The incident with my parents wasn't the first time I'd controlled someone's mind. I'm not sure how I did it, or how it began. I'd never asked for this power, and yet I had it. It all started when I was five years old . . .
I was playing with my pet hamster, Whiskers. I jumped with excitement as Whiskers crawled all over me, his little feet tickling my skin. I gently scooped him up, petting his soft brown and white fur. I then placed him in his cage. As I watched him sniffing around, I had the urge to watch him play on his wheel.
Then suddenly, to my amazement, that's exactly what he did. I wasn't sure how it happened, but as I stared at him, he began to run faster.
I didn't understand what was happening, but somehow, I was controlling him. Whiskers ran faster and faster. I didn't want to stop; for some reason, I couldn't stop even if I had wanted to. I made poor Whiskers stick his head out straight, jamming his tiny head in the wheel.
I blinked, not sure what had just happened. I looked at Whiskers, whose head was stuck between the bars of the hamster wheel. His eyes were opened wide and his body was motionless. Being only five, I didn't know what I had done to my hamster.
I quickly opened the cage and stuck my hand in. My fingers wrapped around his tiny body. As I pulled, I could hear the crunching of his small bones. Whiskers' body ripped apart from his head; blood spilled everywhere. As quickly as I could, I grabbed Whiskers' head, pulling it out from the bars of the wheel. Tears ran down my cheeks as I tried to stick the head back onto the body with no luck; Whiskers was dead.
I screamed, terrified at what had happened, and Mom and Dad quickly ran into my room.
I held up the decapitated Whiskers to my parents. Mom screamed as she jerked me up, rushing me to the bathroom to wash off my blood-stained hands.
"What happened?" Dad asked me after everything had calmed down a bit.
I sniffled. "I made Whiskers kill himself."
"What do you mean?" Mom asked, worry in her voice.
"I made him get stuck in the wheel with my mind somehow. He just did whatever I thought of."
I'll never forget the look my parents gave me that day. It was a look of horror. It was the look telling me I was insane.
A few days later, my parents took me to a psychiatrist.
"Now tell me, how did your hamster die?" the doctor asked me.
I squirmed in my chair, nervous. I looked around her office. Everything was kid friendly. Stuffed teddy bears sat on several shelves. The room was painted a calm yellow. In a way, it looked like a school room with stickers of the letters of the alphabet on the walls.
I turned my head slowly towards the doctor.
"I don't really know how. I just made him kill himself," I finally answered in a low whisper.
She raised an eyebrow through her red framed glasses.
"And how did you do that?" she asked.
"With my mind. I guess I controlled his mind somehow because he did whatever I thought," I explained.
"I see," she answered in a disbelieving tone.
After that session, the doctor explained to my parents that I just had a wild imagination and that nothing was wrong with me. And although my parents didn't want to admit it, I could sense they knew that that was nothing but a lie.
After the incident with the hamster, I tried not to do anything like that again, although I still didn't know what 'that' was.
One day, I was outside on our back lawn and spotted a stray cat up in one of our trees. Instead of calling for help, I stared up at the cat, looking deep into its eyes. In my control, the cat leapt off the high branch, falling toward the earth.
He tried to position himself so that he would make a safe landing on his feet, but I wouldn't let him. The cat flipped around and landed headfirst onto the ground below.
I shook my head and quickly ran over to the fallen feline. His skull was practically smashed into his brains. His furry white back and legs were in an unnatural position. The cat was dead.
I didn't tell my parents what had happened for fear that they'd take me to another weird doctor. When they saw the cat's corpse, they immediately questioned me, but I said nothing.
When I was seven, a boy named Ricky used to pick on me sometimes around the neighborhood. He called me an outcast and a freak because of my unnaturally long, jet black hair. So one day, I decided to get even with him.
Without giving it a second thought, I made him punch himself square in the nose. Blood gushed out like a flowing river from his face onto his striped shirt. It was my first time controlling a human being, and I got a more demonic pleasure out if it than doing it to animals. Of course, in the back of my head I yelled, 'Stop, stop!' But for some reason, I couldn't. I was in a hypnotic state yet again. I saw and knew what I was doing, but I didn't care and I couldn't do anything about it.
"Stop it! What are you doing, Ricky?" yelled a voice.
I blinked, snapping out of whatever trance I was in. I looked at Ricky, who was collapsed on the grass in pain. He had a busted nose and a swollen lip and eye.
Ricky's mother rushed past me, helping her son up off the ground and leading him carefully to their house next door.
I suddenly realized that if it wasn't for his mom's yelling snapping me out of it, I probably would've killed the boy.
I woke up with a jerk, practically jumping out of my bed. My hair was wet with cold sweat. I looked about the room at my surroundings.
I was in a cold, dark room. Instead of my warm, comfy bed, I was in an uncomfortable cot. Around me were ten other cots with ten kids younger than I was, all sleeping soundly. I was at the foster home. I lay back down and closed my eyes, wishing, praying that everything was back to normal.
You brought this on yourself, you know. If you didn't murder your own parents, you wouldn't be here. I thought, silently cursing at myself.
I had never felt so alone.