Everytime it stormed, she tried to get to the highest point possible. She tried to make contact with the lightening. She tried to commune with the rain that dripped like tears down her face. She tried flying with the wind the ran its fingers through her hair. She wanted to know mysteries no one else was privy to. She tried to be special.

This is how she broke her leg.

The first time.

Genevieve thought she was a normal, un-extraordinary girl, which depressed her. More than anything she wanted to be special. She tried to create ways in which she was special.

"Mom," she said, once to her mother while singing along to her mother's Cats soundtrack, "do I have a pretty voice?"

"Sure," her mom answered.

"Then, one day, I'm going to be on Broadway singing this song."

"Oh, no," her mother responded. "Your voice isn't that good."

Some people would later tell Genevieve that her mother was the reason that she so desperately wanted to be special. That because her mother told her she wouldn't be on Broadway, she was doomed to a life of over-compensation. Unfortunately, this simply wasn't true. Genevieve's mother was simply being kind to her perfectly ordinary daughter. Genevieve's mother didn't want her baby girl disappointed by society's cruel expectations of greatness.

Genevieve believed in magic. She had to believe in magic. Even if I'm not special in an normal, everyday way, she’d tell herself, I must be special in a magical way. In a way that no one else can see.

Genevieve would sit in the back of her closet with a bottle of rubbing alcohol and shampoo and anything else that smelled nice to her. She sat in the back of her closet in the summer heat saying words like, "isopropyl," and, "urea." Not knowing what these words meant made the magical.

Her mother made her stop playing in the back of her closet. Genevieve's mother was afraid the heat and poor ventilation would cause health problems.

In school, Genevieve did fairly well. Her mother demanded straight A's, which she got, but she never felt that she was as smart as the other kids in the advanced classes. In retrospect, it seems as though she should have felt special for being in the advanced classes, but to do otherwise was never considered. Being in the advanced classes didn't make one special, but not being in them made one, "special."

Genevieve joined the band and choir in the hopes that she'd find herself imbued with musical talent. The dreams of being a Broadway baby still somewhere in the back of her mind. In band she was mediocre, in choir, there was always someone better.

Specialness haunted her in high school, and finally she started acting out. "If they notice me, I must be special." She wore black clothes and lipstick and became disrespectful of her teachers. After many days being suspended, she decided that she was coming far too close to being, "special," and wiped the black lipstick off of her face.

She plodded through high school, getting good grades, feeling sub-par. "Everyone has something they excel at," she told herself. "Only I am great at being bland."

After graduation (she was not the valedictorian, despite all of her A's), she got a job answering phones in an office. "Thank you for calling MBI. My name is Genevieve. How can I assist you?" Her voice was as sweet and tasteless as vanilla pudding.

She tried for sexy, she tried for professional, she tried for hardcore, she tried for chic. She even tried for ugly. All she ever saw in the mirror was the plain white face that she'd always seen.

She plodded through life the way she'd plodded through childhood. She no longer looked for uniqueness within herself, believing it not to exist.

She, being totally unremarkable, was ignored by the vast majority of the people around her. She was an institution, such as the electricity that powered the lights above. As long as she was there, no one bothered to think about her, or even see her. She was as invisible as the air they breathed.

Genevieve had a small apartment three blocks away from the office where she worked. It had a main room, a kitchen, and a bathroom. She didn't even consider getting anything bigger because there'd be no need. It wasn't as if she'd be entertaining company.

"I'm fading," Genevieve thought to herself, as she prepared for another lifeless day at her boring job. "I've lost the sparkle of my youth and failed to get a sparkle of talent." She considered her image in the mirror, deciding not to put any makeup on that day. It's not as if anyone would even notice her.

While it may seem it, Genevieve didn't feel sorry for herself. She wasn't depressed. She didn't have the heart to be depressed. Because her mother had prepared her, she wasn't shocked when the sea didn't part when she stood next to it. She wasn't depressed because it just wasn't in her to be so.

When we finally meet up with Genevieve, she is eating a tuna sandwich in the employee break-room. Because she was always good at being one of the faceless, nameless members of the crowd, she has never been overly sociable. She is sitting alone at a table, chewing on her sandwich and reading a book. Because she's never been sociable, she's always kept a book on hand.

We sit down next to Genevieve and stare at her silently.

Genevieve smiles at us, as bland as pudding. "Can I help you?"

"Have you ever wanted to be special," we ask, as blankly friendly as she is.

Her smile falters slightly, but quickly recovers. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about," she says, and turns back to her book.

We stand up, but lean over her, whispering in her ear, "Oh, but I think you do."

We leave her to think over what we've said. We don't pursue it further. She's not ready to think too deeply on it. She's not ready to delve into the depth of her dissatisfaction, quite yet. Still, she'll think to herself, what he said did strike a chord.

When we appeared to her, we were in the guise of a man, neither young nor old. Neither short nor tall. Our looks were not exceptional in any way, whatsoever. And we wore a navy blue suit. She wouldn't have been able to pick us out in a line-up.

Genevieve is in her apartment, brushing her hair. She has finished a dinner of a chicken breast and rice-things that can be cooked easily for one person. She is reading a book, but every so often, she thinks back to what we have said. She remembers chanting isopropyl in the back of her closet and singing, "Memories." She remembers her black lipstick and disrespect and shakes her head.

We see her again at work, but we don't approach her. We have been studying her our whole life. This is what we were made for. She is a grand project. She is kind to people, almost to a fault. This aids in them being able to ignore her. While it is hard to ignore a thorn in your palm, it is easy to forget a comfortable shoe.

We observe her, drinking in her essence, her normality. We drink in her every movement. To us, the way she brushes the hair behind her ear is exquisite. She is our prized Picasso. She is our Rembrandt. She is our Monet (especially our Monet. We have a fondness for the impressionists). She is a creation to hang on the wall. To us, she is special, but of course she will never see it. No one will, as they don't see her. She is ours, alone.

We watch her everyday. We have waited for the perfect time to approach her. The time when she is so detached from her life, that any change will be welcomed. It is to our advantage that she believed in magic as a child. There is still that within her that wants to believe it's true.

We walk over to her, as we did the day before. Our palms are sweaty. We sit down next to her.

She looks up from her book. She is reading the Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. Something in our gut says she still believes that someday she'll go into the back of her closet and come out in a winter wonderland with fauns and wicked queens. This will be easy, we tell ourselves.

She looks up again, and frowns. "I keep thinking I know you," she tells us. Our heart skips a beat. "But, she continues, I can't think of from where."

We wipe our hands on our knees and smile at her. "I've been told I have one of those faces."

We lean conspiratorially toward her. "That book," we say, "is incredible."

"I quite like it," she says, looking at the cover.

"Have you thought about ou-my offer?" we ask her.

"I don't remember any offer," she counters.

"Have you ever wanted to be special?" we remind her.

"That's not an offer," she says, opening her book back up, preparing to go back to it. We start panicking. We don't want to miss our opportunity.

"Sure it is," we say quickly, "if you want it to be."

She looks at us with longing in her eyes. She wants to take us up on our offer. We can taste it, but the demon we call society has beaten the ability to believe in something out of her. The demon has given her fear of ridicule. If I say yes, she thinks, they'll just laugh and say they were only joking, then won't I look the fool.

We took her hand, and she let us-even though our palm was sweaty and it couldn't have been a pleasant sensation.

"Make a wish," we tell her. "Say it out loud."

"I..." Her voice fades out. She's still afraid of laughter. She doesn't know why she's allowing this stranger with damp palms to hold her hand. She doesn't know why she's buying into his schtick. She doesn't realize there is that in her that still believes that magic does materialize. We hoped she believed enough.

"I wish I was special," she said, her voice is tremulous but it cuts through the noise of the company break-room. It cuts through our heart. It is precious, just as she is. She has expressed her desire, regardless of the demon of society that haunts her. That is all that is required.

We lean forward and kiss her on her mouth. She gasps and puts her hand to her mouth. This is not her first kiss. Like most young girls, she experienced teenage fumblings toward something more than they could express. She is surprised by the action of the kiss. She is expecting snickering or grandiose trumpeting, but not a kiss. We belatedly hope the onions on the sandwich we ate earlier aren't too over-powering.

We walk away, and Genevieve goes back to reading her book. She is both disappointed and relieved. Part of her expected the room to erupt in laughter in a nightmare mixture of her mother and high school.

We are watching her again. We have been watching her her whole life. We are in love with her. She is crossing the street. She always walks to work. She is crossing the street and a car is coming toward her. Her head is down, like it normally is, watching for cracks in the sidewalk. She once split her chin open by being unwary on an uneven sidewalk.

We are watching the car. We know what is going to happen. We have orchestrated what is going to happen. This is her wish, and yet it makes us unhappy.

Of course, the car hits her. Genevieve is knocked backward, and for an astonished second, she is airborn and silent. She hits the cement and is immediately screaming. Her leg twists at a funny angle.

The driver gets out of the car. He is somewhat young. He is somewhat non-descript. He is somewhat like her. We know in the back of our mind that he also feels mundane. He is also fed up with being ordinary.

Paramedics are called. She is taken to the hospital. Her leg is once again broken. Once again broken in an attempt to be special. She is released that night.

The driver, John (of course he's a John), visits her in her home. At first, he visits her out of guilt, filling her tiny apartment with flowers and balloons. Soon he is visiting because he can't stand the thought of not seeing her.

They are married and still we watch. We tell ourselves we are just keeping track of our project; making sure nothing goes awry. This isn't true. Is this what a private art collector feels when he donates his Monet to a museum. He can't appreciate her like we do.

We watch them as he stares at her putting on her makeup. The way she holds the tiny brush. The way she sweeps it over her eyelid. Once upon a time, only we noticed that.

They are happy together. We can not bare to watch anymore. We can't bare to share.

When we see her again, she is much changed. She is old. She hobbles, when she can manage to get around at all. We come to see her because we must come. Though we have stayed away more than sixty years, our love can not be denied.

Long ago did John pass away, but she lives with the memory of him. She often catches herself talking as though he's still there, then smiles at herself, thinking of how silly it is to talk to ghosts.

Looking at her again is like looking at our Monet through years of dust and water damage. The beauty is still there, it's just harder to see.

We watch her hobble around her house; much too big for one old woman. This is one of the good days. The arthritis isn't so bad that she can't go up and down the stairs today.

She is walking up the stairs when the inevitable hits. A sense of dread had been filling us as we watched her. We knew that we had come here for a purpose today. We knew why it was this day that I could wait no longer before seeing her.

Her foot has slipped and she is falling down the stairs. Her bones are brittle, but we do not run to catch her. That would be a bad thing. Ours is not to reason why, ours is but to do or die. Knowing we were powerless, we kept our eyes open; did not look away. If she had to endure it, we would do no less.

Finally, she had reached the bottom of the stairs. Her eyes moved and her breathing was heavy. She made no noise to indicate her pain. Her leg was once again in that awkward angle; that tricky leg.

We walked softly over to her, so as not to startle her. We kneeled down and cradled her head.

Her eyes searched our face, and we hoped for, and found, a glimmer of recognition in them. Her mouth worked, but her breath came out in wheezes. We knew she was not long for this world.

"I keep thinking I know you," she finally gets out. Tears fall from our eyes in remembrance.

"I have one of those faces," we reply, trying desperately to keep the tears out of our voice. If she could be brave, so could we. Somehow, our lips met hers.

"What's your name," she questioned. Her eyes are losing focus, and we know the end will come quickly.

"We are Legion," we answer truthfully.

"I was kissed by a demon?" she queries.

"How many angels could dance on the head of a pin?" we counter.