Hello, this is my first time posting one of my stories online so comments would be appreciated.

Fitting In 


It was ten years ago when my family and I were granted these... abilities.

We didn’t fall into lava or get squished by a meteor; no it was much simpler than that. It was June and I had just had my fifth birthday. My dad had been doing some onsite research (he’s a doctor) on a weird disease that many people had picked up in Madagascar. Not wanting to leave me alone, my dad thought it would be best to take me with him, even though my mum disapproved highly.


Madagascar, June 2001

 “Did we really have to bring Willow all the way out here?” My mother, Bree, asked as she dusted dirt of my pink skirt. My father, Paul, stood up from his crouched position and smiled at her. “Would you rather her stay with a rotten old nanny then?” He asked as my mother grabbed my small hand. “People have been coming into the hospital with strange illnesses, they’ve all come from the same place, I thought I told you about this before we left?”

“You’ve told me at least five times already.” My mother told him, shaking her head with a small smile. “What if we get sick, what if Willow gets sick?” She asked glancing at me as I pulled my hand from hers and sat on the ground. “That’s why we took the medication before we left, to prevent us from becoming sick and dying.”

“Dying!” My mother shrieked her eyes wide in alarm.

I was no longer paying attention to the conversation my parents were having as I twirled a leaf in-between my fingers, I was five, what do you expect?

Sitting amongst weeds was the strangest flower; it was an amber colour with blue dots sprinkled across the petals. “Daddy, look at the flower.” I pointed towards the flower and my father smiled before reaching down and plucking it from the ground.

He recoiled and the flower floated to the ground, metres from my feet. My father sucked on the end of his bleeding finger as my mother reached down and picked up the flower. She examined it with a feather light touch before placing it in my lap and going inside the tent.

She came out moments later with a first aid kit in her hand. My father held his finger out and she wrapped a white bandage firmly around the cut. Blood stained the flower and I couldn’t help but feel mesmerized as it glistened in the sunlight. “Willow, don’t touch the flower.” My mother warned, her eyes trained on me, I let my hand drop to my side.

I sat on the forest floor, my fingers itching just to touch the flower for a few moments. My fingers disobeyed my brain and I found myself running a finger along a petal. It was rough against my touch, like sandpaper. I pulled my finger back quickly as blood oozed from it, rolling off my finger and onto the ground.

Tears stung my eyes as I stared at the cut, knowing my mother would be mad. “Willow!” She cried as she rushed to my side, a bandage in her hand. “I’m sorry...” I mumbled as she grabbed the flower and chucked it into the trees.

“It’s just a little cut,” she smiled at me, “it’ll be okay.”


Australia, November 2002

 I sat on a fluffy rug, a colouring pencil in my hand, scribbling on a piece of paper that sat atop the coffee table. I brushed back my curly blond hair and let out a sigh, I pursed my lips together before grabbing another pencil.

“So you’ve been having these weird visions whenever you touch someone or something?” My mother came into the room, a phone to her ear. There was a muffled reply and my mum shook her head, “I’ll ask her.” She put the phone on the counter and walked over to me, “what are you drawing darling?” She asked in a soft, motherly voice.