a man who could only be her father. They were holding hands and
laughing, at what Mirissa didn’t know. The sight brought back memories of all
the times she and her father had spent together. Despite her mother’s absence,
he’d given her a good life.
A loud popping sound to her left
drew her gaze away from the young girl and her father. A little boy, no more
than six years old, held a long string in his hand. It trailed down to his feet
and at the end were the remnants of a balloon. The boy started to cry almost
immediately. Instead of consoling him, the woman at his side—presumably his
mother—grabbed the string and tore it from his hand. Mirissa couldn’t hear what
she was saying, but by the expression on her face, and her flailing arms, her
anger was obvious. The boy’s shoulders bounced in time with his sobs as the
scene attracted the attention of passersby.
Mirissa felt her anger rise at
this woman’s horrendous treatment of her son. It was everything she could do to
stop herself from intervening. She’d never been treated like that by either of
her parents and couldn’t imagine what that boy’s life was like.
But she knew someone who could.
Greco hadn’t told her much about
his childhood, but what he had shared was enough to tell her everything she
needed to know.
Mirissa’s heart swelled at her
sudden understanding. The pain he must have felt while growing up was beyond
her comprehension. Could she really blame him for lashing out? He was thirteen
years old at the time. Under those circumstances she might have done exactly
the same thing.
Mirissa jumped off the bench and
ran back the way she’d come. When she crossed the first street she saw the
balloon vendor pushing his cart slowly in her direction. Although she
desperately needed to get back to Greco, she also needed to do this. She
sprinted to the unsuspecting salesman, grabbed every balloon she could, and
threw a wad of cash on his cart. As she ran back to the square she yelled,
“Keep the change,” over her shoulder.
A minute later she was kneeling
in front of the boy. His mother, still in the midst of her rant, fell silent.
Mirissa tied the strings of a dozen balloons loosely around the boy’s wrist and
said, “Enjoy these, sweetheart. You deserve them.” Then she stood and faced the
mother.
She felt the tingle from her ring
as she called upon her powers. She held the woman immobile without laying a
finger on her. When she tried to call out, Mirissa clamped her mouth shut, then
reached into her purse and pulled out her wallet. “Now you listen to me. Your
son is a precious gift and deserves to be treated accordingly.” Mirissa made a
show of opening the stranger’s wallet and looking at her driver’s license. “I
know who you are and where you live. I also know that you can feel exactly what
I’m doing to you right now. Just imagine what else I’m capable of. Your only
job is to be a mother to your son. Do it well—very well—or you’ll see me
again.”
Reining in her power, she gave
the boy a quick wink. She had no way of knowing if her intervention would make
a difference in his young life, but the fear she saw in his mother’s eyes said
that it might. As she turned to leave, she noticed the other people in the
square were looking at her, smiling. Although they didn’t know everything she’d
done, they did know that she’d helped. Mirissa smiled in return, then raced
back to Greco.
By the time she got back to the
house the transfusion had already begun. Greco was lying on the couch, his
parents at his side, with a clear plastic tube running from his arm to
Jeremy’s. Mirissa could see his blood inside it.
As she knelt at his side, Greco
opened his eyes. His voice was low as he spoke. “I’m so sorry Mirissa. I would
do anything to take back what I did to you. It was—”
“Shut up.” Mirissa cut him off.
“You were a scared and angry boy. I understand. I wish you would’ve told me the
truth sooner,
laughing, at what Mirissa didn’t know. The sight brought back memories of all
the times she and her father had spent together. Despite her mother’s absence,
he’d given her a good life.
A loud popping sound to her left
drew her gaze away from the young girl and her father. A little boy, no more
than six years old, held a long string in his hand. It trailed down to his feet
and at the end were the remnants of a balloon. The boy started to cry almost
immediately. Instead of consoling him, the woman at his side—presumably his
mother—grabbed the string and tore it from his hand. Mirissa couldn’t hear what
she was saying, but by the expression on her face, and her flailing arms, her
anger was obvious. The boy’s shoulders bounced in time with his sobs as the
scene attracted the attention of passersby.
Mirissa felt her anger rise at
this woman’s horrendous treatment of her son. It was everything she could do to
stop herself from intervening. She’d never been treated like that by either of
her parents and couldn’t imagine what that boy’s life was like.
But she knew someone who could.
Greco hadn’t told her much about
his childhood, but what he had shared was enough to tell her everything she
needed to know.
Mirissa’s heart swelled at her
sudden understanding. The pain he must have felt while growing up was beyond
her comprehension. Could she really blame him for lashing out? He was thirteen
years old at the time. Under those circumstances she might have done exactly
the same thing.
Mirissa jumped off the bench and
ran back the way she’d come. When she crossed the first street she saw the
balloon vendor pushing his cart slowly in her direction. Although she
desperately needed to get back to Greco, she also needed to do this. She
sprinted to the unsuspecting salesman, grabbed every balloon she could, and
threw a wad of cash on his cart. As she ran back to the square she yelled,
“Keep the change,” over her shoulder.
A minute later she was kneeling
in front of the boy. His mother, still in the midst of her rant, fell silent.
Mirissa tied the strings of a dozen balloons loosely around the boy’s wrist and
said, “Enjoy these, sweetheart. You deserve them.” Then she stood and faced the
mother.
She felt the tingle from her ring
as she called upon her powers. She held the woman immobile without laying a
finger on her. When she tried to call out, Mirissa clamped her mouth shut, then
reached into her purse and pulled out her wallet. “Now you listen to me. Your
son is a precious gift and deserves to be treated accordingly.” Mirissa made a
show of opening the stranger’s wallet and looking at her driver’s license. “I
know who you are and where you live. I also know that you can feel exactly what
I’m doing to you right now. Just imagine what else I’m capable of. Your only
job is to be a mother to your son. Do it well—very well—or you’ll see me
again.”
Reining in her power, she gave
the boy a quick wink. She had no way of knowing if her intervention would make
a difference in his young life, but the fear she saw in his mother’s eyes said
that it might. As she turned to leave, she noticed the other people in the
square were looking at her, smiling. Although they didn’t know everything she’d
done, they did know that she’d helped. Mirissa smiled in return, then raced
back to Greco.
By the time she got back to the
house the transfusion had already begun. Greco was lying on the couch, his
parents at his side, with a clear plastic tube running from his arm to
Jeremy’s. Mirissa could see his blood inside it.
As she knelt at his side, Greco
opened his eyes. His voice was low as he spoke. “I’m so sorry Mirissa. I would
do anything to take back what I did to you. It was—”
“Shut up.” Mirissa cut him off.
“You were a scared and angry boy. I understand. I wish you would’ve told me the
truth sooner,
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