The Brainiac (Book One in the Meta Sequence)

Chapter One: The Raven's Cry

        Ever since I was a little girl, I learned not to get too attached to any one person or place. I was used to going through the motions of my day without truly feeling, without making a conscious decision that someone or something would be placed in my heart to stay forever. I hated goodbyes, so I never let myself say hello. I holed myself up in my own head, retreating to the one constant in my life: my imagination.

        I don't know when I started writing; all I know is that I have never once gotten rid of a written piece that I have created. I could probably look back and find my first dated work if I wanted to, but it would most certainly take countless hours to locate such an elusive treasure. My characters were more than figments of my imagination; they were my friends. My only friends. I suppose I could thank my parents for that; we never stayed in one place for more than a year, not at all enough time for a socially-awkward prodigy to make friends.

        So learned to stick to books. Books and paper, paper and books. The other kids saw me as the smart girl, and I learned quickly that they'd use my talents for their own benefits if I gave them the chance. The day I learned that, I came home crying. I thought I had made a friend, only to be terribly let down. By the time I got to fourth grade, I practically begged to be home-schooled. Of course, my parents acquiesced. They said it only made it easier to move when they time came to do so.

        There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the time span in which we moved. Three months in one place, fourteen in another. For the longest time I just supposed that we moved when Mother and Father lost inspiration. Both of my parents were artists of their own special variety; my mother was a photographer with an odd infatuation with bird. and my father was a writer of the paranormal horror variety. Artists make for understanding family; they're generally more in-touch with their emotions and better at handling their anger in healthy manners. I don't remember ever getting in real trouble, for I too was an artist at heart. In fact, I still am.

        But that's aside the point.

        Despite this ever-changing scenery, I began to notice an odd coincidence, something that every morning we moved on to another home had in common; each morning before we moved, I was awakened by the piercing cry of a raven. And each morning before we moved, my parents would be tense in a manner they never were otherwise; I knew better than to speak on these mornings, lest they scold me. But I never truly understood. Perhaps they were just tired from all that packing. And perhaps ravens just liked to say goodbye.

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        I stared out of the car window, watching silently as the scenery flew by. If there was one advantage to moving so often, I decided, this was most certainly it. There was always a new beauty to behold when traveling, and it didn't bother me that we never stopped to take pictures. After all, what else was I supposed to use my photographic memory for?

        A mere second -- that's all it took for me to capture the scene. I could process beauty, decide I never want to forget the sight, and take a mental picture in a second. I could classify and organize my mental photos in that same second, that way I'd always know where to find what I'm looking for. A mere second. That's all it ever takes.

        A frown gradually spread across my face as we entered a forest, the road little more than a dirt pathway. So much for new sights; no matter how many times you looked at trees, they were never processed any differently. Mind, I loved the sight of trees, but I needed to see something new, something fresh, something full of inspiration. And trees fulfilled only one of those guidelines, if only in a passive manner. They were inspirational, sure, but I felt as though I had long since harvested each and every tree-based idea. Figures.