Crying. It's the first thing I can remember about my life. I must've been 5 or 6. I don't even remember my parents, or anything else before.
I was alone in a cold, dark room. The lights flickered in the darkness. The door was slightly open. I remember men shouting-something was wrong. These weren't your friendly-neighbor type of men, these were the military. They carried large guns, and their eyes intimidated me. They wore dark clothes, and a belt that was above their waste. Their hair was all short, not a bit of it falling on there forehead. I'm sure one of them knew it was wrong. I don't remember other children, but I remember screaming. I was wearing a black, one-piece cover for my body. It was tight and itchy. I don't remember if I had comfortable pajamas to slip into during the night. I was leaning on a wall, wrapping my arms around my legs and dipping my head into the space between my legs and my torso. I was crying. I had done something wrong. My arm hurt like hell. It must've been where I got the scar from. It was only a few moments I remember. Nothing more. 123Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNSNHLKIpzL
Why was it me? Why was it me who's first memory is this?
My next memory is much clearer. An older man spoke to me, asking how the hell I ended up in the middle of the pacific ocean. I didn't know. Where was I before? Who was I speaking to? Next thing I know I was put in an orphanage.
But throughout all that, I think something changed. In my earliest memory, there was moments of quiet. Now, all I hear is the buzz of minds. I certainly can't turn off my mindreading. So something must've changed, right?123Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBMiCLeei9A
The daunting quiet of no response is often too much to bare.
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