I sat, cross-legged, staring blankly at the worn-blue canvas that was my makeshift bed.
My mahogany brown hair shielded my pale face from the concerned glances of the social worker as she discussed what she thought was a quiet discussion with my stepfather, Alan.
"She hasn't been coping well since the death of her mother…we tried therapy and support groups…she's just unresponsive" she 'whispered' to him as he nodded in disappointed acceptance of the fact that I just couldn't be helped.
"Is there anything you could suggest?" he questioned her, his voice sounding hopeful.
"I normally would never suggest this but I think moving would be a good idea for her. Being close to where her mother…. well, it isn't helping her recovery" she explained as she glanced at me again.
He sighed as he gave a tired nod in thanks as he motioned for her to walk ahead, probably wanting her to leave so he could think in peace.
My pale blue eyes stared until their forms disappeared before I lifted a bony hand and pushed the locks of hair behind my ear. I sighed as an invisible weight forced itself on my chest, making me collapse on my bed, as I remained motionless.
This was not the first lady I've seen in my house and repeating the words the last one told him: Nothing was working; I had to move
I was just counting the days until he eventually listens to them and sends me off with packed bags.
Quietly, I heard the front door shut as Alan's footsteps echoed up the stairs and down the corridor.
I never really liked Alan: he just seemed to be the type that scrounged off others like a parasite, which is probably why he's trying to help me so I can be his next host.
Remaining mute, my eyes scanned over the few objects scattered in my dim-lit room; the only window was covered in a tick curtain, since the light hurt my eyes.
A small chest of drawers sat in the corner of the room with a vanity containing a handful amount of makeup and jewelry. Opposite the vanity was my small, single-sized bed with a faded quilt and pillows and a dark purple cover over the springy mattress.
There was only a meter gap between the end of the bed and the vanity; the same distance between the side of the bed and the thick, oak door, which was ajar and allowed a shallow breeze in the room.
My eyes soon landed on my beaten-up CD player; the headphones dangling off the end of the cupboard that sat next to bedpost closest to my head.
I lethargically grabbed the headphones and shoved them in my ears. I immediately pressed play and raised the volume until it rang in my ears.
It was the only way I found that I could release my stress and still retain my dignity.
If it weren't for my mother's strict teachings, I probably would've chosen something with worse side effects than the small risk of deafness I bear happily with my music.
Mostly, the music was just yelling but, even then, it was doing something that I couldn't.
I immediately caught sight of the book beside me and grabbed it from the floor. Opening it right at the beginning and began to read, taking in all the words as they instilled into my brain while the ringing of the music's voice vibrated throughout my head.
This is how I've spent the last few months; reading my entire collection of books, some I didn't even knew I had, with a mix of heavy metal bands jammed into my head.
Sometimes I would just relax and listen to Bullet for my Valentine but that was rare since nearly every day, a new social worker would be in my house and try to understand me.
They never would, obviously. So many have tried but I guess I'm just a special case.
In fact, it had the opposite effect: I could read all of them like an open book. I knew exactly what each of them was thinking, what they thought of me. I swear they operate with a hive mind: none of them differed from the others.
This gift, knowing what people are thinking…isn't coincidence.
Ever since I can remember, I had this ability. Apparently, my brain developed differently to other children because I was exposed to something while I was in my mother's womb. I was never good at science, and I never really cared of how I had it anyway.
Scanning over the page, I realized that I'd just read the same paragraph 3 times. I shook my head, trying to focus on reading but a stabbing pain in my head prevented me.
This was the side effect of the exposure: constant migraines.
I groaned, rolling over while pressing my forehead deep into my pillow while tearing out my headphones and throwing them to the floor.
Silence greeted me while I laid there, listening to my deep breathing before footsteps coming up the stairs distracted me.
I looked over my pillow to see Alan there with a sorrowful expression.
"Migraine?" He asked as I nodded weakly.
He quickly left before returning a few minutes later with a glass of water and Paracetamol.
I gratefully took them as I sat up before I placed the aspirin in my mouth then gulping down the water.
I felt like I just froze my brain as I sat still for a few seconds, dazed.
"Look, uh…" he tried as I focused my attention on him, looking him in the eyes.
The flaw with my gift is having to look the person in the eye to see their thoughts. When they said the eyes were the window to your soul, they weren't far off from their target.
In seconds, the thoughts of a plane headed to America floated with only me aboard around his head as I looked away.
"I see" I glared at my pillow, not wanting to look at him anymore.
"Mentis" He tried, which angered me even more and he knew it.
My real name is Miranda Evrett but since my mother and Alan knew of my mental ability, they started calling me Mentis. I'm pretty sure it's Latin for mental, but I don't know any Latin so I can't be sure.
It still annoys me anyway.
"Go, Alan…I need to think" I ordered as he slowly but eventually left the room, probably knowing he wouldn't help by staying.
I stood up from my bed and marched over to the thick curtain, pushing them open as the blinding light burned my eyes. I hissed but didn't hesitate from opening the window as the ice-biting wind scratched my skin. I leaned over and stared down from the window, looking solemnly at the ground below.
It was there where my mother was killed, right outside our front door. According to the police, the shooter was drunk out of his mind. He shot her, took her purse and passed out on her car. Well, not before throwing up on it and god knows what else.
I crossed my arms, pressing them on the windowsill as I rested my head on my arm, gazing out at the neighborhood.
England has always been my home and a place of safety for me. Now my mother's death has shattered my naivety and is forcing me to move to a different continent, let alone country.
Yet, even after all this, I couldn't cry. My tears have all but dried up or it might be due to one of the many mental barriers I've protected myself with.
I'm probably capable of other stuff, no just mind reading and mental protection, but I doubt I'll ever know them all.
Who knows though, America might be the key to knowledge. A key I'm hesitant on receiving.
"Miranda, what are you doing?" A shocked voice sounded behind me as I turned to see Elizabeth peering around the corner of the doorway.
Did I mention I have a sister? No? Well there's a reason for that too…