Thallium

She did not have parents

She had Meanie One and Meanie Two.

That was what she called them, because that was what they were. They had given her life, but they had also taken it away.

She had been their miracle. The child they had prayed for, the one they had promised to love forever.

"Fucking liars."

She whispered it every time she told her story. Every time she explained, every time she stood over someone, deciding whether they deserved to live or die.

She had been five years old when she got sick.

At first, they had stayed by her side, whispering assurances, brushing her hair, lying to her.

"You'll be better soon, sweetheart. Any day now."

The words had meant something back then. She had believed them, clung to them like they were the only things keeping her alive.

She should have known better.

Days turned into months.

Months turned into years.

The visits became less frequent. The reassurances became shorter, strained, forced.

Then, one day, they stopped altogether.

She didn't realize they had abandoned her until a year had passed.

And when they finally did return, it was not to take her home.

It was to say goodbye.

They had a new daughter.

A healthy one. A perfect one.

She had watched them leave, unable to move, unable to cry out, unable to do anything but exist in the silent agony of their absence.

She had lost everything—her limbs, her voice, her future—but she still wasn't allowed to die.

Not yet.

Because one person refused to let her go.

The doctor.

Not a liar. Not yet.

He had taken her in, called himself her father, promised he would fix her.

She wanted to believe him.

She really, really did.

But promises meant nothing.

Lies were still lies, even if spoken with kindness.

Years passed. The disease worsened. One by one, her body stopped working.

Her fingers.

Her toes.

Her arms.

Her legs.

Her throat.

Her eyes.

She could not speak. She could not scream. She could not move.

But she could listen.

And she had listened the night her father broke.

She had felt it in his touch—the trembling hands, the quiet sobs.

He had tried so hard. Spent every night searching for a cure that did not exist. And in the end, when he could take no more, he made his final decision.

It was mercy.

That was what he had told himself.

He had whispered apologies into her ear.

And then-

Snap.

That should have been the end.

But then-

Something poked her.

She should not have woken up.

She should have been gone, freed, erased from the world that had rejected her.

But she wasn't.

She gasped, sucking in air that should not have existed for her.

Her throat worked.

Her lungs filled.

She could feel her fingers.

Her legs.

Her eyes.

She opened them.

A child was standing over her.

She stared.

The child stared back.

She blinked.

And for the first time in ten years, she laughed.

It was not a happy sound.

Not relief.

Not joy.

It was delirium.

She reached up, touching her own face, her own arms, her own body—the one she had lost so long ago.

"Well, well, well," she crooned, flexing her fingers, marveling at how they worked again. "Isn't this a miracle?"

She laughed again, rolling onto her stomach, pressing her cheek against the cold floor, just because she could.

The child watched her.

She grinned, wild and sharp. "You wanna tell me what the hell just happened, or do I get to pretend I'm dreaming?"

The child tilted its head. "You will continue."

She snorted. "That right?"

She pushed herself upright, knees pulling beneath her, her body obeying her commands for the first time in years.

This wasn't a dream.

This was real.

Her father had tried to kill her, and yet, here she was.

Alive.

And better than ever.

She licked her lips, tilting her head toward the child. "So, do I get a new name now?"

The child was quiet. Then it spoke.

"Thallium Gaia."

She laughed.

A high, breathy sound. "Oh, so I get a pretty name, huh?"

She rolled the words over her tongue, tasting them.

Thallium. A metal. A poison. Something beautiful and deadly at the same time.

Gaia. Earth itself. Something alive.

Something she had never been.

She tapped a finger against her lips, pretending to think. "I wanted 'Kid' as my last name, you know. But I guess this is fine."

The child said nothing.

She grinned.

Her father had failed to save her.

Her mother and father had left her for dead.

But she was still here.

And she wasn't going anywhere.

Not ever again.