Everything was perfect when I was seven.
It was the perfect age, the perfect time. My mother hadn't gone crazy yet, (and if she had, I hadn't seen it, or begun to suffer from it.) She was still married to her second husband, who I still called "Daddy", and believed he could save us from anything bad that came along. They drew orange rings in the dark with their lit cigarettes, and we thought that was the coolest thing in the world. My sister and I were still buddies, who slept together in bunk beds, and didn't hate the thought of sharing a room with not only each other, but our parents, because our house was so small.
No one was sick. No one had died. No one was nuts...not even me yet. I loved my mother with the full capacity of my heart because I knew she would never let me down. I knew my "Daddy" would never abandon us, because that just wasn't the way things were. I knew my Gran and Pa were always going to be just down the road, and I would always have them. They were infinite.
Everyone around me was infinite.
Everything was safe.
The world would never change...
It changes every day. Every time I think it might stop, and I might settle in, something wholly malignant creeps in, and reminds me that I have become too comfortable.
It's so fast. We're so small. I was seven only yesterday.
And I was going to marry Superman.