MENA - 1965
Mama always told me never to use my power.
Never, ever.
Because using it could get me killed. Or worse, she would say, because death is not the worst thing.
Death is just a step in life.
I roll my mother’s words over in my mind as I try to move without being touched through the throng of teenagers hell-bent on getting to the movie theater just behind me. One little shock, one little slip, and it’s all over.
No more disguise.
No more hiding.
No more normal life – or normal for me anyway.
It is so hard to keep my power leashed. Holding it inside me for days and days, waiting until I can get to a secluded spot in the desert to release this pent up urge. Like the revving of an engine just before the green light, my body thrums, waiting for the press of the pedal.
Since maturity, it’s getting harder and harder to hold it, harder to keep inside. That’s all I’ve been doing. Since birth, I’ve been playing normal, while my twin lived a normal life. She never had to bite her tongue or mask her natural reactions. Never had to watch every single step as if one mistake would tip her hand. She never had to hide, and that’s all I’ve ever done.
We were born of the same womb, but couldn’t be more different. I’m tall, she’s short. I’m quiet, she’s loud. I think before I speak, she doesn’t.
She’s a Seer.
I’m an Aegis.
I turn my thoughts from my twin, who left me in the hell of my own solitude so many years ago, and try and tamp my emotions down.
The bulbs in the marquee are shiny and new, the adolescents giggle and push as they move past. The times change so quickly. Just ten years ago, the girls were wearing poodle skirts and saddle shoes, now they are wearing miniskirts and tall boots. Strange how quickly things can turn on a dime.
I hasten my steps but do my best to appear calm and unaffected. To appear like I’m not aware someone is watching me. I’ve felt eyes on me for days now. I know someone is out there, lurking in the shadows.
I’ve been good, fulfilling my duties as a Gentry with aplomb. I don’t deserve to be checked up on like a child. I’m practically living at the funeral home where I work evenings masquerading as a mortician’s apprentice. It’s not like I have friends, or a lover, or a life. There’s too much to risk, and I have too much to hide.
I tug on the Peter Pan collar of my navy blue polka-dotted shift dress. It’s still hot here in Phoenix, Arizona; it never does get very cool, especially compared to the cold, wet of the Oregon wilderness I used to call home. Every time I think of my city’s name I chuckle a little. A Phoenix living in Phoenix. My lips turn up into a smile, and I forget the eyes that are watching me for a moment.
I shouldn’t have.
I should have been paying attention to the alley to my left, but stupid me, I was trying too hard not to shock the kids pushing past.
I should have known my time was up. I should have left a long time ago, but I so foolishly held out hope that one day my family would be together again. That one day, my sister would be home, and I wouldn’t have to hide who I was from the other half of my soul. That one day, my parents would trust us to keep ourselves safe.
I should have remembered that as soon as I made my first squalling wail in this world, I was never going to get what I wanted. But I forgot, for a moment. I let my guard down for a single second. At that moment, as I pass a darkened alley on a hot Arizona evening, hard, cold hands wrap around my throat and snap my neck.
And the perfect shiny lights of that brand new movie theater were the last good things I see for a very long time.