On those perfect winter nights before Christmas break, when everybody is hoping for a snowday…I would cut the power if the schools didn't call it the night before. Of course, I didn't know I was the reason. I would just think of the school and wish the power would stop.

In the beginning, that's all it was.

When I got older, the whole town would be wished away in the mix, subconsciously. I treated my wishes as some treated the ice-cube down the loo, or the spoon under your pillow. Every wishing-habit was the same, except mine worked, every single time. I thought my wish was special and real and true. I had never dreamed I was the cause of these inexplicable power outages.

Torn from the magical charm of snowdays-on-command, my electromagnetic disruption enhanced to disrupting video clips in Government and Civics that I didn't want to watch. They'd fade into a gray fuzz and then going black. I dismissed this as convenience, and was just as happy as any other kid when the screen winked into blackness. As the stress of high school began to build up, technology problems in classes I didn't enjoy became a regular nuisance to the teachers.

One morning in particular, a beautiful, dew-blanketed March morning, was too much. My favorite teacher had disappeared. Fellow students were spreading horrible rumors, and the student who I'd had a crush on since 6th grade (I was a senior in high school that year, so 7 years) was missing. He was either the cause or the victim…but he was intertwined in the whole mess somehow. I brushed hair out of my face as I drove in my tan silhouette minivan—an old, rusty couch on wheels which had been lacking three quarters of the luxury options it came with for three quarters of its life. There was one option in particular I had never used, but had always missed: the heated seat.

It was a beautiful morning, as always. The fields glittered in the early dew, and I was running 5 minutes late. I had a zero-hour class, an emotional headache, and a thermos of coffee. I'd skipped breakfast because I couldn't think clearly, so getting ready took twice as long. I'd traipsed out of the sleeping house wearing blue jeans, short-lipped blue Converse, a black turtle-neck sweater, blue fingerless gloves, a black jacket slung over one arm, a black backpack slung over one shoulder. A purse that looked more like a book-nerd's briefcase was slung over the same shoulder, and flapped against my side awkwardly with every step down the cold cement stairs as I left the warmth of home behind. Turning onto the center road of our small territory, tears pricked my eyes, remembering the pain and tension I was walking into without having really forgot. They said the teacher and student would go to jail…he wouldn't even be able to graduate high school…they also said the teacher had, uh, touched a girl in his office before the trip…I didn't want to believe, couldn't believe—they said he hated his job and was looking for a way out anyway—I trusted him and he helped me accomplish so much. He was happy here. I believed he was happy…and I was happy…They said the teacher slipped up and bought him alcohol….they said—

A fresh burn of tears simmered across my eyes. I blinked them back. They said the teacher was never coming back. I'd known him for 7 years, I trusted him, I admired him, I was devoted to everything he taught…I was one of his favorites. I wanted him to be proud of me. I'd learned so much…and now I doubted if I'd ever see him again. Not even to say thank you, or goodbye.

And then of course, there was her. That best friend with the impulsive lying and the hate and the relish for chaos…and the brilliant mind and the tragedies she dealt with…and how beautiful you thought she was. Radiant, but no one else ever seemed to see. She loved every minute of the misery, and might have been one of the oiliest orbs on the grape vine that was surely destroying my favorite teacher's chances of ever returning back to school.

My headache thrummed with a heightened intensity as I drove into the calm morning sun. I can't keep going to school, I can't do this anymore, please let it stop, make it stop—I felt hot tears collect in my eyes, and didn't care to blink them away. Let them stay. What do I care. The whole school was so fucking insensitive to the situation—no information, no explanation, and nothing to stop those horrible, horrible rumors. And none of my other teachers had known the role he had played in my life, how much he had influenced me. None of them knew something was missing. My parents weren't helping; everything they said involved college. The preparation required for that inevitable natural disaster was slowly crushing my spirit. I felt the poison melting through my cells, and most horrifyingly, my mind. I often wondered, numbly, if this is what losing sanity felt like.

Please, no more. Make it stop. Everything hurts too much right now and it's not okay—please just—

Too much strain. Too much pressure—

My gloved fingers tightened around the steering wheel, and I accelerated the rusty old van. I'd had urges of crashing this car and ending this damned life and never having to set foot in that damned school full of all those precious classroom memories that had become my foundation, my reason for optimism, for NEVER giving in completely, for finally fitting in and belonging and feeling more than accepted…for feeling wanted, for exploring who I was in a place of comfort that he ruled and built and—WHOOSH

I blinked hard as the pressure beating my skull exited down my arms in a cool wave in the instance of a heartbeat. I saw it crackle around me in a ghostly blue web of energy. I felt woozy. All of the lights in my dashboard stopped. The car kept flying past, speeding. Eyes wide, my breath hitched as I saw the stoplight was blank, the usually obnoxious signs at the local tourist-trap apple orchard were dark, and the cars around me were void of the familiar red glow of their headlights. The golden fields' innocent colors were blurred from my current speed. The cars ahead screeched and crashed as drivers panicked, unable to stop their metal cages in time, all barreling down a road at the posted 55 mph. A pile-up was already 4 cars ahead in front of me, and I knew I wasn't going 55 anymore. Far from it.

Part of me was glad I hadn't glanced down to look.

Part of me was even more glad when I saw that I was destined to add to that pile-up…but no. I couldn't add to this, especially with a heightened speed. What had they done? This wasn't fair to them…this must have been my fault, somehow. My fault. My fault for feeling this way—

Another wave of pressure pounded my brain and the tears burned as yet another pulse of my miserable, weak, pathetic self white-washed the deadly situation—

As many had told me recently, it was my fault for feeling at all. They said I had a choice to let it get to me. I was being silly. Silly, silly, heart-wrenching emotions. Shame on you. Shame on you for being so vulnerable, so compassionate.

Shame on you for being so weak.

And so I had turned sharply just before the intersection's pileup, dodging a telephone pole and flying into the deep ditches lining the farmers' fields. Instinctively putting an arm up to protect my face, the car lurched with impossible force and I closed my eyes to the sickening bang of the crumpling hood, and my head smacked forward towards the steering wheel, cushioned by the raised arm. I didn't remain conscious enough to feel the pain of the whack settle in my bones.

The glistening meadows fell silent.

Three figures clad in armor and capes descended from a small black jet hovering over the intersection. Magneto lowered his arm as they touched down on the ground, his sidelong cape rustling coolly in the morning breeze.

He had lessened the impact of the crashing van.