Memory
Tommy's memory could only be described as "photographic."
It was part of being a speedster. Since his mind operated in an accelerated state, it meant that he could do such things as read at superspeed, as well as remember everything he'd seen.
He had to be able to, with how fast and how far and how often he ran. He had to memorize where he'd been, the road signs, geography, the lay of the land, in order to navigate from place to place and not get completely turned around and lost.
Not being able to get anywhere because of running in confused circles would completely negate the point of supserspeed.
He always had been good at geography, even before his mutation kicked in, but now his mental map of the world was phenomenal. What with all the running around the world he did? His mental map had to be. Perhaps partly because of this he always knew instinctively where north, east, south, and west were.
He could recall with perfect accuracy anywhere he'd been, anything he'd seen.
Which sure, yeah, was incredibly useful.
It did have its disadvantages, though. There were some things he'd seen that he wanted to forget. Some things he really, really did not want to be able to recall every. single. gruesome. detail. of.
Every memory. Mercilessly vivid. Ruthlessly detailed. Pitilessly sharp and defined.
He could tell you, if he felt so inclined, which he definitely didn't ever, but he could tell you exactly what scalpel a doctor had used on him, exactly what his flesh had looked like cut open, exactly what his arm looked like after they'd finally applied enough pressure to his bone to make it break,the exact expression one of the doctors had worn the first time that Tommy had spat in the man's face.
It wouldn't even be quite so bad if it wasn't for the fact that he always remember clearly all his dreams, too. His vision and memory were crystal clear, and all his dreams—nightmares, they were almost always nightmares—were only slightly better, just a little more blurry, a little softer at the edges. At least he could always tell when he woke up, could tell what was real and what wasn't.
Sometimes he wondered how his head didn't explode with it all; all the memories, all the horrors, all the sensory details.
But at least his perception gave him the ability to live and feel every single second, to live in the moment, in what was real and to be able to know it was real and not be drowning in memories even during his waking hours. At least he was able to distinguish between past and present. Between reality and dreams.
His capacity for memory was both a blessing and a curse, and every day he vacillated between loving and loathing it.