Blurry Vision

It's times like these I hate the most.

Tristan is certain that in the social ladder of Goran society (and possible/probably the two others, which I will talk about later), "seers" are middle-class or lower.  I am a seer.  Born with innate abilities untapped, for good reason, the gift of "sight" was unleashed the moment of my birth.  I knew things.  I saw things.  Sometimes Mom will deny I could have possibly have the thought process I know I had at the age of 3, but it's easy to think "you wouldn't have known what was going on" when you're used to a normal, all-American society dictating childhood mental development.  There are no textbooks on extraterrestrial humans or their offspring.  This is just something we have to learn and discover by trial and error.

Anyhew, I digress.... All my life I would see images in my mind, passing them off as daydreams that freakishly coincided with yet-to-occur events.  I would see a person and think thoughts in my head that would turn out to be snippets of who they are (one time I freaked my best friend out by telling her who she made out with at a bar, and I'd never met the guy).  I would develop theories that wound up being true.  It's this ability that made me one of the top three analysts in the unit.  My pride got ahead of me, but I still could see a photo and somehow see the event in my mind occurring as if it were a memory.

My theories.... I tend to try to not believe them.  They tend to be very much an accurate estimation.

A few weeks ago, Tristan and I were robbed.  We came home to find all our things spilled out in our room, his lockbox opened (but not broken), all our money gone that we had saved for rent, his journal was missing (which he found today), and the blinds were pried open at one part where it looked like someone had peeked out in a hurry.  The only things that hadn't been overturned was one drawer in the nightstand (that you could see all of its contents right where it was), and my small black latch-box where I store my jewelry.  For some reason my mind logged that overlooked detail that the box hadn't budged from its original location.

I analyzed the scene after I got over my initial shock and anger.  No, not fear.  After having death threats scrawled on mirrors and untying an unconscious Jake I don't know how many times, the fear and feeling of violation just vanishes.  I was angry that someone took my hard-earned money, and even angrier that with all the people who were in and out of the house, NO ONE saw anything amiss.  No one noticed anything out of the ordinary, no one else was robbed or trashed, and there were zero markings or evidence of an actual break in.  The thief literally could have/would have walked right on in through the front door (or back), whistled his or her way down to my room and just done whatever.

Finding no plausible theory coming to mind, I shoved aside the mystery and focused on work and getting my living arrangements, well, arranged.  Then yesterday a thought started nagging at my mind.  I rubbed the spot on my ring finger where a diamond ring used to be, glittering with purple tanzanite and tiny white diamonds in delicate silver.  My first gift from Jake.  Last year one of the gems popped out of their casing and I couldn't find it anywhere.  Not wanting to ruin my ring further, I put it in a silver chain with my prayer box.  Later on, when Ben gave me a claudagh pendant, I added it to the box and ring on the chain.  When we continued moving around frequently, I put it inside my latch-box for safe keeping.  Second drawer on the left on the inside.  I put it there and never took it out.

This sudden need to look at my ring and pendant nagged at me until this morning when I decided to open my box and slip the necklace on.

It's gone.

No one knew where I kept my ring except maybe Tristan.  I know I put it in there right before moving to my current place, and never ever took it out so it wouldn't be lost.  And now it's missing.  The whole freaking necklace, ring, pendant, prayer box....it's gone.

"It could have been the Raves, they are masters of disguises."  


"No, somehow this feels way too human.  All this is too human.  It's not slashed apart, nothing else was taken but the money, and how would they be able to open your security box without breaking it?  This is too human...."


That thought kept echoing in my mind.  Was my ring taken in the robbery?  Had the thief put my box back neatly after taking the one possession that has true sentimental value to me?  I remembered telling Tristan, who also had the same theory, that whoever came in was after something, most likely the money, and then intentionally made it look like an invasion.

But who?

On my way to work, my heart leaped to my throat as I suddenly dared to create a theory in my mind.  But I didn't just create a theory, I saw it.  A young man, tired but determined, walks into the house past several people preparing to help move boxes for the other roommates.  They smile at him, because they know him, or they think they do.  He smiles back and goes down to my room, where he knows Tristan's things are.  And my things.  He looks around, tips over the hamper to find clothes that fit him, but he knows most of them will because he'd picked them out himself.  He needs money so he goes to the lock box and thinks of a combination of numbers Tristan would be likely to use.  It works, and he takes well over $150 in cash so he can buy food and shelter.  There's not much else of use in the room, and as he looks around his stomach clenches.  He doesn't know why.  He sees my jewelry hanging on the wall, and looks over at them to see if the ring is among them.  He doesn't see it anywhere, but then looks down and sees the latch-box.  He opens it, and finds the chain with my prized gems.  Swallowing hard, he puts it in his pocket.  Maybe he will fix it and return it.  Maybe he will keep it.  He isn't sure yet.  He gets up and walks out of the room, maybe to take a quick shower, a luxury for him nowadays.  There's no major rush or worry, because the people in the house recognize him.  They just don't know he's not who he looks like.

It's difficult to describe, and believe, that this entire scene flashed in my mind in a single moment.  What's even harder to believe is the face I saw.

The other day as we were sitting, eating, Tristan suddenly said,  "I don't think Jake is dead."

"Oh, NOW you believe me?" I teased.

He nodded.  "The more I think about it, the more it makes sense.  Although I don't see him as being one to just stay on the sidelines.  He's got to be in on something, doing work somewhere."

I do not dare to believe my theory could be true.  At least, I try not to.

But what if...?

Burned

A while ago, someone decided to make a movie that represented everything we in the Organization went through.  Characters were made to roughly represent those of us mentioned in the original storytelling (and guess who did the telling?  Our good old friend, Jake), and events in the film not only covered things we had gone through but eerily predicted tragedy that was yet to come.

One of the characters, not so much a main one but a recurring, important one in the aspect of another's life story, was a representation of me.  She has a moment when she tells her old friend that she's proud of her scars and wrinkles because they mean that she's lived.  Jake explained to me that he wanted that included because once, when I was bandaging him up from a nasty encounter, I told him scars mean we aren't afraid to get hurt in life, and I'm proud of every single one, and I'll be proud of my laugh lines and crow's feet because they'll mean I smiled every day in my life.  Apparently it struck a chord with him and now those words are immortalized in a film.  (If you're wondering which movie, the only hint I'm giving is that Jake/Tristan were freaking lucky to get represented by Ashton Kutcher).

I got sunburned the other day helping Tristan with his chores at his parents' so we could earn extra money to live off of while we figure out where to live.  My shoulders hurt like heck but I'm proud of it.  It's proof of a beautiful blue sky, warm summer sun, the smell of hay and cut grass, a breeze whispering in the trees.....  Proof that there IS peace and serenity on this planet.  A reminder of the basic things of Earth that make me love my home.

Evidence that yes, I DID pick up a dead bird with a shovel while Tristan relaxed on the porch swing and said, as I grimaced at him, "You know I'm good for you."

Stress

I'm seriously going to develop an ulcer.

 In my effort to be nice, peaceful, nonjudgmental and a calm reactor to all things, I am bottling up everything inside because apparently it's bad for me to express anything negative.  When I'm angry I'm wrong, when I'm sad I'm wrong....I just can't win.  If it's not Tristan challenging my emotions, it's my mother.

Right now I am swallowing every urge to cry, scream, yell.... I don't know anymore.  I mean, in the long run I DO know, but life isn't about the destination, it's about the journey.  And the journey freaking sucks right now because it's like driving through Death Valley the size of Texas with a little kid poking me in the arm chanting "arewethereyetarewethereyetarewethereyet".

Welcome to the World

"You're doing great!"

"Hold it through!  Keep pushing!  Don't stop!"

Kami grimaced and grit her teeth, bearing down hard as she held back the screams of pain.  Only twice did she cry out, and the last one was when the head came through.

"There she is!  There she is!  Keep going!"

I held her leg back and helped her angle herself better, all the while watching intently and encouraging her to keep pushing.  "I can see her, Kami!  She's coming!"

"Here she comes!  Here she comes!"

In one moment what I was seeing went from a tuft of dark curly hair to a white, tucked-up baby girl.  The nurses cleaned her off immediately and for the first time, we all heard the tiny cries of my sister's daughter.

She is beautiful.  Dark, soft wisps of curly hair (like my wavy curls, not the tight coarse ones we expected), golden brown eyes, a perfect bow-shaped mouth, and soft pink skin covering her tiny body.  And oh, what an attitude!  Only 5 minutes out of her mother's womb and already she was telling us what to do.  When a nurse tried to clean her eyes and mouth from the excess gunk, little Marin shoved the hand away with both fists.  We weighed her in the bassinet-type scale, and when the nurse picked her up, Marin gave her a look of surprise, rolled over and grabbed the edge of the scale and clung for dear life!  We all laughed and tried to tug her away, but the nurse had to set her down and pry her tiny fists off the scale so she could get bundled up and handed to her mommy.

I watched my little niece get wrapped up in two warm blankets, then the nurse picked her up and turned to me.  "Would you like to take her to her mother?"

Would I?  Do I breathe oxygen?  I grinned and held Marin for the first time ever.  "Hi, sweetie!  I'm your Auntie Mira!"

She was upset at first, but after a moment she looked at me with very serious eyes.  This is an intelligent, a very intelligent, little girl.  I swear I saw understanding in her eyes, and she didn't fuss for me again.  While the nurses and doctor were stitching Kami up, every time my sister winced and sucked in a breath of pain, Marin would scrunch up her face and cry.  I looked up at Tristan and saw that he was also watching closely from across the room.

Marin is one of us.

Miracle

Tonight we're going on a little trip to witness a miracle in my family.  I am very glad and grateful that Tristan is coming with, both because he is my friend and because he is, in a quiet sort of way, our prince.  Sure there's no throne, no knighting, no political advantage, but it does mean something to have a prince of our people here to witness and help with such a wonder.  To my family, mainly my mother and me, it's a deep comfort to have someone who is just like us willing to be there with us.

My sister is going into labor tonight, induced, and Tristan and I are going to be there to help her get through the struggle of giving birth.  I wish with all my heart I could tell my "little" sister who we are, who she is, but she has been through so much in her life that it may be several years before the subject ever comes up.

The miracle that neither Tristan or I have ever witnessed before is the birth of a Goran half-breed.  I want to be there to help her enter the world, our world, but also to protect her from whatever dangers lurk in the dark corners of this same world.  Infants are vulnerable to attack, and if my mother's past, my past, Tristan's past, any Goran's past is something to go by, then this little one is in grave danger until she is old enough to fight for herself (that is, if those who hunt us know about her).  I pray she is unknown to our enemies, and I struggle between the hopes that she possesses the abilities our people do, and the hope that she will be as normal as any Second-Human.  Normal means no hunters.  But normal also means being different from her family.

Ugh

Two trips to the ER to find out I'm in perfect health.  Like, freakishly perfect health.  But obviously something is wrong, because I was there.  So I have another doctor's appointment today to see if I need to change my diet or if I have a reptilian in my stomach.

For those of you who did not get that joke, watch "Alien".  :P

Tristan is increasingly irritated with me.  Which makes me irritated with him.  But he doesn't really know why he continuously wants to punch me in the face (he hasn't, it's just the urge he has), so I'm just giving him his space because I'd really rather not deal with his crap right now.  Okay yesterday was legit, I begged him to come with me to the ER since they said it would be way quick and I don't "do" hospitals, and we were there for 6 1/2 hours.  I felt way bad and bought us pizza afterwards.  I want to call his therapist to see what can be done, because this is the fourth day of Tristan's irritation and it's just ridiculous.

I'm irritated too, mainly because he's been out drinking almost every night (almost, last night he stayed home) and  then he doesn't take his meds, he's off schedule, and getting him to take the smallest dosages takes time and lots of negotiation before he even picks it up in his hand.  The other night one of his friends (an old friend of mine who, sad to say, doesn't quite understand that boundaries exist) dropped him off way tipsy and said, "Make sure he doesn't take his meds!  He's had way too much to drink!"

I was nice, I smiled, said "Okay, thanks for letting me know, have a great night!"  And proceeded to mentally scream at her in anger and frustration.  What the hell?  Does she even know what his medication is for???  How about YOU live with him for a month on no meds?  See how long you last?  I did check on him and he hadn't drank nearly as much as his friend indicated and was fine to take his medication.  That is, if he would let me give it to him.

There's a possibility I've developed an ulcer.  Ulcers are caused by stress.  This would be one of those things that stress me out big time.  I've thought over what exactly stresses me, and shockingly enough, Tristan actually doesn't stress me out as much as I expected.  Like, it's very sporadic and minimal compared to the stress I get from work, family and dealing with crap like "don't let him take the medication that quiets the evil voices in his head".

Actually, being around Tristan calms me down like nothing else does (I'd like to say church calms me even more, but lately the political drama of the hypocrites that exudes from something as minor as worship bothers me on a very deep level).  When I went to the ER on Sunday (work sent me, yay), I called Tristan to just let him know where I was if he needed to get ahold of me.  He drove over and sat with me through everything, helping me to calm down in the unfamiliar setting.  Yes, I'm not a frequent hospital goer in any sense.  The last time I was in one for myself, I was 8 months old and knocked out cold from splitting my head open on a coffee table.

Dear Giorgio

Every time I get the deep urge to write Giorgio Tsoukalos, I freeze up through the email.  What the hell does one say to someone like him?  "Dear Mr. Tsoukalos, Hi, you are right about everything, and I am one of them"???

Giorgio, I hope you're reading this.  We really need to talk.