TITLE: The Levitators
Like you, I was born.
The similarities end there.
It’s not an ego thing; seriously, I wish we were more alike. To be precise, I wish I was more like you and everyone else. And less like… well, I don’t know if I’m like anyone. Or anything.
You’re hardly the first to observe that we both eat, drink, sleep, fart, and whatever else you want to think about. So do seals and starfish and every other earthly creature. I readily concede my body is subject to biochemistry and physics just like everyone else’s.
That’s just another way of saying I was born.
But, as I pointed out, the similarities end there.
We’re different because you belong here on Earth. You fit in, like the seals and the starfish. You have a niche.
Not me. I’m on the wrong planet.
It took a while, but I finally realized this two years and seventeen days ago. I remember that day distinctly because it was the last time I wanted to live.
At least, on this planet.
That was the day I learned about the levitators. I saw one, with my own eyes. That was before I moved here, and I know, the new girl with the outlandish stories from “where she used to live” has no credibility. So go ahead, don’t believe me. But I’ll show you, and soon. I’m learning how to do it, and I have a genetic advantage because that levitator I saw?
He was my father.