Chapter 5 - Intelligence

Natalia's bare feet touched the soft carpet beneath her. The sunlight shone through the windows that were tinted with frost. The slight chill in her house brought goosebumps to her pale arms.

Natalia was dressed casually in a black camisole, red-and-white-striped pajamas, and her long brown hair was pulled up into a high ponytail. There was a hush ticking of an analog clock echoing throughout the house. Echoing off wooden floors and window panels, and into all the nooks and crannies. A rhythm showed itself in the meaningless ticking. It was almost as though the clock was whispering 7:30... 7:30... 7:30...

Most of the Ermacora family was not awake yet. It was a leisurely Saturday-- the early morning was alienated. Dreams took the place of rush hour, and snores quieted the stress that came with being a parent. It was alleviating.

Natalia had the urge to learn. Her brain was like a sponge, wanting to soak up all the intelligence it could. 

The thing was-- is intelligence really dependent on education? Or is it linked to brain development, perhaps? Or genetics? Or something unknown that, as humans, we cannot comprehend?

Of course, philosophy and psychology can touch on this. That's why one will research. To get answers to questions. Simple or complex, answers are wanted; humans are curious.

If one really watches others' behavior, they will start to notice patterns. Maybe even make predictions.

It is hilarious how humanity cannot realize the mistakes they are making until they stop themselves. But the chance of realization is slim.

Natalia's balance shifted, and her legs intertwined when she stepped to the side, causing her to fall over. She groaned as her head struck the wooden floor. The room spun, and Natalia felt like a ballet dancer on a music box.

If that music box was being controlled by the angriest person on Earth.

She tried to concentrate all her strength on pushing herself up from the ground. The pain intensified with each struggle. It was agonizing.

Natalia's mouth was dry, her voice was coarse. Her eyelids fell closed and put her in a state of darkness.

Meanwhile, at his home, James Blair ruffled his damp hair with a pure white towel. He just stepped out of the warm shower. Water soaked into the contours of his body, and he felt energized.

Thoughts whirled around in his head as he prepared for the day.

James looked at himself in the mirror, and smiled. At first, his lips looked fresh and youthful. As time went on, his cheeks ached and his lips turned light. His smile felt stale, like moldy bread, to be more accurate.

James had his towel wrapped around his hips. He was lean, with a long torso, legs, and arms. He was secure with his appearance. His blonde hair dripped water down his cheeks, his green eyes were bright, but held a sultry aura. James's cheeks suffered the look of mild rosacea.

As James Blair dried himself off, he felt something unfamiliar. It was a time to think. Although, James felt as though his head was about to explode.

Somehow, James was still sharp in the mind. Even when he "could not think," his cognition remained untouched.