november 2006
http://cakehole.org/zedpm
Please do not archive without permission.
Do you remember your mother, Isaac? You do? I'm glad. I bet she was the kindest woman you could ever find. Did she make you sandwiches when you were sad? Did she kiss your forehead and tuck you in at night?
Did your mother ever tell you stories when you were a child? You're smiling—they must have been good ones. Were they fairy-tales? Adventure stories? Did she read to you from your favorite books, or did she tell you stories from when she was growing up? My mother died when I was five, but she used to read to me every night. The Secret Garden, The Three Musketeers, The Odyssey. I would even go to bed early sometimes so she would read to me longer
Can I tell you a story, Isaac?
Once upon a time there was a girl. No, it's not that kind of story. Once upon a time there was a girl, and she lived with her father and her stepmother. One day her father left, and her stepmother gave her chores and punished her for it; and one day the stepmother died in a fire. But that's not important.
This girl had a power, you see. She could bend people to her will: she would tell a woman to give her a thousand dollars, and the woman would do it. She would tell a restaurant owner to get her the biggest meal on the menu, and he would give it to her on the house. She would tell a man to give her his car, and he would hand over the keys in a heartbeat. If she was here right now, Isaac, she could look into your eyes and tell you to die.
You don't have to be afraid of me. I'm not that girl, after all. She's dead.
But I guess I gave away the ending right there, didn't I? I'm sorry. I was never any good at storytelling to begin with.
So the girl in the story: she lived like a queen, rich off of other people's lives. For the first time since her father left, she felt free; but she was still sad. She had all the money in the world, and still, she couldn't buy a home. Then one day she tried to steal from the wrong man.
Well, she was in a bit of a trouble, wasn't she? This man who had taken her from her life of crime—her powers didn't work on him. She told him over and over to let her go, but he only laughed. You can try all you want, he said. I'm not going to let you leave. He told her why they—it wasn't just him; there were more of them like her, with special powers and abilities—needed her. And she heard him, and she listened, and though she knew it was important, she still said no.
So do you know what the man did next? He shut her in a room by herself for two days: no one to talk to, no one to command. For two days she screamed at the walls for anyone to let her out, but no one came. She felt as if she would die like that, alone, cold, far away from the only place she had ever called home.
And on the third day, he opened up the door and let her out.
He didn't shout this time. He wiped her face and cut her hair and, quietly, so quietly she could barely hear him, asked her again. He pulled out a picture from his wallet and said please. I need you to help me save my daughter. The girl looked at him and saw that he was crying, and that sight moved her more than any amount of money or threats in the world. And she reached out for his hand, and held it, and said, I will.
Does this story sound familiar to you now? About a girl with a mysterious power—a gift—brought here against her will, who learns to use that power for good? The girl in the story, the one who drank and stole cars and hurt others, is dead; so is the old you, Isaac. It's time for you to start over.
I've told you my story. Now please, Isaac, will you paint me the future?
