Tyler [hannah]

I wonder if I’m a mutant. Maybe I was a born a mutant or maybe something happened to me that turned me into one. I don’t remember eating kryptonite, or being struck by lighting, or getting an MRI done and during it the room suddenly goes black and sparks fly from the giant machine into my head and doctors are screaming, “Get him out of there! What’s happening?”

Nope, nothing strange ever happened to me that I know of. So I’m not sure where The Ability came from. It just wasn’t there, and then it was-- when I fouled a guy during the semi-finals for the Division II Indiana High School boys basketball state championship.

My coach was glad I fouled him. This kid couldn’t sink a free throw to save his life. I should’ve been happy, but as soon as I touched him I felt queasy and my eyes and mind jerked to the bleachers. To some girl I’d never met before. I couldn’t stop staring at her. I watched her cheer for the opposing team and I wanted to throw up. I adjusted my sweaty jersey and wondered if she thought my sweat was manly or disgusting. Then I wondered what her sweat was like, and my coach yelled at me.

And I knew something wasn’t right.

My friend TJ backhanded my chest and told me to snap out of it. And I did. Which was weird. My mind popped right back into the game like nothing had happened. But now TJ stood like an idiot, staring at the other teams’ fan section. He adjusted his sweaty jersey.

Things got worse after that.

After the game my mom hugged me, and then I was mad at my dad. I was mad that he’d missed dinner that night. I was mad that I’d called him earlier and he’d turned his phone off. Only I hadn’t eaten dinner with my family, and I hadn’t tried to call my dad earlier. My mom had. I stood in the middle of the loud gym and wondered what was wrong with me, but then my mom put her hand on my shoulder and I felt normal again. The weird anger was gone.

I was happy until someone brushed against my arm. I was suddenly terrified that I was going to fail trigonometry. I don’t take trigonometry. I’m not entirely sure what trigonometry is. Someone said, “good job” and patted my back. Trig no longer frightened me.

I was starting to freak out about what was happening to me, so I hurried out of the packed gym. I ran for the safety of locker room showers. No one touches you in there.

And no one touched me all weekend. Which I guess sounds kinda sad, but I’m ok with it. I’m not a snuggler. I don’t exactly kiss my parents goodnight. Me and TJ don’t cuddle on the couch when he comes over to play Xbox. So I was alright until school on Monday when Tammy Weidig handed me a copy of our US History homework. Her hand brushed mine and I felt fat. Huge. I was humiliated to be surrounded by a class full of size-four-girls. I looked down at my own body. My trim 6’2” frame seemed sloppy and disgusting. I wasn’t really a toned athlete. I was a fat pig. No guy was ever going to ask me out. I was going to die without ever having a boyfriend.

I stared over at Tammy. Me and the other guys from the basketball team call her Tranny Wei-pig behind her back, because she’s kinda chubby and we’re kinda jerks. I didn’t know what else to do. I reached over and grabbed her wrist. It worked. I saw her face kinda scrunch in on itself. Then I didn’t feel fat anymore, and I didn’t wish another dude would ask me out.

I raised my hand and told my teacher I was sick. I didn’t bother going to the nurse. I cut class and went home.

…

My dad wasn’t supposed to be home. My stomach balled into a knot when I saw his car in the driveway. I walked up the sidewalk and heard him yelling. I opened the front door and heard my mom scream back.

They were in the kitchen. They both shut up when I walked in. Dad was red. Mom was white. Dad smelled like Milwaukee’s Best and failure. Mom told me to go to my room. I grabbed some Doritos and obeyed. On the way down the hall the yelling started again. Low at first, then rising higher and higher. I lay on my bed and listened to the muffled roars. Dad would calm down eventually. He’d take his anger out on something. The broken lawnmower in the garage, or whatever team was on ESPN, or my mom. I waited to make sure it was one of the first two.

But he didn’t go to the garage. And he didn’t storm off to the basement and the flat screen. The screaming escalated in the kitchen and I knew where it was heading. So I got up.

Dad wasn’t happy to see me. He’d made it clear that I should stay out of the way when he and mom were having one of their discussions. He yelled something at me, which was actually an insult to my parentage, and threw a dirty cereal bowl at me. I grabbed his shoulder and he shut up. He stared blankly at my face, while my body convulsed with hatred.

I staggered out of the kitchen and punched a wall. I made holes in the drywall and the skin of my knuckles. I ran outside.

I ran down my street. Out of my development. I ran until I was too tired to be angry or scared or anything else. I fell into the dead grass in front of an industrial park. Geese swimming in a green made-man pond honked at me.

…

It was dark when I got back home. Dad was gone. Mom was crying in the kitchen. I didn’t want to talk to her, but she heard me come in and called for me. She cried harder when she saw my swollen hand. She grabbed it and cried over it and her desperation washed over me. My mind filled with images of painkillers and razor blades and standing on the edges of tall buildings. I yanked my hand away when I saw myself standing on a chair with a rope in my hands. The gruesome pictures scrolled through my brain. I wanted them gone. But they whispered to me and reached for me. They cooed. They were so sweetly strong that I didn’t want to fight them.

I stared at my mom, stunned by what she’d been thinking about, and terrified that I now thought about it. And wanted it.

I looked down at her hand. It was still stretched toward me. I could touch her and these horrible temptations would be hers again. Or I could keep them. I already felt them growing into my brain, like the roots of some evil plant, twisting and wrapping its tentacles into my mind until removing it would mean I would cease to be.

I looked at my own hand. I saw my pulse in my wrist. The skin covering it looked paper-thin. So easy to tear. I couldn’t let my mom keep these thoughts.

I stumbled back to my room eyeing every bit of window glass, or mirror, or even picture frame with lust. I envisioned the medicine cabinet in the bathroom while trying to remind myself why I wanted to live. I fell on my bed. I saw how every object in my room could be used as a weapon against my own body.

My body. Full of these horrible longings. I wanted them gone, but where could they go? To someone else? Who do I force this on? How do I keep myself from ever touching and passing on these desires? When it would be so much better to keep them.

They wanted me. For harm, but they wanted me. And I didn’t know how to tell them no.