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Eleanor Bobbit
you dont want me to touch you
Created on 2004-05-02 14:54:57 (#3023259), last updated 2004-11-09
39 comments received, 16 comments posted
Basic Account [Gift]
13 Journal Entries, 0 Tags, 0 Memories, 0 Virtual Gifts, 2 Userpics
BioThis is my first attempt at the National Novel Writing Month challenge!
When I speak of my life I have to start at the beginning. As all once were, I was a child, quiet, happy, and resourceful. A child who had a normal, albeit different life. My father was mysterious; he came from a long line of mysterious people. I am named for his mother, my grandmother Eleanor, who was just as respected as feared by everyone who knew her. She could do things like I can, like my father can, only she could do them better. She’s older now but still useful. That’s what they call us, to them my family is and other like us are the mysterious ones. We can do things they can’t, know things they don't, understand things they don't even want to think about. The normals don't like us for that and we are looked upon as weird and out of the ordinary. That is my heritage, it is my gift and my curse. I was born this way and I can’t change it, just live with it and unfortunately so must everyone else.
But as I said I must start at the beginning. I was only 5 when it first started happening. It seemed to my father that I am the possessor of a unique gift; I can make things come alive. At first it started out slow, things would move for a short distance, say a few words, do a little dance then fall back to normal, silent and un-alive as they were before. As I got older the gift seem to gain strength and they would stay alive longer, say more things, even have a personality all their own before falling limp again. Around 10 was when it got the worst, everything I touched came alive; books, tables, lamps, doorknobs, pens, flowers, plates, anything and everything. My father being the mysterious persons he is quickly disposed of the annoying ones like the lamp who would insult you when you turned him on and “woke him up”. I was scared at first I didn't have the capacity to understand what was happening. Why my teddy bear smacked me in the face one day after I tossed him in the chair next to me was scary and odd to me. Stuff would move after I got done playing with it, I would leave it on one side of the room but it would get up and walk to the other or into another room entirely before falling over and going still again. One time my fork I was eating dinner with suddenly started dancing across the table and singing the opening tune from my favorite TV show. I laughed and sang along, my mother screamed and my father quickly snatched it up; I laughed more when the fork poked him. Another time when I was 7 my favorite stuffed zebra started talking to me one night he was silent for a few nights then he did it again, he hasn't shut up now since I was 9. At 10 my mother died and I was left with no one to read me a story, so I made the books start reading to me. Few years ago my grandmother gave me a world dictionary book she helps me do my homework now along with the pencil I accidentally caught after knocking it off a table. It was about now that my father started making me wear my gloves. I don't mind it the gloves actually allow me to be somewhat normal considering. Although not the greatest of fashion statements according to the girls at school but who cares, I certainly don’t, they don't know my secret no one does and that's how it has to stay.
When I speak of my life I have to start at the beginning. As all once were, I was a child, quiet, happy, and resourceful. A child who had a normal, albeit different life. My father was mysterious; he came from a long line of mysterious people. I am named for his mother, my grandmother Eleanor, who was just as respected as feared by everyone who knew her. She could do things like I can, like my father can, only she could do them better. She’s older now but still useful. That’s what they call us, to them my family is and other like us are the mysterious ones. We can do things they can’t, know things they don't, understand things they don't even want to think about. The normals don't like us for that and we are looked upon as weird and out of the ordinary. That is my heritage, it is my gift and my curse. I was born this way and I can’t change it, just live with it and unfortunately so must everyone else.
But as I said I must start at the beginning. I was only 5 when it first started happening. It seemed to my father that I am the possessor of a unique gift; I can make things come alive. At first it started out slow, things would move for a short distance, say a few words, do a little dance then fall back to normal, silent and un-alive as they were before. As I got older the gift seem to gain strength and they would stay alive longer, say more things, even have a personality all their own before falling limp again. Around 10 was when it got the worst, everything I touched came alive; books, tables, lamps, doorknobs, pens, flowers, plates, anything and everything. My father being the mysterious persons he is quickly disposed of the annoying ones like the lamp who would insult you when you turned him on and “woke him up”. I was scared at first I didn't have the capacity to understand what was happening. Why my teddy bear smacked me in the face one day after I tossed him in the chair next to me was scary and odd to me. Stuff would move after I got done playing with it, I would leave it on one side of the room but it would get up and walk to the other or into another room entirely before falling over and going still again. One time my fork I was eating dinner with suddenly started dancing across the table and singing the opening tune from my favorite TV show. I laughed and sang along, my mother screamed and my father quickly snatched it up; I laughed more when the fork poked him. Another time when I was 7 my favorite stuffed zebra started talking to me one night he was silent for a few nights then he did it again, he hasn't shut up now since I was 9. At 10 my mother died and I was left with no one to read me a story, so I made the books start reading to me. Few years ago my grandmother gave me a world dictionary book she helps me do my homework now along with the pencil I accidentally caught after knocking it off a table. It was about now that my father started making me wear my gloves. I don't mind it the gloves actually allow me to be somewhat normal considering. Although not the greatest of fashion statements according to the girls at school but who cares, I certainly don’t, they don't know my secret no one does and that's how it has to stay.
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