Leaving. Everyone was leaving.
One by one, my family decided to leave me. My father. My mother. My sister. All I could do was just watch, helpless, as everyone left. No one I loved had chosen to stay with me. They chose to abandon me. Deep down, I knew it was for my own good, but the feeling was just the same. I was dangerous. A threat. At only six years old, I had enough power in my pinky finger to shatter the world.
I gasped and gripped the edge of the countertop, vision swimming slightly. My fingers tingled, something scratching and chafing against my skin, but I pushed it down, massaging my chest briefly. There was an ache in me that had persisted over the years, never leaving, only dulling. I bore a scar unseen by the untrained eye, its claws sinking deep into my bones.
My family had left me. So I got a new one.