My punishment last night had been simple and mundane: I was forced straight to bed without dinner. I was so used to such treatment that it hardly fazed me anymore.

Mother woke Cynthia and I early the next morning. It was Sunday; time for church.

We left home quickly; I assumed we were running late. Our Model T clucked down the road, and I gazed out the window, bored. Before I knew it, I was daydreaming, and the scene of the countryside was replaced with my fantasies.

I helped the Wright Brothers get their plane off of Kitty Hawk; I hid behind enemy lines to run supplies to the Red Baron. My heart pumped with excitement; the wind rushed against my face.

Too soon--far too soon--we arrived at the church. I leapt out of the car, jogging to catch up with my family--with ice in my heart I realized that they wouldn’t have minded if I had stayed in the car.

They always pretended to be a perfect family of three when I wasn’t tagging along--I was too abnormal for their picture of happiness.

They sat in the second pew,  but instead of joining them, I glanced around the church. No one I knew too well was here--but on that same note, was I really that close to anyone anyway?

I must’ve zoned out, because the next thing I knew, nearly everyone was seated.

“Mary!” my mother hissed between her teeth. “You come over here at once!”

I ducked my head, embarrassed, but before I could reach them, someone touched my shoulder. It was our priest.

“Would you like to collect our offerings today, Miss Brandon?” I smiled at his kind face; he must have noticed my discomfort. I nodded swiftly, and took the basket from his wrinkled hands.

I was halfway up the aisle when my view of the church was lost and replaced with something else altogether. I gasped in shock, and felt the basket free itself from my fingers. My vision was simply flashes, as all my others had been--this time it showed two sinister men in white coats, a foreboding hospital bed, and a dark, dark room--black as pitch.

The view of the church slowly returned--very slowly, though, as if I wasn’t supposed to forget about the dark room. I trembled in fear, as these simple images had filled me with a terror I had never imagined. Thinking back over them, there was nothing significantly scary about them; I could not explain this senseless dread.

It took me a few minutes to remember where I was. My eyes darted around the filled pews: everyone was staring. I flushed bright red in embarrassment. I looked down for the basket--a young blonde woman held it out for me, her eyes wide with shock and concern. I took the basket back from her, giving her a whispered, “Thank you.” I noticed that my hands were still shaking.

I completed my route up the aisle, handing out the basket as I went. My eyes stayed on the floor; I wished desperately to sink down into it. I tired no to think of my vision, knowing that I would be overtaken by the irrational fear again.

When I was finished with collecting the offerings, I handed the basket back to my priest, and took my seat next to Cynthia. She stiffened and shifted closer to Mother, away from me, the freak.

The priest’s words went right over my head; I could only hear the comforting murmur of his voice, but no distinct words. I trembled again when I thought of my vision--but that fear was not the only thing that produced my tremors. It was the fact that I was unwanted by my own family--I had just had a slight emotional breakdown right in front of their eyes, and yet they denied me the comfort I so desired. Their rejection sliced my heart in half.

I couldn’t stop the tears as they flooded the brim and trickled down my cheeks.