Parahuman

pa·ra·hu·man [adj.]

\ˈpär-ə-ˈhyü-mən, ˈyü-\

1:  of, relating to, or characteristic of parahumans

2:  at or to the side of humans, beyond human

3:  in the form of, having the attributes of human, yet existing alongside humans

     A little girl stood at the intersection of a hospital hallway. The staff bustled around her, each on quickly walking to their own destination. This was a restricted area, yet not a single one questioned her presence. She turned, looking in each direction for something.

     She paused for a second, and then her head whipped around, staring off into the distance at something only she could see. For a long moment her body didn’t move at all, then slowly she relaxed.

     “Excuse me,” she said in English, getting the attention of a passing nurse. “Take me to neonatal intensive care.”

     The nurse looked almost confused for a second, but then she straightened up and smiled.

     “Follow me, please.” she said pleasantly, before turning around and walking back the way she came.

     The little girl didn’t move for a second, just looked at the woman’s retreating feet. She didn’t like what she saw in the nurse, but then again, it had been a very long time since the little girl had met someone she didn’t immediately dislike.

     After a beat or two, the little girl followed after. The nurse wound through the blank halls of the hospital before stopping at a heavy set of double doors. She pushed opened one to let the girl inside. The nurse’s eyes followed her as she passed through the door.

     “Can I get you anything else, dearie.” she asked, patronizing tone shaped by interactions with thousands of patients and family.

     The little girl twitched in annoyance at the term before waving her hand to release the woman. “Leave.” she said, no longer paying attention.

     She scanned the room. A number of incubators were set up in parallel lines along each side of the room. Each one was covered by a plastic hood and had a large beeping machine placed next to it. Many of them also had parents standing by.

     She walking the length of the room, finally coming upon the last incubator in the line. This one also had its own pair of parents standing before it.

     “Leave,” she ordered the man and woman standing there. As if on cue, both simultaneously turned away from the clear plastic hood and walked away. The little girl spared a glance to watch them exit through the door in the middle of the room. She would have to pay them a visit afterward, to clear up loose ends.

     A small wrinkled hand landed on the girl’s shoulder. She didn’t react besides a small twitch. It was only the old woman. After all, it had been years since she had allowed someone beside the old woman casual contact.

     The old woman said a sentence in Japanese. Although the little girl didn’t speak Japanese, she knew that the old woman was asking what the girl's opinion of the child was.

     I don’t know, the little girl replied in her own native language, which no longer had a name. I haven’t even seen its face yet, she continued.

     We do not need to see its face, the old woman said.

     The little girl paused before giving her reply. Should we not carry with us the memory of the faces of those we kill?