I met her a long, long time ago. The perfect stranger. But somehow, I felt like I had vaguely known her.
She was almost the same age as I was. Yet she was so different.
I was a very quiet child. I didn’t talk much and kept my feelings pretty much to myself.
She laughed exuberantly when she was happy. She was down in the dumps when sad. She occasionally cursed and abused people when they crossed lines too close for comfort.
I flinched at the thought of calling people names. I couldn’t so much as hurt an insect. I put a smile on my face when I was happy. I tried to appear normal when sad, even though I cried a little in isolation. Even as a child, I acted or tried to act like a grown up person would. By grownups I mean, people who are never “too happy”. They are just happy and they smile. When they are sad, they try and appear “normal”.
But she was what she was. Made up of raw emotions. I realized that she had been given the independence to be herself. By God himself. She was innocence personified.
Needless to say, I was inspired by her. Children at a young often are.
I shouted at Mom. She stared back. In disbelief. She hadn’t seen this side of me, ever.
She was pushing me to the brink. We had an argument. I got up and screamed at her.
I suddenly realized the graveness of my action. Mom left the room in a huff.
Sheepishly, I pulled myself up and looked at her in the eye. Across the room. In the mirror on the opposite wall.
Disclaimer: This a work of fiction written for a weekly theme