Wind Whispers: Virginia Whitlock's Story

Wind Whispers, the Story of Virginia Whitlock, Ch 1: Awareness

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. This is a work of Twilight fanfiction.

**Author's note: This story is written about a time period of American history that dealt very bluntly and often unfairly with issues of race. Slavery was a fact of life, and racism was the rule and not the exception. Please do not confuse my accurately accounting things (such as prevailing attitudes, beliefs, and mannerisms such as accents and ways of speaking) with endorsing such. I strive to be as accurate and faithful to the characters and history as possible. Thank you.**

Chapter One: Awareness

I've always known I was different from everyone else.

Even when I was a tiny child, it was something I just understood, even before I could speak.

I had unnaturally early and vivid memories. Common knowledge says that a baby can't remember things, that our memories really begin once we're two or three years old at the very earliest, when the mind has developed more...but I remembered things very well, and much earlier, than at two or three years of age. And I remember that even then I knew something set me apart from others.

My first clear memory must have been when I was about six months old. Before that, there were jumbles of color and sound and sensation, which gradually began to grow more and more distinct with time's passing.

I think that was when I was about six months old, because I was just beginning to be able to roll myself over and to push myself up on my hands and knees, to rock back and forth gaily, not going anywhere, but exulting in the ability to move. I remember feeling a sensation I later could label as "exhilaration," that I could make my body do what I wanted it to do.

To be able to make your body respond, to make it do what you tell it to do when you want it to, is something adults take for granted, until they have been rendered helpless by old age or illness. Then they understand all too well. Babies understand it very well, too, in their own way; that helplessness and frustration is humiliating, and it is the norm for them. Why do you think babies cry so often? Wouldn't you, if you had no idea who or where you were, and had no idea what was going on around you, compounded by the inability to control your own body?

But I digress. Not many babies can remember like I did.

In that first, formative memory, I remember Mama laughing her sweet laugh from somewhere above me, and my big brother clapping his hands and laughing with her. I remember hearing their words, which I didn't understand then, but I loved the sound of their voices, regardless of what they said. I laughed too, knowing it would make them happy and laugh even more to hear my giggles. Laughter was a trick I had mastered early; it was an excellent method to get the big people to make me more comfortable or to play with me.

Mama reached down and pulled me up to sit me on my bottom, her big warm hands bracing me, holding me up when I would have slumped forward, not sure how to keep myself upright yet. Big Brother took one of my hands in his; my little fist was swallowed in his, but it wasn't frightening, feeling so small next to him. I already knew him and loved him more than anyone else except Mama, but it was a different kind of love. Where Mama nurtured and sustained my body, Big Brother was the sun of my existence, lighting my world and bringing joy.

From my new vantage point, sitting up, I was able to see so much more! I looked around in wonder, taking in all the things for which I had no names yet: colors and shapes, sounds and smells. All so new and confusing, but still so exciting.