I work a dangerous job; risking my life every day for people who don’t even know it, who don’t even appreciate what I do. They merely sit in their houses, watching the news of what they think is going on in the United States of America. But, to tell the truth, they really know nothing. They know nothing about what is going on behind the curtains at this very minute. They know nothing about the war that is being waged between the forces of good and evil. We make sure that none of the humans realize what we do, that none of our actions are broadcasted to the live televisions the humans watch so intently. And I want with all my heart to tell them, shout it to them, take the microphone out of the news anchor’s hand and tell every person in the world what truly happens. But I can’t. It is far against the law to tell people what I really am, what I really do. They would freak out, scream until the world collapsed into a heap of fire that water could never hope to put out.
I lay in bed thinking about this, letting it all pass through my mind in one fell swoop. But when it comes, it does not leave. It stays in my mind until I drift off into a sleep in which I can’t wait to awake from. Because all my dreaming hours, nightmares fill my eyes, fill my mind with pictures I wish I could forget. But I know I never will. They will be locked up, stored away in the darkest recesses of my mind until the day I die. Which, knowing me, could be tomorrow, or in one hundred years. It’s impossible to tell.
Finally, I let my eyelids slip close, letting the darkness envelope me until I finally sleep. Or, at least, I think I sleep. I am not sure if I sleep at all, because I toss and turn, groan and moan, until I am absolutely positive I lay awake. I keep my eyes closed, wanting so badly to find the restless sleep I didn’t desire, but desperately needed.
After a long while of doing this, I begin to feel uncomfortable. My body begins to stiffen, I start to itch in odd places, and...I feel something clawing at me. At first, I think it is just a fly or something, but then it begins to get more intense. It claws its way up my leg and begins to...to...grab me.
A scream erupts from my mouth, filling the room with sound as it resonates off the walls and finds its way back into my ears.
I writhed as the arms struggled to take hold of me, my arms flailing and punching at whoever was struggling to take get me in their grasp. Someone, I could feel, was taking hold of my leg. With all the force I could muster-which was a lot-I kicked the person in the gut. A wet coughing sound came from their mouth as they let go of my leg and took several steps back, their heels clicking on the linoleum floor.
As I struggle, I attempt to open my eyes. I think I succeed, but it is hard to tell, the room is surrounded in a blackness that is impenetrable, even to my keen eyes. There were slight shapes of three figures in the darkness. I can not make them out, I can’t even tell what their height is. They are concealed so well in the darkness that I struggle even harder to escape their unyielding grasp.
“Who are you?” I yell into the darkness, my voice not quivering, but not completely steady either.
“Don’t you know?” came a familiar voice. It was the voice of someone I love dearly, someone I have known all my life, someone who will pick me up when I fall down.
“Isabelle?” I ask, curiosity sinking into my voice. Now my voice quivers, and not slightly, it was audibly shaking up and down as my breathing increased and I began to hyperventilate.
“Yup,” she says, her a malevolent smile present in her breathtaking voice.
“Why, Izzy?” I ask, using the nickname for Isabelle I came up with years ago, when we were both still small, cute toddlers, just learning to use our powers.
“Because, Chris,” she says my name in such a delightful, scary tone that I wonder extensively what in the world she is talking about. Her next words attempt to explain it, but I do not know the moral of her reasoning.
“It is your time,” says my sister.


To Be Continued