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The marsh was a symphony of whispers and songs, reeds swaying like dancers in the cool pre-dawn breeze. Rumi’s bare feet splashed in the muddy water as she leapt through it to the next shimmer of indigo. The mug in her hand was nearly half-full with blueberries. She paused to pop one in her mouth, savoring the tart sweetness that exploded on her tongue.
She felt untouchable.
No one else was awake. The world felt gloriously her own.
Eighteen. That number carried weight—freedom, independence, and the quiet promise that she was no longer obligated to give a shit about anyone's opinion.
She crouched down to pluck another handful of berries, her reflection shimmering faintly in the water beneath her. Crazy. That word had followed her since she was old enough to understand language. First as a joke. Then as a slur. Now, it felt like a title—one she embraced with pride.
Back when she was a kid, it meant she couldn’t be trusted to keep anything intact. Her mom used to call her Demon Child. She wasn’t wild for the sake of rebellion; she was wild because it was who she was. By the time she was ten, her backyard looked like the aftermath of a tiny war. Pine trees had rope burns from her makeshift swings. Dirt tunnels snaked under the lawn, her proud excavation project. Even her bedroom ceiling didn’t survive—she tore it up because she didn't like the popcorn pattern.
“Angel until you got to know ’er,” her parents used to say in exasperation.
By middle school, “crazy” had grown sharp edges. Kids whispered it when she wasn’t looking. Teachers used it to explain her short temper and sharp tongue. She hated it. Hated how helpless she felt when the anger took over, when people flinched away from her like she did her dad.
Then came Taekwondo.
The first time she landed a kick squarely on a target, the shockwave rippled through her body. It was like she’d been given permission to exist. Each precise movement honed her instincts, gave her focus. Her anger didn’t vanish; it transformed, allowing her to become more powerful and less helpless. For the first time in her life, her strength didn’t feel like something to be ashamed of.
Rumi stood up, stretching her arms wide. The sky was starting to blush, streaks of pink and gold bleeding into the horizon. The lake in front of her shimmered, a perfect mirror of the sky as the sun rose. She smiled.
Now they call her a brave, relentless, fierce hero, but she fucking loves it when they call her crazy.