transcendence :: by a.e. bennet
She’d arrived at Echols House at the age of seven, a tiny girl with wild brown locks of hair and wide terrified eyes that clung to her mother and screamed until her lungs ached when the orderlies tried to detach her from Cressida Warren’s side. Sage had cried so hard that she made herself sick, begging her parents not to leave her in a place that was, to a seven year old, positively horrifying with people that young Sage was quite certain were monsters in doctor disguises. She’d promised to ignore the voices that whispered to her, that she wouldn’t do what they told her to any more, that she’d be a good girl. Her father had dropped down to his knees, his eye line level with his daughters; he took a strand of her brown hair between his fingers and twirled it gently.
“You are a good girl Sage, but you’re very sick. These nice doctors are going to make you all better.” His voice had been calm almost to the point of being soothing, but even as young as seven Sage knew that she wasn’t sick, she couldn’t be ‘made better’ because there was nothing wrong with her that needed fixing.
@chlobenet
