Holding Pattern

There’s been no news since the last attack from our local terrorist. That’s all I can call her now, because that’s what she is. She’s made our quiet, small town in to a living hell by forcing those of us with abilities to hide, while the ones who don’t have them and are hostile towards us, get even louder about how much of a danger we are.

I’m missing part of my family, my life has been turned upside down and yet I’m the danger; according to them.

I’m not though. I’m the furthest thing from a danger right now. What I am is tired and scared and seriously pissed off.

There’s been more attacks on Otherkin in the last few days. I’m scared for the kids who have to go through the rocks through windows, cars set on fire, and watching their parents get beaten. All because they’re skin is purple, or they have tentacles or, like Ben, change once a month while being locked away.

Ben’s been busier than ever, treating those who can’t go to the hospital, like the Satyrs. Centaurs who are more horse than man have to go to him. I’ve braided the hair of more than one filly while her mother or father was getting stitched up.

It’s enough to make you scream.

Ben comes home every night exhausted and covered in what he couldn’t scrape off at work. I know this is wearing on him harder than myself because he dealt with the attacks after that September day nearly 14 years ago. He’s gotten quieter than usual around all of us, spending more time alone in the library, looking over the books he took out of the town’s stash.

He hardly eats. Sleeping is in bits and pieces. I’m worried.

I’ve already had to deal with people throwing things at me while I’m walking to my appointments or from store to store. I’m thankful that sometimes they’re metal things that I can catch before they hit me; but it’s horrifying. It hurts so much that people I once called friend are now my enemy, simply because there’s a terrorist that hates Otherkin out there and is using the whole city’s fears to keep all of us hostage.

I cry at night. Usually where the others can’t hear me, but the house hears me. It’s been trying it’s best to cheer me up; by putting in a slide for the kids so they don’t have to use the stairs, by giving me more space in my already enormous kitchen, and by bringing the cabinets and shelves down lower so I don’t have to use a stool to reach anything.

It’s been nice, but it still doesn’t make up for the fact that I cannot let my children go outside and play on nice days. We live on a dead-end street, but I’m still afraid that someone will come this way and do something to them. They do not deserve any of this.

No one does.