The day of the awakening, Aran knew something had changed immediately. When the belt landed on his back, it hadn't hurt. This was strange in and of itself, but especially odd since it *had hurt* the previous 28 times. Aran had barely even felt the leather as it lashed. The scars on his back made sure he knew this wasn't normal. Even though he knew better, he snuck a look backward at the figure wielding the belt.

She stood hunched over, lungs heaving from the effort of swinging the belt so many times. This was a regular occurrence, but she'd never managed to build up any endurance. Another source, Aran often thought, of her hatred for him. Her hair was a lank, dirty blond bordering on white it was so washed out from malnutrition. His own black hair another reason she ceaselessly crowed she was better than him, saying he was bound to be bad with hair that dark and evil looking. Her eyes were sunken, petulant orbs of hate, dark brown irises surrounded by sickly yellow sclera, ever on the move like some furious rodent.

The dark beads latched on to Aran's upturned face in an instant, before he could look away. He cringed internally, knowing better than to show any emotion. *That was a mistake.*

"Don't you dare look at me!", she screeched, punctuated by another lash with the belt. Again, there'd been no pain. And now that he thought about it, his back wasn't sore any more.

He felt, more than saw the boot rushing towards his side, and braced. It landed with a dull thud, and a screech of pain from his mother. The heavy steel toe should have broken his ribs, weak as his bones were. Weak as all of him was, to tell the truth. That was why she said she hated him. 3 years ago, she'd said so after he'd broken his arm when he'd "fallen" down the stairs, for the second time. She couldn't believe she'd been left with such a weakling to take care of, that his father would have been ashamed of such a pitiful son were he still alive. He'd had more broken bones, bruises and lacerations than birthdays to repay her for being so weak.

Aran was wrenched out of his reverie by the cursing spewing out of her mouth. He risked another glance, slowly turning his head enough to see. She was on the ground beside the bed he was still braced against, rocking back and forth on her back, cradling her left foot. Her eyes were closed and he could see the beginnings of tears welling up in the corner of her eyes. His eyebrows rose in astonishment before he schooled his face back to blank. Had she hurt her foot by kicking him? Unless something was very wrong with those boots, it should have gone the other way.

Aran's mind slowly turned over what had just happened. How would kicking him have hurt her? And more importantly, why was none of it hurting him? As he thought over his body and the pain, his vision swam and sensations nearly overwhelmed his brain. He could feel... something. It felt like every cell in his body was a tiny light, and he could see them all in his mind’s eye. Each of them was linked by gossamer threads to him, and each other. It felt like his whole body was in perfect concert, each cell bracing the others, reinforced by the sheer amount of connections.

He had no idea what this was. At the center of it all, he felt was... whatever made him, him. His body felt taut, like a rope pulled nearly to breaking, but stronger because of it.

Aran briefly considered whether he'd passed out from the beating and this was all a dream, but quickly dismissed it. He'd never been this lucid in a dream, and he was certain he'd never be able to dream up all the curses she was hissing out. So what was this? And why was he suddenly able to... do whatever this was?

He looked to her once again, and decided he had a moment before she regained her bearings. He felt the threads shift, quivering as she struck again. And as his minds eye traced them, they all pulled back to a central point, a whirling mass in the center of him. Bright blue energy turned, each thread braiding with others as they approached, becoming thicker until they all spun around each other in a dizzying maze of lines that ended in the blue roiling pool.

He considered if he was seeing this as his final moments, if maybe she'd finally beat him to death, in his own home. Home being a bit of a stretch, he mused. That would explain not feeling any pain from his mother's strikes, but why was it so vivid, so real?

The thought brought him back to reality. Or at least what he was assuming was still reality. Why could he feel all of this? Why were his cells woven together this way? High school biology had taught him enough he knew those weren't nerve endings he could feel. Were other people able to feel this? He had so many questions and he certainly couldn't ask his mother. He glanced her way, and as his attention swayed away from himself, his perception of his body faded.

Only then did he notice she'd stopped cradling her foot, and was glaring at him.

"What do you think you're doing? You probably broke my foot, you worthless boy!" Her voice grew louder as she struggled to stand. Aran raised an eyebrow at that.

"I think you broke it when you kicked me," he said quietly. Another mistake he admitted to himself. Her hand lashed out at his face, the heel of her palm striking his jaw. The blow turned his face, but that was all. Even after his revelation with the kick, he was still surprised to find it hadn't hurt, and had no doubts it wouldn't have left a mark.

His mother's eyes narrowed. He hadn't reacted, and that had put her on the back foot. She balled her leathery fingers into a fist and struck again, aiming for his eye if he was any judge. Which he was, of course. He'd had to excuse quite a few black eyes to his boss at the local grocery store.

This time he was ready, and his neck tensed. Her fist collided with his face, and he heard a sickening *crunch*. She screamed again, and he knew she'd broken something this time. With a start, he realized he was sporting the ghost of a smile on his lips.

"Something's changed. I don't think that's going to work anymore," he said as he slowly straightened. "Can you feel it? It's like I'm alive for the first time."

She'd stopped screaming as soon as he spoke, glowering at him from underneath her disheveled bangs. "What are you talking about, you filthy burden?"

"Think about yourself, really think. Can't you feel more? Like every bit of you is listening?"

She narrowed her eyes at him, but they suddenly widened in apparent alarm. He knew she could feel something.

"What the hell? What's happening?!" She screeched, voice rising in both pitch and alarm.

"I don't know," he said truthfully. "Something's made us... I don't even know. I have no idea what's going on. But you can't hurt me anymore." This got her attention, her eyes narrowing and focusing on him once again.

"What are you on about? I can do whatever I want. I own you, the only reason you're alive is because of my generosity!"

His hand rocketed through the air, landing in an open palmed slap across her face. She slammed into the ground, sprawling haphazardly. She spluttered, unable to even express the rage in her eyes. He looked down on her, lying on the exposed wooden floorboards of their shoddy two bedroom apartment. His hand was almost humming with energy, and he could feel connections strengthening to reinforce his hand.

"I'm leaving. You will not touch me again," he said, and knew the words to be the truest he'd ever spoken. He turned, grabbed his wallet off the dresser, and strode out of his room. Grabbing his coat off the hook, he opened the door, stepped through, and never looked back.

He had a smile on his face.