to my forehead with sweat. The ceiling fan only stirred the muggy air around, and the noise it made kept me awake. To distract myself from my discomfort, I called out to her with my mind. She answered immediately, uncoiling herself within my head like a cat stretching. What is it, little one? She asked, her voice like a whisper in my ear.

I'm bored. I complained sleepily. This was how we communicated, thoughts sleeting back and forth between us as though between different lobes of the same brain.

Why don't I tell you a story? She murmured. That will help you sleep.

I've heard all your stories before. I don't want a story, I said plaintively. I was in a fretful mood.

Well, then why don't we play twenty questions? She suggested calmly, impervious to my bad mood.

No, I sighed, you always make it too hard to guess. After that neither of us said anything for a while. Then, just as I thought I might fall asleep after all, a question popped into my head.

What's your name? I asked curiously. I had never wondered what to call her before, just as many children never imagine that their parents have any name beyond Mom and Dad.

She was silent for a long time. Then she said, You never needed anything to call me by before, Mercy.

I know, but I want to know. Her unwillingness to tell me only made me more curious.

I'm sorry, little one, she said in a whisper, I can't tell you. Not yet. She sounded sad and broken almost like she might cry, nothing her usual warm, comforting presence.

I want to know. Why can't you tell me? I had never seen her act like this, and it scared me.

You'll understand. Someday. Just leave it alone, okay Mercy? Her voice was still quiet, but there was iron behind it. I knew that she wasn't going to tell me.

I relented. Okay, I won't ask anymore, I said. Just tell me what I should call you, all right?

Hmm . . . why don't you call me . . . Sestra.

Ses-tra? I said, trying out the unfamiliar word, You want me to call you Sestra?

Yes, she said slowly. I think I would like that a lot.

Okay, Sestra! I said, Goodnight.

Good night Mercy, Sestra said softly. She sounded both happy and sad at once, but mostly she just sounded relieved that I had stopped prying into her identity. With her voice echoing in my head, I drifted off to sleep.

Perhaps if I had simply accepted her answer, none of this would have happened. But I suppose there's no point wondering now, because it wasn't the last time I asked. I asked again and again, and again, until one day I finally got a proper answer. And when that happened, I wished I had never asked at all.