“Nina, when would I be able to fly?” my six-year-old brother asked me longingly. He walked beside me as we took our usual path to the school—well, not an actual school, if you considered its state of neglect and disrepair.
I looked at my brother’s superhero costume and his soft, tiny hand holding my fingers. He was looking at me with his brown wide eyes, hoping for the answer I was going to give him. Hope? Hope is a fickle thing, but you really can’t tell that to someone as young and so full of life as him. “I don’t think we really need to fly or anything. Besides we got the birds for that.” What a pessimistic view on life, or at least that’s what my mother would have said.
“But that magic building across the field-” I cut him off before he could complete the sentence. “There is no such thing as magic, Ben,” I said in a very calm tone, my lips faintly forming into what one would consider a smile.
I looked at his face, that perfectly round, doll-like caricature marked with innocence, purity and all the good words to exist in all the books of all the libraries in the world. I considered this beautiful being who was now quiet, looking ahead in the direction of our path. Sighing, I looked ahead, feeling the warm air caressing my cheeks. My grip on his hand tightened halfway, scared he might stop holding it. We walked to school in silence, side by side.
By the time we got home, Ben was so tired that he went to sleep already and missed his daily playing session with his friend, which was more of a ritual than an activity. He anticipated this rendezvous all day long, when him and his friends would go around to collect the ‘magical items’ turned into ruins outside that magic building across the field, which would transform them into superheroes and then they would do all the ‘cool superhero stuff’ as Ben once mentioned. Superhero stuff, I closed my eyes for a moment and let my thoughts swirl away into a deep hole dug by past promises and ruminations.
In my defense, I was not always this bright. It was not a long ago when I was a kid too. I held onto the same hope and certitude. I, too, dreamt of acquiring all the special abilities that magic had to offer. You will become a superhuman, yes, that is what we were promised by those men in white coats. I remember the younger me, not being able to sleep, staring at the stars and planning of all the things I’d do once I became supernatural. Superhumans never go to school either, because they already know everything that has ever existed.
Those men often visited my town. Sometimes, they brought gifts: bright, colourful, representing all the dreams we’d somehow handed over to them. But despite the vision they imposed on us, they were strange. Strange, yes, that’s a word. They told us what they were doing here; it was progress. That we were chosen. That the magic palace would bring light, joy, even pride.
As much as I could remember of my days as a kid, this place was a fairytale. Not the wings, extraordinary strengths, spell, or folklore promised to us, but a place filled with magic within the people, their hearts full of kindness, compassion and never-ending smiles for each other. Life moved at a steady place, children running through the dusty lines, their footsteps marking the ground beneath them, laughter chasing them like bright sunlight.
I watched my town change before I understood why. There was a new politeness, a stiffness, like everyone had been told how to behave and what to believe. Everyone started to speak in whispers, as if someone was continuously listening to us, watching us, observing us become unknown. No one let their kids play in the field anymore. Our schoolteacher warned us to not believe the rumours starting to fill the streets of my once-peaceful hometown. There was a lexicon shift too. Nuclear plant, radiations, nuclear energy; I never knew of these words. I found my younger self questioning, until one day, we were left with more questions than answers. That day, those smiling men came with hats, guarded trucks, and signs none of us could read started appearing at the edge of the fields where we used to fly kites.
They said the radiation was special here. That it didn’t destroy. It protected. Old uncles at the tea stalls whispered that our children would be born stronger, smarter. That our bones would harden like steel. That one day, people would come to study us.
But as the fences went up, and the guards stopped looking like guests, the dream began to sour. The same people who once called it a blessing started wearing masks, speaking in half-sentences, and avoiding their own reflections. We faced the repercussions of when a nuclear reactor is planted in a densely populated area. Our fresh air became rusty, sky turned grey, and the birds no longer flew in the sky. A dream which was meant to transform us, only quieted us. But we began to live with it, the ripples and ground-shaking noises becoming a part of our routine.
And then one day, just like they had come out of nowhere, they went into nothingness. They picked up their belongings and left, leaving my beloved hometown at the edge of what they did to us. Rumours started too this time, a failed nuclear reactor which had somehow been successful in shrinking our souls, taking our lives and joy from us.
Mother changed too. And I? I became quiet. Quieter until the day Ben came into our lives. Ben, who came and changed the world for me, but could not change the story he grew into. He became as fond of scientific fiction as I once was, lingering to the same questions I had done. He, too, became a pawn, acting on the stage where we performed as we were told.
“Nina?”
A familiar voice and a more familiar hand at the base of my shoulder jolted me out of my never-ending thoughts. He was right there, with his angel features and golden heart.
“I don’t like it when you cry,” he pointed towards the salty trail rolling over my cheeks.
I took his hand and looked into his eyes.
“I don’t know why you don’t like that magic building over the field. But I just wanted to be invisible and fly across the trees.”
I looked at him, his face full of belief. I smiled, nodded and didn’t snub him this time.
Because some part of me, the one which had not been written yet, wanted to believe it too.