I painted illusions for myself: a lush, green field, a small bone-white cottage, a playground with looping slides that curled like the number eight. I had plenty of friends, a wild horse namedLady, and even my parents were different. My mother wasn’t abrasive, and my father wasn’t cold.
I called it the Betterworld.
I would spend hours lost there until the servants told my parents about how I would sit in silence, for hours at a time, just staring at the wall. The staff never saw what I did. Maybe if they had, they would have understood why I remained there and why I never wanted to come back.
They tested me early, and once I was labeled a Class Two Gifted, an Illusionist, it made sense to everyone. I had never seen my father so pleased before.
“You will use your illusions on our enemies, but not on yourself,” my father warned.
The message was clear. I was never to return to the world I built. My safe place. I was to remain in our house under my father’s strict rules and never know a lick of happiness.
“Listen to your father, Endymion,” my mother added. “He knows best.”
“I don’t want to leave the Betterworld,” I shook my head. “You can’t make me.”
“You’re acting like a child,” Father said.
“What is the Betterworld?” Mother asked.
She didn’t care, not really; she just wanted this conversation to end so she could go visit her friends for tea.
“It’s my home,” I said. “Everyone is nice, and we play games, and nobody hurts in the Betterworld. We are happy.”
“Listen to yourself,” Father snapped. “You are an Illusionist who cannot differentiate between what is real and fake. You are a disappointment.”
“My real father loves me!” I shouted. “And I’m never coming back.”
I closed my eyes, and I was in the meadow again. Far away from my parents and the stark, white walls of my bedroom. In the distance, my father sat on the porch, a warm smile on his face. I raced across the distance, reaching for him. He would hug me and tell me that everything would be okay. I was so close. I could feel his hands grazing mine.
That was when a painful jab hit my arm, and I woke up to a nightmare. Bright lights flashed above my head. My mother stood in the corner, lips pursed in impatience, while my father hovered above me.
“Welcome back, Endymion,” he said.
Dread crept down my spine. My wrists were shackled to the rail of the bed. I was in a hospital.
“No.” I moaned.
I closed my eyes, but I felt nothing. My powers were gone.
“Your powers were disabled,” he said.
My neck stung, where they placed the implant. The Bind. My skin crawled as I began to thrash. The doctors ran toward me, struggling to contain me. They held a needle. A sedative to put me under.
Ihatedneedles.
“No!”
“Enough,” Mother snapped. “This tantrum is unbecoming. You’ve wasted our valuable time.”
My father grabbed my face, his ring nicked my jaw, and I whimpered at the sudden flash of pain. He wanted to slap me, but there were staff around. So, he squeezed really hard, until my teeth ached.
“Shut it off,” Father barked. “All of it. His emotions, his delusions, his inadequacy. Erase it.”
“He’s young, we recommend waiting until he’s older, this model version is new and sti?—”
“Now,” his father roared.
“I’m sorry,” I cried. “I won’t go back there. I promise.”
