Short Stories

Charmed

Note: This story is PG-13 due to mature themes related to Charlotte's daughters. It isn't recommended for readers with psychotic spectrum disorders. Click the comment on this paragraph for more info.

I'm so blessed to have a family that loves me without regard to my motor skill disability and severe autism. How did I get so lucky? In truth, sometimes I feel like I live a charmed life.

I follow the same routine every day. I wake up bright and early and check on our diamond heirloom in its safe. I fix my hair and clip it out of my eyes, often with my favorite white carnation hairclip. I feed the dog and do my morning cleaning, with the chart on the fridge telling me what I need to clean based on what day of the week it is. I prepare breakfast for myself and leave out food in case my husband wants it. (He typically buys something, though.)

Sewing is my passion, so I make clothes for my girls. My youngest, Ann, is a very important woman, after all, so she needs quality clothing. She skyrocketed to power so quickly after my accident. The details confuse me since I don't follow politics, but I know she's powerful and influential, so I subscribe to magazines of all the latest business fashions and gala gowns to inspire me. Ann always wants to command attention, so I make the designs trendy and bold.

My oldest, Betty, works at a rehabilitation center and leads a more relaxed life, so I play around more with the style and make things imaginative sometimes. I hope it'll cheer her up, because she seems so sad lately. She never wants to talk about it, though.

I also sew clothing for children. Betty picks those up and delivers them to charity. She says my designs are "whimsical" and "endearing." I keep every photo she sends me of the kids beaming in their new clothes, holding handmade signs that say "Thank You Charlotte!"

I don't leave the house because of my autism. My accident caused a lot of memory loss, but Betty tells me how painful the outside world is for me, how the sounds and smells pierce my ears and overpower my nose, how the people bully me because they find my fidgeting and quiet demeanor strange. After the accident, everyone agreed that it's best if I stay indoors.

I know it bothers my Betty. Sometimes, when she thinks I don't notice, she looks at me with sad, regretful eyes. I try to show her that I'm all right and that I don't believe it was her fault.

Betty is so thoughtful. She arranges deliveries for me so that I never need to step foot outside the house. She visits me at least once a week, sometimes three or four times. She has gentle hands and she does healing spells on my scars; she thinks they'll fade away within the year. She's so good at magic. And she's always asking about my nightmares.

The nightmares are truly something else. Last week's was particularly bad.

I had crawled out of a basement. I couldn't walk because of the magic boots that would attach themselves to my feet if I ever set foot above the first basement step. Whenever I put weight on my feet, they seared with pain, as if the bottoms contained shards of glass. Somehow I knew that magic had cursed these boots, and I could remember trying again and again to remove them in the past before giving up.

I was powerful in my dream. I broke spell after spell designed to keep me in the basement. I felt formidable, strong. Something drove me to escape.

I faced a tall, barbed-wire fence. In real life, I would know to avoid something so unpleasant, but for some reason in this dream I felt I had something important I needed to do. Something crucial. It felt like many people were counting on me, like their freedom was at stake.

So I climbed, cursed boots digging into my toes as I gripped the metal fence. The barbed wire tore at my skin and clothes alike, yet I refused to give up. My teeth ached from being clenched so hard. I crossed the top and leaped to the ground.