Suffocated Curiosity

Elinora

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Anger. That's what I remember most from my childhood—the thick, completely discernable misery of a doomed marriage. A union that rested solely on the shared DNA of a surprise first child, not unwanted, but also not intended to foster the beginnings of an ideal future, a nuclear family. At least, my parents never intended to start a family together.

It's not my fault. I am a blessing. I bring joy to my parents' world. A child could never be a mistake. These are the endless chants of reassurance I'd endure when people would hear about the chaos at home.

Children seem only to be treated as gifts, a fragile innocence not to be sullied. No matter the intentions of those walking halves of their gene pool, kids are mostly left ignorant and naive, forming perceptions of how to navigate relationships based on mirroring. Bouncing, bumbling babies are always blessings, but parents seem only vaguely aware of the sponge resting behind their eyes. Kids soak up every tiny piece of information they possibly can as they form their personalities and perspectives. Slowly losing the innocence of their fresh eyes and soul as they encounter the life they were born into but never chose.

I was 17 when my parents were taken by flame. Fitting that fire would be the element to disintegrate the ire into ash. For nearly two decades, I absorbed every hateful interaction straight from the people I looked up to most, the only family I had. Almost two decades' worth of wholly antagonistic emotions between the only individuals who could've taught me about true love and healthy communication. My role models taught me manipulation and gaslighting before I could even speak in complete sentences.

I felt it all, but mostly the anger, the resentment. I felt the jealousy from my dad when he acknowledged how often my mom snuck out of the house for "grocery shopping" only to come back empty-handed. I felt the fear from my mom when she noticed the extra security cameras planted around the driveway after dad found me home alone one too many times. Neither one was ever free; they died together, chained to each other through their blood bond to me as the fire melted them into their separate beds.

All I ever wanted for as long as I can stand to remember was for my parents to willfully take their autonomy back from each other. An act to show me that independence and change are not something to fear. I tried to comfort them into an amicable divorce. Hell, I even told my mother outright that she should walk away—divorce my dad for their sake and mine. But that wish died. Supposedly, a facade of a family is better than one outwardly broken, fresh for the assuming and judgmental whispers of the town rumor mill.

Though unconventional and disjointed, my parents did what they could to give me stability. My ghost of a father worked overtime to support and gradually develop his small pocket of the world while my mom taught, guided, and consoled me. You could call me home-schooled, but I never felt the same imprisonment other young people seem to endure during those 8 hours of education 5 days a week. The building blocks of my knowledge base mainly consisted of training my instincts, trusting my intuition, and honing in on my empathy.

The most lovely memories I have are moments spent learning. My mom and I would spend hours wound up in philosophy or sociology or psychology or communication, reading and savoring the theories of human behavior. Though focused on the social sciences, conventional studies were equally important. When I wasn't participating in heated discussions of theory with my mom, I was independently working towards my GED. I had high hopes of obtaining a doctorate of some kind once prepared.

The last conversation I had with my parents was cryptic and rushed. They were on their way out of town for what my dad called a business trip. I later found out they were meeting with a divorce lawyer in the city. Flustered from planning and packing, my mom flitted around the house, ensuring nothing was forgotten while my dad began his farewells. My father pressed a brief kiss to my forehead, never one for vulnerability, mumbling, "I love you." Before promptly proceeding out the door with his overnight bag, not bothering to wait for my reciprocation.

My mom seemed more hesitant, worried over this harmless "see you soon" situation. Wringing her fingers in her hands, she sighed.

"Elinora," she breathed as I braced myself, knowing my mom reserved my full name for more serious topics, "I know that you soak up a lot from the world around you, and you always have. It is a blessing, a gift, to have such an incredible sense of the individual passions and perceptions of those around you. We have never talked about your ancestry, but there are things you should understand that would help you navigate the mess of alien emo—"

"Juliette! Let's go already! We are going to miss that first meeting." My father huffed impatiently from the front door.

Mom rolled her eyes but replied, "I understand, Hugo, loud and clear. Just let me say goodbye to our daughter in peace!" He barely waited for her to finish the sentence before shuffling to the car and slamming the door behind him.

My mom closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Exhaling her calming breath, she said, "I didn't want to start your lessons this way, but here," plopping an envelope into my hand.

"Just because you can feel other people, actually take on their emotions, does not mean any of those emotions are because of you. There are ways for you to harness your empathetic abilities, silence them, or, in rare cases, even project them. That letter," she continued as she pointed to it in my hand, "is your first glimpse into my world. There's a brief definition and a name for your gift. You're more than just an empath."

My mind was whirling. I always felt overwhelmed in crowds, but I never took the time to discern why other than a depleted social battery. Sometimes I would feel disconnected from my own thoughts and feelings, instead overcome by foreign attitudes. The thought of controlling how much emotion I soaked in from the world around me—the idea that I could project those feelings, my feelings?

Mom grabbed my hand to shake me from the cage of my thoughts, "Elli, there's no reason for you to be so spooked! This is terrific news. I thought it would stay dormant in you when the gift skipped me, but I was wrong. You have power and purpose regardless, but this gift is a blessing to train and cherish. I have to go now before your father bursts a blood vessel in his forehead. I'm sorry to drop all of this on you, but I needed to rip the bandage off with you coming of age soon. This trip was just so last minute."

She paused, squeezing my hand in hers, "There's money on the counter for emergencies and food, and you have all the important numbers in your phone if you need anything. We will be back in a few days. I love you, sweet Elli-bug!"

With that, she smacked a motherly and over-dramatic smooch to my forehead before rushing out the door, leaving my delayed "I love you, too," echoing in the entryway.

I immediately tore open the mysterious envelope my mother presented to me. There was just a single notecard where my mother's handwriting scrawled a single word, pronunciation, and definition: "Pathoseia /pATH-Ohs-AYuh/, a power gifted to mighty shifters in order to control empathetic and/or telepathic abilities such as the experiencing of others' emotions, silencing the invading emotions of others, or even manipulating the emotions of others through projection."

A power? What? Like a superpower? And "shifters?" as far as I understood it, magic didn't exist outside of art, literature, and media. Werewolves, witches, and vampires were constant characters of both daydreams and nightmares. Still, there was never any tangible evidence for their existence. I could read as many fantasy novels as humanly possible, yet couldn't will any magic, in reality, no matter how determined.

Left to only the company of the endless train of curious questions sparked by this new aspect of myself, I opted for a distraction. I settled into a novel until the written word lulled me to sleep.

They died that same night. No sugar-coated euphemisms. My parents didn't pass away or go to the other side. The only family or guardians I had ever known burnt to death in a cheap hotel room in their separate twin beds, awaiting their chance for freedom from each other. Some idiot forgot to take the foil off of his microwaveable burrito, causing an explosion in conjunction with the hotel's faulty wiring. Through the shared wall killing himself, my mother, and my father.

The divorce papers were never signed or notarized, so they left this earth still married. Cremated to give their souls freedom after agonizing life and death.

Though selfish of me to think this way, there was part of me that always begrudged my mother for leaving me with so many unanswered questions. This curiosity is like an itch that can never be reached or soothed with scratching. It is overpowering, strangling my other streams of consciousness until all that remains are ruminating whispers concerning pathoseia and shifters. I was suffocating in a drought devoid of the rain answers and wisdom would bring.

Anger. Different but now oddly comforting. This selfish anger that I would never know the meaning of my supposed gift replaces the bitterness my parents left behind, forever trapped in a loveless marriage.