“Georgie!” I hear my dad screaming from the other side of the house, “Georgie! Where the hell are you? I need you here! Daddy needs his medicine! Georgie!”.
I know exactly what comes next, it happens every day, I could recite it in my sleep. My drunken father will stumble around the house looking for me. Nothing will stand in his way, not even the cabinet full of my mother’s plate collection, each one so delicately balanced on a thin wire stand. I hear him bump into the cupboard and listen to another plate shatter on the floor, I wonder which one it was this time that met its demise. He’ll go around, smashing and stumbling until he finds me. I try to hide in different places, try to make it as hard as possible for him to locate me, but the house is small and there are only a few places I can really give myself any chance of actually hiding successfully. After the game of hide and seek ends and he spots me, he rips my arm as he tugs me from under the bed. He breaths heavily on me, his breath so thick with alcohol it retards my own intake of air. He pulls me to his seat in the living room, making sure I bump into as many things as he did trying to discover me. He slumps down in the rotting chair he cherishes the most and his eyes well up with tears,
“I need you to do it again Georgie, help me again” he says through his screwed-up tear sodden face, “help me”. He weeps heavily, his shoulders move up and down as he places my hands on his head, “please help me again Georgie, I can’t take it anymore”.
I miss my mother terribly, things like this never used to happen when she was alive. My dad misses her terribly too, he became a mess after her passing. She was beaten to death by a gang of thugs who wanted her phone, murdered for a phone.
“Help me Georgie” he begs again with my hands clasped around his temples. I know I have to help otherwise things will get violent, I vowed after last time that I wouldn’t allow him to do that again. He looks up at me from the hole he was boring into the ground with his eyes, the wet lines of salty eye secretions adorning his cheeks. His look as he first glances is one of a lost child, scared and alone, but this expression slowly turns into the Mr Hyde face I so feared, I wasn’t helping him quickly enough. Without further haste I recite the chant;
“Yrja Allah alsamah tadafuq alttaqat alkhasat…”, I continue as I watch my hands begin to glow, the heat generated from them starts so burn me as it always does. I watch my father’s eyes roll back into his head as my hands do their work. I finish the chant, “…wa’ana aistieab waleaysh alkawabis bihm”. A blinding flash emanates from my hands and they rapidly get repelled away from my father’s temples, I’ve gotten used to this now so I know to shut my eyes to save the sunspots appearing. He slumps back in his chair with his mouth wide open, snoring loudly already. I grab a coat which is on a dining chair behind him and put it over his chest. I stare at his face as the flickering light from the TV illuminates it, he looks contented, my powers have done their work again…for now.
I click the TV off and go back to my room, the one place he lets me put stuff up on the walls. Cut outs from magazines mainly, but all interesting to me. I sit in my chair which faces the window, if you look beyond the heavy metal bars you see miles and miles of emptiness. I’m not quite sure where emptiness is, but I know we are in the middle of it. I haven’t seen another human other than my dad for 7 years now, the last was a lonely traveller who got extremely lost. He asked too many questions so my father killed him, my dad didn’t want to answer the man’s probing enquiries. He took it hard, he didn’t want to kill him I don’t think. He couldn’t sleep for many nights and even when he did he would wake up screaming, so I healed him so he could forget what he had done (he wouldn’t let me fix the traveller he had sliced open though…maybe he did mean it). That’s what my hands do when I recite the chant, they heal whatever I touch; broken bones, cuts and grazes, and in the case of my dad, minds. I am not sure how I got these powers, I was born with them. It first happened when I was three and saw some Arabic writing on the TV, my mum and dad watched in horror as hands began to glow while I tried to replicate the words. My parents were worried and moved us to a desolate place in the countryside, fearful of what others might think of their freak of a son. As I grew up I honed my skills in secret and found a chant which best brought out my ability, the one I still use today…but it couldn’t bring my mum back. My dad still holds that against me I think, he believes I didn’t want to bring her back, ‘you had the power to do so if you wanted to’ he keeps preaching to me. My dad keeps me locked away in this house, he says people wouldn’t understand me, they would think me a freak of nature and perform experiments on me. I also think part of keeping me here is a punishment for not helping mum, I wanted to help her, I honestly did, but I can’t bring back the dead. He says he keeps me locked in this prison for my own good…I don’t believe him, but what can I do; nothing.

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