My name is Emily Poirier and I am a mutant. My mutation, however, is far from groovy. Although it allows me to do just about anything I want, it brings me closer and closer to insanity.
My "gift," if I can be called such, allows me to bend reality to my will. Forgot my purse at home? Poof! It's now by my feet. Having a bad hair day? Poof! I could model for Garnier. This is a dangerous power to have, though. I can wish bad things on the world. I can change things substantially and convince myself that I had nothing to do with the transformation. I can have a false memory – maybe from a dream or a story that I'd been told – and I could change life to support that false idea.
Changing reality is the quickest way to lose your grasp on the world around you.
This is a simple statement, but also one that could not be more true. I do sometimes feel myself slip away. I keep a journal to help remind myself what is real. I write in it compulsively and read it even more so.
When I was younger – still in elementary school – I had an incident with my reality-bending that cemented in my mind the evils of my "gift." There was a boy. Gerald Flannigan was his name. He may have been the most obnoxious boy that I'd ever met, but for some reason we were friends. I was minding my own business when he came running up to me.
"Emily! Hey Emily! Guess what? I'm wicked fast! I'm faster than you are! Watch!" he bragged.
I hadn't meant any harm, but when he ran I thought that he would stop being so obnoxious if his legs didn't work. He dropped like a stone – face first in the dirt. I couldn't move, I couldn't breathe, I couldn't react. All I could think was that it was my fault. Many people get what they call "survivor's guilt." This wasn't anything like that. This was the total devastation that came with realizing I had just deprived a young boy of the use of his legs.
That was how I learned about my powers. The "fight or flight" in me told me to learn to control whatever demon was inside of me. So I did. When Gerald finally came back to school in a wheelchair, he was angry with me. Of course, he had no idea that I was the one who put him in the hospital. He was mad that I hadn't gone to visit him.
I told him what I'd been learning to do – learning to control. He got very excited and asked if I could make his legs work again.
"No," I'd said. I was scared. So scared that I would do something wrong and he'd end up dead. He persisted and I told him that it was my fault that he couldn't use his legs. He then demanded that I fix his legs. I couldn't.
He never talked to me again and I never told another soul about my powers. Needless to say, I'm not like the superheroes that you see in comic books.
But, alas, that was my past. Distant past. All of that is behind me now. I cannot forget it, though. It must always be in the back of my mind, keeping me grounded.
The other day I arrived in England. I'd always dreamed about going, so I took a vacation. I had arrived and checked in to my hotel. The food hadn't been great, but the experience was a blast. I'd sit in the park for hours, just watching people walk by. Some were old, some were college students, some were families out for an afternoon stroll.
It was a warm and relatively dry day when I met him.
I was sitting, minding my own business, when a man came over and said, "Hello, miss. Do you mind if I join you?"
I looked up to a beautiful man looking down at me. His eyes were an intense blue and his hair a beautifully styled brown. He was lightly freckled and dressed nicely, but accessorized with fingerless gloves. "Of course not," I said, patting the ground beside me.
"I'm Charles Xavier," he said, holding out a hand to shake.
I took it gladly. "Emily Poirier."
"Are you from Boston?" he asked.
"Did my accent give me away? Is that how you knew I'm from BAHston?"
He laughed. "It is a tell-tale sign. I actually grew up in New York."
"Your accent is so far from New York I would've never guessed!"
"I have spent a substantial amount of time here in England, you know. You're here on a vacation, right?"
"I am."
"Is that a journal?" he asked, pointing to my open diary in my lap.
My face involuntarily turned red. "Yes," I replied shamefully. Don't read it. Don't read it. Don't read it.
"I won't read it, dear. I can't imagine what's in there that you would be so mortified to allow a complete stranger to read," he said, answering my thoughts.
I suppose he could've judged by my facial expression. I wrote about my powers all over this paper.
I noticed him leaning in, staring at me intensely. I backed away and he apologized quickly. "I'm sorry; I'm just trying to get a read on you."
"Am I stumping you?" I said playfully. You couldn't know me. Ever.
"I don't know if I could ever know you."
How is he doing that? I thought, appalled.
"I have powers, too, you know," he said, but his lips didn't move.
"What the Hell, man? Who are you?" I said, jumping up and away from him.
"I'm sorry. I'm very sorry. That was awfully rude of me. I was in your mind and I was playing with you. I apologize sincerely. I'm Charles Xavier and I'm a mutant. I'm under the impression that you are also a mutant, Miss Poirier. Am I correct?"
I couldn't say anything for a minute. "Is this real?" I finally managed to spit out.
"Yes, my dear. As real as it gets."
I sat down and grabbed my journal.
Dear journal,
Today, I was at the park. This man named Charles Xavier came up to me and I thought he was really cute. It turns out that he reads minds. He called himself a mutant. He called me one too. I can't even believe that this is real! It can't be! But he says it is! I don't know what to think. I needed to get this on paper.
Charles looked at me with curiosity. "What is it that you do, dear?"
I took a deep breath and swallowed hard. "I can… change things."
hat kind of things?"
"All kinds of things."
"How do you change them?"
"Simply by believing them."