Words have power. We don't say them as often as we want to but we also don't understand why sometimes words fail us, no matter how many we spew out. It is a most elegant form of irony, that. Some people are born with the art of words like a gift given. Others let their actions speak for them. And then there are those who posess neither words nor actions but still get by. That's how life is. No matter who you are, you learn to get by. We learn to survive. And some of us even learn to live.

But back to my original point.

Words have power. Words also have meaning and, depending on who you are, meanings can vary so greatly between one person to the next that if, say, for one person a certain word holds power, then for the next person it might not even hold any coherent meaning. We all have words like that. Some are names, some are just random nouns, some are verbs.

Love, love is a verb

Love is a doing word

Fearless on my breath

Some words carry more power than others. Words like Love. Words like Hate. Words like Family. Sometimes keeping one's word can be a power in its own right. It was one of the first lessons I learned early on in my life. It also happened to be the last lesson I learned. Some promises can carry you beyond the grave.

Even broken ones.

Certain words can define a person. Those words usually pertain into the purview of what people classify as names, but most often than not when you ask about a word that defines a person, you won't say Mary, or John (or Ori). No. You say 'That person is kind.' or ' That person is stupid'. Now, my therapist used to say that we shouldn't let others define us, especially when said definitions were derogatory or demeaning in nature. I worked with said therapist for six months, more or less, and while it helped me deal with life, it did not help as much as I, or my friends, had hoped. I was still very prone to brooding for hours on end, ignoring the world for the sake of my own inner turmoils born from a combination of cataclysmicaly accidental circumstances combined with a crippling depression that I don't really think I had the time to recover from, given that it was from heartbreak and then...

And then Ori died and my world had ended because I failed that as well and for all my potentiall, for all my talents and strengths and skills, I was still nothing more than a drop out failure. Ori was dead and life went on.

And then life went on without me.

It was around that time that I realized something was not quite right. Namely, I realized that what used to be a 23, almost 24 year old woman was now a four year old toddler stuck in a not so tiny (for now) cupboard under the stairs in an otherwise bright, prim and proper household on Privet Drive, Number 4.

At first I thought all of this to be some sort of elaborate dream, but after several days in which the tall, thin woman with the shrill voice kept bothering me to no end for whatever she perceived as a slight against her person (how a toddler would be capable of that was beyond me), I came to realize that the problem did not lay within my environment. Rather, the problem lay with me. And like any problem worth investigating, I began exercising what was now my toddler powered brain and started asking questions.

I don't know what goes for a normal four year old. As far as I remember and as far as my dear old mother had told me on many, many occasions during our weekly arguments, I had never been a normal four year old to begin with originally, so I hardly had to break any sweat worrying about it. There was also material for comparison, namely Dudders. Now, I don't know what constitutes as a normal 4 year old child, but I was certain Special Snowflake Extraordinaire Dudders did not fall under the purview of the definition of the word normal, either.

Dudders, as a specimen, was a rather large and well developed child for his age. Physically, at least. Mentally was another thing entirely. While not lagging behind in ways I could in good conscience call retarded or autistic with all their gloriously medical connotations, he was still considerably simple-minded and consistently displayed only the very base and simple desires of "Ma! Food!" and, my personal favourite "Ma! Bathroom!". There were also the exclamations of "Toys!", "Candy!" and how could I forget the ever present "I want that!", "Mine!" and "No!".

Dudders was an exceptionally spoiled child. It is humbling in a way to know that somehow my very presence in this household, as extremely unwanted as it was, was still capable of making such drastic changes for the sake of maintaining what was considered normal. The very meaning of the word Normal was butchered and reconfigured through whatever prism passed as Vernie and Tunie's philosophy on life, family and socially acceptable norms.

Vernie's word was law. That I knew better than anything else. That was instinct, that was my only rule of survival. What Vernie says, goes. Tunie, his wife, upheld said laws when he was off to work or similarly not present. Vernie was one of those big, tough, oldschool fellows who sported a particularly meaty and husky physical disposition, which spoke both of physical power (perhaps some kind of sport in his youngster years?) and of his great appetite and love of comforts. In appearance, Tunie was his absolute opposite. She was wiry and thin, with a somewhat long face which, had she some 10 kilograms on top, would have looked somewhat pretty and not just acceptably mediocre and forgettable.

Dudders was obviously going to take after his father, given the careful dotting of both parents in that direction. Most of Dudders' toys were things typically considered boy toys, like toy soldiers, robots (oh god how he completely demolishes those Transformers! Has he no HEART!?), tanks, trucks, toy jet planes and what not. If I were to describe Dudders' day to day activities to someone interested in Urban Anthropology, then I'd give the short and concise answer of Might makes Right and Manliness. This completely covered any and all understanding that was allowed within Dudders' head.

Now, to be honestly objective and fair, it wasn't as if Tunie herself wasn't trying to mentally stimulate her child. More often than not, however, Dudders won nine out of ten times with his silly little child tantrums and, in her efforts to not upset him (and consequently upset Vernie), she'd put away the unwanted BORING stuff for the sake of demolishing that absolutely glorious looking Megatron with dear, poor old Starscream. I am a Con fan, ok? It's wrong! What that child is doing is Wrong with capital W and that his parents allow him to do so is a Travesty against Humanity!

But I digress, his Autobots were at least in a better, more servicable condition, if mostly because, like myself, Dudders was with Pro-Con inclinations rather than Pro-Bot inclinations. Either way, Tunie'd do good to teach him a bit responsibility, but she herself seemed blind to the prospects that Dudders' early years required a careful guiding hand lest he turned into your regular white trash sociopath normie.

Parents tend to do this to their children mostly unconsciously. Typical human behavior is to either confront or avoid a problem and when a person is literally incapable of confronting a problem then they do everything in their power to either avoid it at all costs or conform to it. In this case I was the problem. The problem of simply existing within their perfect little world where nothing odd or strange EVER happened. Because of my being a problem and Tunie and Vernie being unable to get rid of me for whatever reason, they simply chose to circumvent the problem as much as possible.

I learned very early on, even before I was aware like I am aware of things right now, that both Tunie and Vernie were terrified of me. That terror slowly but surely turned into seeping, simmering hatred born of whatever helplessness kept me by their side. For that reason I could not find it in myself to hate them back. I knew that in their eyes I was weird and strange and all kinds of supernatural evil or whatever they thought I was. But I also knew the most likely reason why I had ended up here like this. And let's say that I am of the strong opinion that I deserve this.

I was not a model child. I was not a model child in my past life (there! I said it!) and I am certain that I would not be a model child in this life. Before I became aware, before I awakened to the reality of this life, I had spent more or less the last ten years of my admittedly short life fighting my parents for anything and everything with tooth and nail, and with the zest of someone desperate to be freed of external control. Compared to the life I seem to be leading now, my old life had been paradise. Even with the daily arguments and shouting matches. Even with the broken expectations that I upturned at every chance I got. Even with the pain I still felt oh so keenly in my little 4 year old chest that no matter what I did, they had never truly acknowledged me, and considering that in this life my parents died to drunken driving, I doubted that I'd be the recipient of parental approval this time around as well. And that realization hurt more than I'd ever say out loud.

You see, just like words, pride can also be a powerful thing. It can be your driving force up until the very moment it leads to your downfall and even then you'd be reluctant to let go. I never let go of my pride. No matter what, I knew my worth and that worth was greater than what my parents had thought of me and it would surely be greater than whatever Tunie and Vernie'd be able to throw my way. I was a 24 year old woman, 28 if you counted the four years I've already spent here. I carried the knowledge of that life time. I carried information of things that were to come, both wonderful and terrible.

In this world, in this life, it was the year 1984. In my previous life, I was born on the 31st of July, the very last baby for that day, in the year 1995. I died sometime after the second half of 2018. I don't know how, though I strongly suspect it was by my own hand. I'd spent the last six years in various states of suicidal, nihilistic, apathetic, angry and grieving enough to know that was the most probable outcome. Even if I had promised not to. Maybe I was here because I broke that promise. Maybe I wasn't really reincarnated like some of those small children I've seen on weird existential documentaries who talked how they died in fighter planes back in World War Two. What if I was in a coma and this was the manifestation of my guilt ridden subconscious or some such shit.

I don't know, I am not exactly an expert on my mental state, though I am certain all of this would have some sort of value to my therapist. I wonder what she'd think of all of this?

CRASH!

I discreetly rolled my eyes in exasperation, desperatly trying to avoid another internal existential crisis. I'd promised myself to keep those to a minimum, but it was proving kind of hard, especially when Dudders just destroyed another Decepticon that had been mint condition Generation One original earlier this morning. For a kid that's barely four, Dudders has a ridiculously strong throwing arm. Maybe he'd get into rugby later on. I heard rugby was a thing here, and considering I've never really been into sports, I didn't particularly care. I did, however, particularly care about how far Dudders would be able to throw something at me and if I'd be able to avoid it fast enough.

Dudders might be simple minded but, just like any small child, he was perceptive enough to know what he could get away with. Dudders, in particular, is capable of getting away with quite a lot and the little devil was still testing and stretching the boundaries of acceptable behavior in this household on a daily basis. Given his doting mother Tunie and that beast of a mountain Vernie, I doubted things would change anytime soon.

While Dudders enjoyed a relative toddler godlike freedom, I was stuck on the other end of the scales, under the scrutiny of Tunie's stern, all-seeing gaze. It seemed her blindness was specifically Dudders oriented. And Dudders, being mommy's perfect little boy of course, used that particular trait of his mother to get me into as much trouble as possible for the sake of the pure sadistic glee that only children were capable of.

If that little shit broke something behind dear Mommy's back, he'd point in my direction and blame me. Tunie would then proceed with what constitutes as a stern talking to, sometimes even outright hollering. Hollering by Tunie's standards went along the lines of hissing through clenched teeth. God forbid a neightbour hears or sees anything! Tunie's a master of the quiet intimidation should she put her mind to it. Such intimidation is not brought on by threats and dark promises of punishment. In Tunie and Vernie's household any and all threats are dealt with immediately and most often in a physical manner. I'd get slapped on my wrists, maybe a light slap on the face (Tunie knows just how much I HATE being slapped on the face) or outright spanking. So far I've been spanked about three or four times and that's five or six slaps each. Tunie's more of a fan of twisting my ears or yanking my arms painfully, but considering I am a tiny, scrawny four year old, and she a wiry, taut adult, she might as well have put as much energy as in swatting butterflies and it still would have hurt me.

Corportal punishments were Vernie's law. I think I've already said he's an old fashioned, old school fellow that believes in the school of hard knocks or some such shit. I wouldn't have minded it as much if he also delivered some of that special justice to ickle Dudders as well. To be honest I am glad that Vernie isn't particularly physical with his punishments. If he so much as absentmindedly swats at me with the same intent as Tunie swatting at butterflies or moths, I'd be done for with a bona fide one shot.

The corporal punishments don't bother me, at least not at the moment. I was more bothered by other things that had I not been an almost mother myself, I wouldn't have cared to know them. First of all, Tunie, for all her faults and selective blindness, at least tries to feed me properly. Compared to Dudders and the general lifestyle of this household, however, I considered myself to be underweight and subpart to the average for a four year old. Like I said, corporal punishments do not bother me as much as being sent to my cupboard without eating dinner, for example, or being given half a portion or a cold meal. Tunie feeds me and gives me my due, but given my undesired presence and Dudders' own brand of help, I am often left hungry.

I've made the mistake to ask Tunie for extra food once. I got a scolding about how ungrateful a freak I was and how I was nothing more but a drain on the family with no other purpose than to be a useless leech. Hey, I understand she hates me with a passion. I even sort of understand that she has no choice but to take care of me. But what I truly regret is giving Tunie her most frightful tool in her quest to keep me under the iron fist of Vernie's rule. I gave her my hunger. Tunie knows I take the physical punishments without complaint. Complaints only lead to more punishment and my pride can only take so much abuse before I bow my head to the greater power of my predicament. Namely hunger.

Hunger is a terrifying thing that only those who know it's frigid caress would understand why someone as proud and as unyielding as myself would bow down to this madness that was going on around me. I was by no means starved. I was, however, an inferior at the table of superiors. And like a good little inferior, I took what I was given without complaint, and thankful that even so much was given to me. Still, my eyes and my nose cannot keep me from wishing that I had a bit of what they had. Tunie usually made crepes on Saturdays for breakfast. Dudders always got these perfectly cooked, rounded and just the right amount buttered bits of heaven that made my heart and stomach ache in that familiar, nostalgic ways. Mine were either too thick and undercooked or too thin and slightly burned. And always less. I ate mine plain. Dudders ate his with creme, with icrecream, or whatever the hell he wanted.

That kind of thing, especially overtime, ruins even the best of us.

Crepes was the first recipe I ever learned to make. I pride myself with my cooking. My mother was always busy at work with her company and home cooked meals were a rarity, even though we lived in a house not much different than this one, though larger, with three stories and in a prestigious neighbourhood in Paris. Mother used to love my crepes. And here I was, watching Tunie serving her little family those same perfect crepes, that very same recipe that I had first learned. And my mouth would salivate, looking at them, and I'd chew bitterly on my own imperfect ones that were served with the exact opposite of the love and attention Dudders and Vernie got.

Oh how the Lady Fate loved her sweet, sweet irony. Oh how she stuffed the damn guilt and nostalgia down my throat with my cup of plain tap water and subpar, undercooked breakfast. Because it was not the hunger that grinded my insides so painfully, but the fact that this had been me, once upon a time. The hunger just brought that little, spiteful monster bubbling just beneath the surface. It was cruel, it was inhumane in the way how this little personal hell was executed, just the right amounts of guilt, nostalgia and self hatred. And, boy, did I hate all of it.

I was yet too small to do anything about this and I knew better than to lay all these negative emotions onto Tunie, Vernie and Dudders. There was too much context that I was missing and between my bouts of crippling depression on top of periods of existential crises(yes, this is plural), I had plenty of time on my hands to get ahold of whatever was going on around me.

Words are a powerful thing. Listen long enough, intently enough, and you are bound to learn things. People are the most loose-lipped when they think no one is paying attention or listening to them. As such I used this fact to the best of my ability and bid my time.

Words have power. In this household the greatest power was held by the word Normal. In this household, I was Freak. And Freak, in it's own right, held almost as much power and had the potential- No, it had the opportunity to become more powerful than the word Normal. It all lay in their Fear, in their Hatred and in their reverent Adoration of everything they turned their son into – the very manifestation of Normal.