Lost Faith

'I am not like the others,' you tell yourself in the mirror each morning and each night. 'I am better,' your mind adds, but you pretends not to hear it in case it jinxes you.

There have only ever been two things in your life: Recognition and words. Your grandparents were successful magic researchers, same for your parents and it is the same for you. You excels at it.

So when you learnt that your peers hung out without you or when the professor asked 'There is only one person left, anybody want another person in their group?', you folded up your loneliness and crudely put it in your robe pocket. Instead, you repeated to yourself 'It cannot be helped. I am not like them.'

I am better.

Over the years, you have built up an image of an untouchable. You are a cold genius, a obsessive researcher and a hermit. When interviewed about your lifetime project, you mentioned decoding of the Magick language-turning spells into English words

Words have always fascinated you. Their meanings, their sounds, the way they flash through your mind as you speak. People say you have a very clear way of speaking, and an even more pronounced way of casting spells. In reality, you are just rolling the words on your tongue, tasting the different ways they tumble off your lips.

You like the way each spoken word barely hang on to each other as you present your newest finding in front of a podium full of other researchers, your voice confident and commanding. You love the way the admiration and awe in their eyes clearly screaming "You are different, you are different!"

You are better.

At home, you only speak to yourself. Your voice becomes less assured, more emotional, and the ways words just cascade off like water makes the taste bland. So you get your kick from pronouncing spells loudly, clearly and watching the colorful sparks flying off at the tip of your wand.

Incidentally, this was how you found out their meanings. First, it was the emotion reverberating off each spell. Combustio Aeris, the spell for fireball, is the most destructive when it is casted with fresh anger. Improbare Pavimentum, the spell for flying, raises objects highest when it is done with a carefree attitude. Then, it was the observing the trend from casting hundreds of spells that made you able to separate nouns from what can either be verbs or adjectives. Finally, it was carefully recorded trials-and-error that you were able to define the meaning of each word.

Thus, on a cool autumn noon after countless weeks trying, you complete a Rosetta stone to decode the magical language. You start your newest report, sure to be a huge hit in the magic research world.

"Fireball-Combustio Aeris: Air burning"

Flying-Improbare Pavimentum: Dislike floor

Fetch-Dare Hodie: Give now

Lower Temperature-Improbare fervor: Dislike heat"

At this point, you are feeling a little ridiculous. Who named spells like this? If it was you, you would have never named a flying spell "dislike floor" of all things.

Or would you? If you are so much better than an Ancient, than anyone, then what would you name a flying spell?

You struggle to come up with an answer to that. Maybe just "fly". But "fly" is ordinary, not fit for someone special like you. Or maybe "levitate", but isn't it a synonym? A synonym is practically the same word, it's stupid-

The result of the report is stupid. You have been dedicating much of your life to translating spells, yet this is what they came to, I cannot present this to the council, it will taint my image of a successful, established-

Suddenly you stopped thinking. You realized you have been speaking out loud all this time.

Like a freak, an outcast, a loner, a-

You are vaguely aware of the parchments spreading around you like a spiral. They are all meticulously written and neatly spaced, proof of your abundance of alone time.

To the world and the your parents, you are the successful and passionate researcher. Yet privately, you are just a lonely person who has nothing better to do or anyone to do things with.

In fact, how long has it been since the last time anyone has seen the interior of your house, of you?

It has been twenty, no twenty three, no, not since-

The truth is pouring out on you too fast, drowning you underneath its crushing reality. As your thoughts descend to tears and pity and grief, some still remain coherent:

You have been running away all this time. You are not better than them

*****

THE END.