I've been in New York my whole life before I met you. Raised in a lot of small towns. The same small towns with the same small minded people. My parents were gypsies in that sense and only that sense. I never understood why we never left New York since they couldn't stand to stay in one house for more than a month. Sometimes we would just get up and move to the house next door to one we lived in at the moment. That instability is most likely what made New York City the ideal place for me.
I'm 23 years old. Not 27. My parents changed my age frequently to get some discount or something they wanted. So in New York City I did the same. But I have a feeling you knew I was lying about my age from the beginning. You and that little laptop of yours know just about everything. I love that.
I think I had an incident with my ability once before I met you. Or maybe other times and I just can't remember. I was young. Really young. I think my mother was at work for the day and I tried to make a sandwich. I was hungry and my father was sleeping. I couldn't reach the top shelf to grab a plate, so tragically short I was as a kid. I think I pulled a chair up and grabbed what plate I could. I fell off the chair and the plate fell out of my hand and broke. My father woke up from the crash and ran to see what happened. He saw me on the floor with broken porcelain everywhere, the kitchen a mess with bread crumbs and jelly and peanut butter. He stared at me and I didn't like what I saw in his eyes. I remember his screaming, how harsh his voice was. It was horrible. Like a demon was speaking for him, so I cried. Then he picked me by my arms and I knew where we were going. He didn't care how much it hurt that he dragged me up the stairs like a girl with her doll. Then he made his way to the bathroom with one hand around my neck and another on the hot water faucet in the tub. He had done this to me several times before. I didn't think I deserved it this time. I was just hungry! If he didn't want me to break something then he shouldn't have been sleeping. I didn't need to be burned. I didn't. I cried harder at the thought of how scalding hot that water as going to be on my back. He yanked my shirt off and grabbed my neck again. I was scared. So scared. I could see the vapor coming off the water that rushed out and that hissing noise the faucet made was worse than my father's yelling from before. I closed my eyes as he shoved me under that cruel water. But it wasn't the water's fault I thought. It was his. The water didn't want to be mean, he made it that way. Maybe if I asked the water to it would stop hissing at us and just cooled down it would.Then I was under the faucet. I didn't feel my back being burned. I felt like I was hanging outside while it was raining. The water was cool, but not too cool. My eyes opened and I was staring at the inside of the tub and I looked over the man who held me. His face was funny. Screwed up with thinking. The water wasn't hot at all and after a while it occurred to him that it wasn't going to heat up again. He dropped me like a dog and I hit my head. He stormed out and I think he yelled "Clean up you fucking pig."
I wonder if they had abilities. From what you told me, Claire's mother manipulates fire and Nathan can fly and somehow that results in her grand ol' regeneration skill. So if they did had some power I'm guessing it wouldn't have anything with my water manipulation. I never thought until recently that I had anything to do with calming the water. I thought that some angel was looking down decided enough of this and cooled it. I remember I use to believe in angels. Then I saw my father murder my mother and thought to hell with them. Then I saw a girl hang herself and I knew that they never existed to begin with.
Woops. I guess I just ruined the climax for you. First time for everything, right?
My mother could sing well. Maybe that was her special gift. She had a voice that put a Disney Princess to shame. My father was prone to acting out like a beast and my mother would play the role of Belle and sing a little folk tune that I never heard of. He would calm right down and relax on the couch, head on her lap. She'd caress his hair and sing. She was a thin woman. Thin and pale and rich dark hair that matched her glittering eyes. I guess it's natural for a child to prefer his or her mother, especially after being murdered and left to lie in a puddle of her own blood by her husband.
"Merry fucking Christmas!" He screamed, the demon back in his throat. "Merry FUCKING CHRISTMAS, Tracey!" She just lied there, unresponsive.
My mother's name was Sarah. So as I stared at her, her thin frame sprawled out in the corner with the bloodied metal box a few inches away on the red stained floor, I just couldn't help but to wonder who Tracey was.
I doubt you would know who Tracey could be.