Esper

Gifted. That’s what the tutors called me. Special. The praise that followed my first sign of any understanding beyond my age level at the ripe young age of 5 was swift and all-encompassing. I didn’t understand- I never had, with these people, why they were so excited,but who was I to complain? Mother and Father- that is to say, the king and queen, they were finally paying attention to me instead of my older sister, the heir to the throne. My gift, it was one to be nurtured, they said. So when I was 10, while my siblings got to got out and play, my studies were doubled. But I didn’t mind- I never understood how my siblings minds worked anyways, so playing games outside with them always confused me. The lessons my tutors gave me made perfect sense. The answers in my workbooks were always simple- logical. Why should I need to understand anything else? At 13, my the king and queen decided my direction in life- to be a head strategist in the army. I was perfect for it, they said. I could distinguish the tragedy of human lives lost from necessary deaths. Did they not understand I was still human too? Never the matter, perhaps they just didn’t understand me, as I didn’t understand them. I was 16 when I met him. The boy was a street rat, poor and uneducated, yet he was the smartest person I’d ever met. He understands people, how to talk to them, what to say, how they’re feeling. I could never do that. He never particularly minded, though. He knew, somehow, that I liked him, even if I didn’t show it. I’m 17. I haven’t seen him as much, with my lessons in strategy getting even more intensive leading up to my 18th birthday. I missed him. I wanted to talk to him, my boy, though I don’t particularly know why… So, for once… I snuck out to go talk to him. I never thought I’d want to understand somebody, but maybe that’s because nobody’s ever tried to understand me. Him, he:s worth trying for.