Categories > Original > Fantasy > One Ray in The Darkness
So I grew up with the philosophy that everything happens for a reason. Looking back, I think that's true. You never know what that reason is until after it happens, sometimes LONG after the fact. It's hard to predict the chain reaction you'll set off, especially since you can't see all the dominos. You can only read so far ahead, if at all, and hope when the time comes that you'll turn the right page. Life is a "choose your own adventure". There are lots of plot points that lead to different outcomes. If you aren't careful the story will end prematurely (or anti-climactic or just really lame). There is one main plotline with various offshoots that may or may not lead anywhere. It's all in what you choose. As the man says, "the problem is choice". So what do you do when you have no choice at all? I found out the hard way. You choose what you can, when you can and by the grace of God, it all works out one way or another. This is what I've seen so far.
My name is Raymond Rubin Kalahearn III. Since my father was Raymond too, everyone called me "Rubin" to tell us apart, something I hated with a passion. Curse my Mennonite ancestors. I was born on March eighth, 1950 at 5:15AM at the Harrisville Hospital in Harrisville, PA. I have three older sisters: Sarah, Hannah, and Leah and a TON of extended family in the surrounding area. PA is like that. It's all about family.
I would just like to state for the record that I like my family. Seriously. My parents are actually pretty cool and my sisters aren't too bad (for sisters). I still have a set and a half of grandparents and they're pretty cool too, especially my dad's mom, Grandma Ann.
Dad was a man after his father's heart: tall, strong, stolid, an athlete and a soldier. A Marine to be exact. How Grandma could have ever loved a guy like Grandpa Ray (he was already gone before I was born so I don't remember him) was beyond me. I think she would have been called "Bohemian" in her younger days. She wore her white-blonde hair in a long braid down her back, strings of colorful beads around her neck, swishy skirts, and embroidered slippers. I secretly kept a string of blue beads and her pink slippers with the roses stitched on them. They were taken away from her when she left the house.
Grandma Ann had lived with us ever since Grandpa George, her second husband, had gotten sick back when I was about two. Their house had been just up the street so they virtually lived at our house before that anyway. I grew up with her always being nearby. As the "baby" of the family she used to watch me a lot whenever my parents had to go out. She read to me all the time, which I loved. She also told the most amazing stories "out of her head", but that all stopped in 1960. I was only ten, but everything changed that year. That's when she started complaining about "nightmares". She rode them almost every night, galloping through terrifying visions of smoke, flame, and imprisonment. Three months later the Municiberg Bombing occurred.
Mr. Incredible and Bomb Voyage duked it out on Main Street that evening. Justice prevailed but the poetic irony was enough to choke on. In trying to save a jumper from taking a leap off the Morefunds Financial Building Mr. Incredible accidentally killed the guy. One would think this would not have been a problem since the guy was trying to end it all anyway. However, his family didn't see it that way. They sued Mr. Incredible and the NSA for all they were worth. It didn't take long for others to follow suit (no pun intended). Before the year ended Supers had been banned along the entire East Coast and in a couple states in the Midwest.
You wanna know the creepy part? Grandma had told me and the rest of the family that this would happen. I don't think anyone had taken her seriously until then. Dad thought maybe she was getting old and dotty but still safe, not a danger to herself or anyone else. After a few more uncomfortable "coincidences" she was put in a home and then a psych ward. She told me before they took her away; "You're not crazy Raymond. The voices are real people and the visions will come true. Don't let them tell you you're something you're not." It would take me another five years to discover what she'd meant. I only saw her one other time after that. I still wonder sometimes if it was really her. That half-dead, drugged old woman lying in bed staring blindly at the ceiling didn't look or feel like my Grandma. If I hadn't known better I would have thought she was someone else. After that, we didn't come to see her anymore.
Life went on without her, strangely enough. My oldest sister got married and I had to be her ring bearer. (NOT the greatest moment of my life.) It's weird, but I used to get confused with my sisters ALL THE TIME. It was an unending source of annoyance for them and humiliation for me. Granted Leah and I are only separated by a year and I used to have a bad haircut as a kid but still I could never understand how people could mistake me for one of them. Nobody ever thought Leah was me but for some reason everyone thought I was a girl.
It got a little better as I grew older. At least people didn't think I was Leah anymore. They did, however, keep referring to me as a girl. I ran like a girl, threw like a girl, even screamed like one. It didn't help that I was a total klutz. For a while I had trouble putting walking and talking together. "Accident prone" would have been putting it mildly. I think I single-handedly kept Band-Aid in business for a couple years. My parents got me glasses and that did help somewhat, but didn't change my status as Harrisville Junior High's resident Boy Blunder. I was ridiculously near-sighted and had all the coordination of a seasick ostrich, but that wasn't my only problem.
Genetically, the universe seemed to have it in for me. I couldn't see, could hardly walk three steps without crashing into something, and I was short. I was always the smallest guy in my class. Heck, I was the smallest guy in my grade, shorter even than some of the girls. It was humbling, especially when I maxed out in high school at only 5'7". Not exactly basketball material. Because of this my dad decided I ought to try something less rough than football and less height-dependent than basketball. I appreciated his taking my lack of luck with projectile objects into consideration and summarily crossing baseball off the list. I'd had enough head trauma from gym class already. As the school soccer coach, dad decided I needed to chase a checkered ball. As mentioned, I have short legs and am blind as a bat. After a couple of body checks, knees to the crotch, elbows to the stomach, cleats to the shins and a dislocated elbow dad decided I might make a better "second" for the more sturdy, coordinated players. I warmed the bench from there on out and became the team water boy. That was okay. I'd rather watch the game than play it. Safer that way.
Middle school was unquestionably the worst phase of my adolescent life. I don't think it's an enjoyable transition for anyone but the nerds have it particularly bad. I don't want to say that the ladies have it easier than the guys. I have three older sisters. I know puberty is a bitch and girls deal with crap us guys can only wrinkle our noses and gag over. Biological angst aside, the boys, I think, have a rougher time adjusting to the pecking order. Girl abuse is verbal and leaves no outward scar. The same can not be said for male abuse. I lived in absolute mortal terror of the football stars. However, the real danger lay in the thirty-odd bullies and their pack of lackeys, about fifteen stooges each of varying degrees of loyalty and intelligence. It's always the smart ones who are the worst. They know how to single out what hurts you most. They specialize in ripping you where it hurts and then prod and press and punch that wound over and over and over again just for the pleasure of watching you bleed; or better still, cry. They LOVE to watch you cry. I wish I were more stolid. One of the hardest things I ever learned was to hold my tears, not because I was in pain but because I was angry. I always get upset when things are so blatantly and ridiculously unfair, when it's not even a contest. Too often the little guy gets kicked when he's down and nobody even cares. The emotional, mental, and physical bloodbath isn't their problem and so they ignore it and don't do anything about it.
There was no rest for me in middle school. The harassment never stopped for a minute and as a member of the male species I was expected to fight my own battles. The only problem was I always got the snot beat out of me. My dad tried everything he could to teach his son the manly art of self-defense. He taught me how to box and some martial arts but I wasn't very good at it. I fear I was a rather sorry student of our little basement dojo. Leah was good though. I always wondered if God put the wrong kids in the wrong bodies. Don't get me wrong, she was without a doubt a Girl through and through and I've always been secure in my manliness no matter how geeky, but it was a friendly joke between us that she should have been my older brother and I her little sister. (I have to say I am probably the most even-tempered out of all the siblings, the girls are a little scary that way.) Anyhow, I did my best and stood up for myself the next time somebody came for my ass. All it got me was a pair of busted glasses, a very sore crotch, and a seat in detention for "starting a fight". The fact that I had not in fact instigated my own beating, had a bloody nose and a black eye seemed irrelevant. After that, I just tried to become invisible. It didn't work too well. I was a target no matter what I did. I swear they could smell my blood or something. And then came seventh grade and health class and a whole new set of problems and insults.
I learned the hard way that "gay" was no longer another word for "happy". What got me was the similarity to the old "girl" insults. I wasn't gay any more than I was female. Don't get me wrong, my two best friends in the WORLD swing that way. Homosexuality is like smoking: it's your life, your health, your choice; I don't care what you do on your own time but not in my face, please. Me? Well, I don't really "swing" at all. Weird, huh? Especially for a guy since that's stereotypically supposed to be all we ever think about. Unless Charles and Alex are making seventh grade locker room jokes or something, it hardly ever crosses my mind. I suppose if you put a gun to my head and said "pick one" I'd try to work up the guts to ask a girl out. No point in it though. She'd laugh in my face and turn me down flat. Besides, girls kinda scare me and I have NO interest in guys "that way". I guess you could say I'm "asexual". I just...don't care. Besides, I wouldn't want to drag anyone else into this but that's something I'll get to later.
When you're told something enough eventually you start to believe it. I'd been told I was "weird" for a long time. The only difference with me is I already knew it was true. I always knew I was different, way more than my not being a cookie-cutter version of what was "cool" at the moment. There was something extra that set me apart. I could see it sometimes in other kids too, but I never knew what it was.
At last but the grace of God middle school ended. The torments didn't stop but they did die down somewhat. People were too busy pairing off and lobbying for student council and a spot on the homecoming committee. I found a refuge and some friends on the chess team and tolerance in the art club, but it was drama club that I really loved. I love music, I love singing, expressing my thoughts on more than just paper. I enjoy acting okay but prefer providing backup from the pit or the chorus. I thought about joining choir but decided against it for two reasons: I already had more commitments than I could comfortably handle and I felt bad dealing another blow to my father's already nobly wounded pride. (Besides, the music they picked was lame.) Anyway, I had a couple friends though none close. My invisibility strategy was working well and after those first few awkward weeks at the beginning of the year and those approaching a major social event, people remembered that I wasn't interested in going out and for the most part- say 70% of the time- left me alone.
And then it got weird.
My vision had always been bad but it worsened as I got older. The optometrist had hoped I'd balance out as I grew up but that didn't happen. Instead I got worse, my natural grace becoming even more legendary. I was more or less used to that, however. What really bothered me were the headaches. I developed skull-splitting migraines that got so bad that I was kept home or sent home from school. My parents tried to get me medication but that only exacerbated the pain and made me sick to my stomach. The only cure for my headaches seemed to be sleep and time. Sometimes they'd fade if I waited long enough and if I could catch a nap I usually felt a lot better afterwards. However, those naps were far from restful, full of nightmares and unsettling visions. I told my parents and my doctors who tried everything from medication to a strict, all-natural diet but to no avail. My doctor said nightmares were common among teenagers and that I shouldn't fill my head with violence. I didn't understand how police shows and pop music could be causing my nightmares but I went along with it. Finally, I stopped telling them about what I saw and how I felt since the treatments were worse than the disease. Or so I thought. Apparently my genes weren't done mucking with me yet.
It happened in the middle of gym class, which was oddly fitting. We spent a lot of time, as men, playing contact sports. This meant that I spent a lot of my time doing my road kill impression. I was just too short to keep up and too much of a lightweight to hold my ground when body checked. Besides, I could never see the ball until it smacked me in the face. The coach usually put me in for one round just so I could get the class participation points and then let me sit the bench or keep score the rest of the game. We were playing soccer, which I knew at least a little bit about due to my dad and the coach knew enough to put me on outside defense where I would cause and receive the least amount of damage to the game and to myself. I was actually doing okay, just kinda chasing the other guys around the field acting like I was helping since I couldn't actually see the ball. I'd been feeling sick and migraine-ish all day but because there was nothing else to be done about it, ignoring it. I was hoping to get knocked over soon so I could just sit on the bench because I felt like I was going to either pass out or hurl, possibly both. I didn't notice hitting the grass, didn't feel the warmth of my blood spilling over my lip. I didn't hear the shouts or the coach's whistle piercing through the jumble of raised male voices as I twitched and jerked on the grass. Leah was practicing field hockey with the sophomore girls when I went down. The only thing I remember of the physical world is the vague feeling of gentle hands holding my head still, cloth stuffed in my mouth and a blurry, female face looking down over me. It fades to crack (I say "crack", not "black" because I NEVER just black out, I always see Weird Stuff) after that. I woke up feeling shaky and weak in the nurse's office. There was dried blood on my gym uniform and crusted in the crevices of my face where someone's wet paper towel hadn't managed to get it all. I was dizzy and light-headed but otherwise feeling all right. The only damage I'd sustained was a small bruise on my forehead where I'd hit the ground, the only casualty my glasses, snapped in two on impact.
They told me later I'd had a seizure. Whether from dehydration, virus, genetics, or something else no one knew. After six more episodes and no other discernable outside influences my doctor diagnosed me as epileptic. No driver's license for me. I went through several different medications but all of them only made the symptoms worse, increasing my visions and turning my stomach. In the end I waited to be prescribed the cheapest pills and filled the bottle with Tic-Tac's, flushing the actual medication. I felt bad wasting my parent's money and someone else's much-needed medicine, but I didn't know what else to do. I had to keep my secret safe.
My secret? Haven't you guessed it by now? I'm a Super, a Telepath. A Clairvoyant to be exact. My symptoms- seizures aside- were frighteningly similar to those of my Grandma. The images that flashed through my head while I slept in my bed or thrashed on the floor CAME TRUE. But I didn't dare tell anyone, especially not my family. See, my dad is a local statesman and was one of the leading people behind the East coast's Anti-Super bill.
Yeah.
You see my predicament. Is it sad that I think he might have been able to better handle my being some other sort of deviant- say homosexual- than being a Super? I'm not gay, but I DO have super-natural powers. I didn't know what else to do so I just kept on pretending, keeping my pain and my visions to myself.
My name is Raymond Rubin Kalahearn III. Since my father was Raymond too, everyone called me "Rubin" to tell us apart, something I hated with a passion. Curse my Mennonite ancestors. I was born on March eighth, 1950 at 5:15AM at the Harrisville Hospital in Harrisville, PA. I have three older sisters: Sarah, Hannah, and Leah and a TON of extended family in the surrounding area. PA is like that. It's all about family.
I would just like to state for the record that I like my family. Seriously. My parents are actually pretty cool and my sisters aren't too bad (for sisters). I still have a set and a half of grandparents and they're pretty cool too, especially my dad's mom, Grandma Ann.
Dad was a man after his father's heart: tall, strong, stolid, an athlete and a soldier. A Marine to be exact. How Grandma could have ever loved a guy like Grandpa Ray (he was already gone before I was born so I don't remember him) was beyond me. I think she would have been called "Bohemian" in her younger days. She wore her white-blonde hair in a long braid down her back, strings of colorful beads around her neck, swishy skirts, and embroidered slippers. I secretly kept a string of blue beads and her pink slippers with the roses stitched on them. They were taken away from her when she left the house.
Grandma Ann had lived with us ever since Grandpa George, her second husband, had gotten sick back when I was about two. Their house had been just up the street so they virtually lived at our house before that anyway. I grew up with her always being nearby. As the "baby" of the family she used to watch me a lot whenever my parents had to go out. She read to me all the time, which I loved. She also told the most amazing stories "out of her head", but that all stopped in 1960. I was only ten, but everything changed that year. That's when she started complaining about "nightmares". She rode them almost every night, galloping through terrifying visions of smoke, flame, and imprisonment. Three months later the Municiberg Bombing occurred.
Mr. Incredible and Bomb Voyage duked it out on Main Street that evening. Justice prevailed but the poetic irony was enough to choke on. In trying to save a jumper from taking a leap off the Morefunds Financial Building Mr. Incredible accidentally killed the guy. One would think this would not have been a problem since the guy was trying to end it all anyway. However, his family didn't see it that way. They sued Mr. Incredible and the NSA for all they were worth. It didn't take long for others to follow suit (no pun intended). Before the year ended Supers had been banned along the entire East Coast and in a couple states in the Midwest.
You wanna know the creepy part? Grandma had told me and the rest of the family that this would happen. I don't think anyone had taken her seriously until then. Dad thought maybe she was getting old and dotty but still safe, not a danger to herself or anyone else. After a few more uncomfortable "coincidences" she was put in a home and then a psych ward. She told me before they took her away; "You're not crazy Raymond. The voices are real people and the visions will come true. Don't let them tell you you're something you're not." It would take me another five years to discover what she'd meant. I only saw her one other time after that. I still wonder sometimes if it was really her. That half-dead, drugged old woman lying in bed staring blindly at the ceiling didn't look or feel like my Grandma. If I hadn't known better I would have thought she was someone else. After that, we didn't come to see her anymore.
Life went on without her, strangely enough. My oldest sister got married and I had to be her ring bearer. (NOT the greatest moment of my life.) It's weird, but I used to get confused with my sisters ALL THE TIME. It was an unending source of annoyance for them and humiliation for me. Granted Leah and I are only separated by a year and I used to have a bad haircut as a kid but still I could never understand how people could mistake me for one of them. Nobody ever thought Leah was me but for some reason everyone thought I was a girl.
It got a little better as I grew older. At least people didn't think I was Leah anymore. They did, however, keep referring to me as a girl. I ran like a girl, threw like a girl, even screamed like one. It didn't help that I was a total klutz. For a while I had trouble putting walking and talking together. "Accident prone" would have been putting it mildly. I think I single-handedly kept Band-Aid in business for a couple years. My parents got me glasses and that did help somewhat, but didn't change my status as Harrisville Junior High's resident Boy Blunder. I was ridiculously near-sighted and had all the coordination of a seasick ostrich, but that wasn't my only problem.
Genetically, the universe seemed to have it in for me. I couldn't see, could hardly walk three steps without crashing into something, and I was short. I was always the smallest guy in my class. Heck, I was the smallest guy in my grade, shorter even than some of the girls. It was humbling, especially when I maxed out in high school at only 5'7". Not exactly basketball material. Because of this my dad decided I ought to try something less rough than football and less height-dependent than basketball. I appreciated his taking my lack of luck with projectile objects into consideration and summarily crossing baseball off the list. I'd had enough head trauma from gym class already. As the school soccer coach, dad decided I needed to chase a checkered ball. As mentioned, I have short legs and am blind as a bat. After a couple of body checks, knees to the crotch, elbows to the stomach, cleats to the shins and a dislocated elbow dad decided I might make a better "second" for the more sturdy, coordinated players. I warmed the bench from there on out and became the team water boy. That was okay. I'd rather watch the game than play it. Safer that way.
Middle school was unquestionably the worst phase of my adolescent life. I don't think it's an enjoyable transition for anyone but the nerds have it particularly bad. I don't want to say that the ladies have it easier than the guys. I have three older sisters. I know puberty is a bitch and girls deal with crap us guys can only wrinkle our noses and gag over. Biological angst aside, the boys, I think, have a rougher time adjusting to the pecking order. Girl abuse is verbal and leaves no outward scar. The same can not be said for male abuse. I lived in absolute mortal terror of the football stars. However, the real danger lay in the thirty-odd bullies and their pack of lackeys, about fifteen stooges each of varying degrees of loyalty and intelligence. It's always the smart ones who are the worst. They know how to single out what hurts you most. They specialize in ripping you where it hurts and then prod and press and punch that wound over and over and over again just for the pleasure of watching you bleed; or better still, cry. They LOVE to watch you cry. I wish I were more stolid. One of the hardest things I ever learned was to hold my tears, not because I was in pain but because I was angry. I always get upset when things are so blatantly and ridiculously unfair, when it's not even a contest. Too often the little guy gets kicked when he's down and nobody even cares. The emotional, mental, and physical bloodbath isn't their problem and so they ignore it and don't do anything about it.
There was no rest for me in middle school. The harassment never stopped for a minute and as a member of the male species I was expected to fight my own battles. The only problem was I always got the snot beat out of me. My dad tried everything he could to teach his son the manly art of self-defense. He taught me how to box and some martial arts but I wasn't very good at it. I fear I was a rather sorry student of our little basement dojo. Leah was good though. I always wondered if God put the wrong kids in the wrong bodies. Don't get me wrong, she was without a doubt a Girl through and through and I've always been secure in my manliness no matter how geeky, but it was a friendly joke between us that she should have been my older brother and I her little sister. (I have to say I am probably the most even-tempered out of all the siblings, the girls are a little scary that way.) Anyhow, I did my best and stood up for myself the next time somebody came for my ass. All it got me was a pair of busted glasses, a very sore crotch, and a seat in detention for "starting a fight". The fact that I had not in fact instigated my own beating, had a bloody nose and a black eye seemed irrelevant. After that, I just tried to become invisible. It didn't work too well. I was a target no matter what I did. I swear they could smell my blood or something. And then came seventh grade and health class and a whole new set of problems and insults.
I learned the hard way that "gay" was no longer another word for "happy". What got me was the similarity to the old "girl" insults. I wasn't gay any more than I was female. Don't get me wrong, my two best friends in the WORLD swing that way. Homosexuality is like smoking: it's your life, your health, your choice; I don't care what you do on your own time but not in my face, please. Me? Well, I don't really "swing" at all. Weird, huh? Especially for a guy since that's stereotypically supposed to be all we ever think about. Unless Charles and Alex are making seventh grade locker room jokes or something, it hardly ever crosses my mind. I suppose if you put a gun to my head and said "pick one" I'd try to work up the guts to ask a girl out. No point in it though. She'd laugh in my face and turn me down flat. Besides, girls kinda scare me and I have NO interest in guys "that way". I guess you could say I'm "asexual". I just...don't care. Besides, I wouldn't want to drag anyone else into this but that's something I'll get to later.
When you're told something enough eventually you start to believe it. I'd been told I was "weird" for a long time. The only difference with me is I already knew it was true. I always knew I was different, way more than my not being a cookie-cutter version of what was "cool" at the moment. There was something extra that set me apart. I could see it sometimes in other kids too, but I never knew what it was.
At last but the grace of God middle school ended. The torments didn't stop but they did die down somewhat. People were too busy pairing off and lobbying for student council and a spot on the homecoming committee. I found a refuge and some friends on the chess team and tolerance in the art club, but it was drama club that I really loved. I love music, I love singing, expressing my thoughts on more than just paper. I enjoy acting okay but prefer providing backup from the pit or the chorus. I thought about joining choir but decided against it for two reasons: I already had more commitments than I could comfortably handle and I felt bad dealing another blow to my father's already nobly wounded pride. (Besides, the music they picked was lame.) Anyway, I had a couple friends though none close. My invisibility strategy was working well and after those first few awkward weeks at the beginning of the year and those approaching a major social event, people remembered that I wasn't interested in going out and for the most part- say 70% of the time- left me alone.
And then it got weird.
My vision had always been bad but it worsened as I got older. The optometrist had hoped I'd balance out as I grew up but that didn't happen. Instead I got worse, my natural grace becoming even more legendary. I was more or less used to that, however. What really bothered me were the headaches. I developed skull-splitting migraines that got so bad that I was kept home or sent home from school. My parents tried to get me medication but that only exacerbated the pain and made me sick to my stomach. The only cure for my headaches seemed to be sleep and time. Sometimes they'd fade if I waited long enough and if I could catch a nap I usually felt a lot better afterwards. However, those naps were far from restful, full of nightmares and unsettling visions. I told my parents and my doctors who tried everything from medication to a strict, all-natural diet but to no avail. My doctor said nightmares were common among teenagers and that I shouldn't fill my head with violence. I didn't understand how police shows and pop music could be causing my nightmares but I went along with it. Finally, I stopped telling them about what I saw and how I felt since the treatments were worse than the disease. Or so I thought. Apparently my genes weren't done mucking with me yet.
It happened in the middle of gym class, which was oddly fitting. We spent a lot of time, as men, playing contact sports. This meant that I spent a lot of my time doing my road kill impression. I was just too short to keep up and too much of a lightweight to hold my ground when body checked. Besides, I could never see the ball until it smacked me in the face. The coach usually put me in for one round just so I could get the class participation points and then let me sit the bench or keep score the rest of the game. We were playing soccer, which I knew at least a little bit about due to my dad and the coach knew enough to put me on outside defense where I would cause and receive the least amount of damage to the game and to myself. I was actually doing okay, just kinda chasing the other guys around the field acting like I was helping since I couldn't actually see the ball. I'd been feeling sick and migraine-ish all day but because there was nothing else to be done about it, ignoring it. I was hoping to get knocked over soon so I could just sit on the bench because I felt like I was going to either pass out or hurl, possibly both. I didn't notice hitting the grass, didn't feel the warmth of my blood spilling over my lip. I didn't hear the shouts or the coach's whistle piercing through the jumble of raised male voices as I twitched and jerked on the grass. Leah was practicing field hockey with the sophomore girls when I went down. The only thing I remember of the physical world is the vague feeling of gentle hands holding my head still, cloth stuffed in my mouth and a blurry, female face looking down over me. It fades to crack (I say "crack", not "black" because I NEVER just black out, I always see Weird Stuff) after that. I woke up feeling shaky and weak in the nurse's office. There was dried blood on my gym uniform and crusted in the crevices of my face where someone's wet paper towel hadn't managed to get it all. I was dizzy and light-headed but otherwise feeling all right. The only damage I'd sustained was a small bruise on my forehead where I'd hit the ground, the only casualty my glasses, snapped in two on impact.
They told me later I'd had a seizure. Whether from dehydration, virus, genetics, or something else no one knew. After six more episodes and no other discernable outside influences my doctor diagnosed me as epileptic. No driver's license for me. I went through several different medications but all of them only made the symptoms worse, increasing my visions and turning my stomach. In the end I waited to be prescribed the cheapest pills and filled the bottle with Tic-Tac's, flushing the actual medication. I felt bad wasting my parent's money and someone else's much-needed medicine, but I didn't know what else to do. I had to keep my secret safe.
My secret? Haven't you guessed it by now? I'm a Super, a Telepath. A Clairvoyant to be exact. My symptoms- seizures aside- were frighteningly similar to those of my Grandma. The images that flashed through my head while I slept in my bed or thrashed on the floor CAME TRUE. But I didn't dare tell anyone, especially not my family. See, my dad is a local statesman and was one of the leading people behind the East coast's Anti-Super bill.
Yeah.
You see my predicament. Is it sad that I think he might have been able to better handle my being some other sort of deviant- say homosexual- than being a Super? I'm not gay, but I DO have super-natural powers. I didn't know what else to do so I just kept on pretending, keeping my pain and my visions to myself.
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