A/N: Please help me. This is highly experimental, and I admit that, which means I have no idea if this is any good or complete bat shit. So, please, point out to me whether you think it's one of the two or something interestingly in-between. Of course, it would also be wonderful if you found a more diplomatic phrasing than 'bat shit', but I won't push my luck either.

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Mama, I Am

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Clara had something to say, though she could not manage to speak it. The words were stuck inside her stomach, where they gravitated uselessly, occasionally meaningfully, around her gut.

Mama, I'm going to go down to the city with the neon lights, and carve my footsteps on its slate stage. I'm not going to shy away, mama, if I can.

Her mother had opinions - millions of them - and it never really mattered whether or not you asked or not, because they were so freely given. Sometimes, Clara forgot which were hers and which belonged to her mother's immense arsenal; they kept spilling over into her territory, this endless stream of ideas, morals, and especially, values.

Mama, I'm going to bandage the sky's white cuts with a metal of the finest gloss. I'm going to soar high, mama, if I can.

And Clara's mother predicted the future. She was particularly good at predicting Clara's future. That's what she was doing, actually, during the curious time that Clara could not speak. Her mother had not yet learned how to predict Clara's thoughts, but Clara thought that it was only a matter of time.

Mama, I'm going to split the sea and ride its frothy crescents to my own explosive glory. I'm not going to fear, mama, if I can.

Clara couldn't blame her mother for her own stitched lips, because it had been Clara, after all, who had initially supplied the needle and thread. It was comforting and warm, not to have to provide the kind of arduous deliberation that decision-making always seems to require. But Clara knew that she was on the very edge of a decision, if only she could phrase it correctly - the temperamental words refused to align themselves in any semblance of a coherent pattern. She knew she had the first two, but the rest veered off into the vague and abstract and vaguely abstract. A stage? The sky? The sea? It wouldn't mean anything to either of them, not yet.

Mama, I'm going to paint the world with roses, and maybe then everything will bloom, infinite petals in my view. I'm going to love, mama, if I can.

Even though her mother could talk the sun and moon down from their perpetual posts, she still had to take breaks for breathing. During one of these instances, Clara had the sudden sensation that a window, a glistening opportunity, had appeared in front of her, though she had to seize it in time. She could do it now; if she could just open her mouth, it might all fall out, and then she could say everything.

So Clara turned to her mother. She made sure their eyes locked. The chaotic thoughts and neglected words tumbled into motion.

Mama, I'm going to know what I mean and do what I mean. I'm not going to say can't anymore, not if I can't avoid it.

I'm going to rip the shadow off, and make my own dark cloak of it.

I'm going to be as independent as you, mama, if I can.

There was no going back now, but there was no needing to either.

"Mama, I am…"

And her gut went into every spoken syllable.