There is something wrong with my family.
Although, maybe that was subjective. The whole city considers them more of a blessing; I’d definitely heard the term ‘miracle’ thrown around. And I suppose they were.
I recall the time my mother fought off a mad scientist hell-bent on nuking the country. The high-powered lasers she shot from her eyes made two perfectly round, cauterised holes in his chest just a few tense seconds before the bomb was meant to explode. The medal she’d been given hung proudly on the living room wall, next to the others.
I clench my teeth and punch the bag in front of me, sweat dripping from my face. Music blares from the gym speakers, too loud for this late at night but I don’t pay it much attention. I’m the only one here anyway. I hit the bag again and think about my dad.
The first time I played for my school’s football team, I managed to clumsily kick the ball into the back of the net. I can vividly remember the elation that flooded my young mind when the crowd of parents cheered for me. Except, of course, my parents. My dad was busy saving a kitten from a tree.
“No victim is too small,” he reminded me from the doorway of my bedroom when he found me crying into my pillow. “You would understand if…”
He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to. Mum hadn’t even come upstairs.
I hit the bag again, squeezing my hands into tight fists.
My little brother had shown early signs, spitting up fire with his baby food. My parents were covered in small burns for the first few years but I’d never seen them so happy. It had taken them five years to build up the courage to try for another child and, this time, it had paid off. I brought home a first place trophy in under 12’s Krav Maga the same day that my little brother caught his first mugger. I came home to an empty house – they’d gone to celebrate without me.
I hit the bag as a beeper goes off on my watch. I stop to take a breath, bending over and putting my hands on my knees. A bead of sweat slides off the end of my nose, falling to the padded ground and landing on the gym logo with my name across it.
I take a deep breath and pull myself up to my full height. That’s enough for tonight, I think to myself. I’ve got somewhere to be.
I turn off the music and lock up for the night, thinking about the last time I spoke to my parents.
Mum was sitting at the kitchen table, reading the paper. Reading about herself. Dad was on the sofa with my brother, his arm slotted affectionately around his shoulders as they watched the news. Watched themselves.
None of them looked up when I walked out.
I clear the memory from my head as I double-check the gym door is locked and head off. The street is lit up with hard orange lights, several of them flickering inconsistently. I start walking, hands in pockets.
It isn’t the nicest of neighbourhoods, I can admit that. But it’s cheap and I am able to help people here, teaching them how to defend themselves from… less savoury types. I feel good about that but I feel even better when I know that I learned to do it myself.
I start to whistle as I walk.
The details of my parents’ house are a bit smudged now and I’m sure they’ve changed in the last ten years. But there are some details that stand out; the consistent smell of breakfast in the mornings, the wallpaper with burn holes, the sense of dread every time I walked down the stairs. More than that, I remember the distance between us. The physical space between us that they never wanted to cross. Always standing in doorways or on the other side of the room.
I think it’s time I crossed it for them.
I turn the corner, walking in the opposite direction to my own small home and towards the nicer part of town.
The details of my parents’ house might be blurred now but a much newer, crisper memory floats in my mind. Walking home late last week and happening across some muggers. Or, they happened across me. Either way, they had an advantage that I didn’t: powers.
Watered-down, low-level powers. One of them clicked his fingers, igniting a small, blue flame that hovered over his thumb and forefinger. It’s not a lot by itself but fire is still fire. Even though my brother had never burned me, I remembered the damage he caused my parents even as a baby.
The other mugger grabbed me by the elbows, pinning my arms behind me. I had taught people what to do in these situations numerous times but being in it myself sent my heart into a frenzy. I froze.
“You know how this works,” the fire one snarled, nodding pointedly at my bag. When I didn’t move, he took a step towards me. “Give us the…”
He trailed off as the fire on his fingers snuffed out, leaving a thin trail of smoke. He stared down at it, caught half-way between anger and confusion, and began furiously clicking to get it back. But there was nothing. His friend gripped me tighter, unsure what to do.
And then the fire one stood back and clicked again. The fire returned, wavering innocently. He frowned and brought his hand close to me.
We all watched it go out.
A smile tugs at the corner of my lips as I recall the memory. Whistling contentedly, I take the path up to my parents’ house. Time to cross the distance between us.
Storm Lomax can usually be found with a coffee in one hand and a book in the other. She regularly publishes short stories on her WordPress and is currently writing her first full-length novel.
