It's not so bad. Being a mutant, I mean.
Well, I wish that my quote-unquote father didn't know about it. I don't *like* stealing. I don't *like* using it to break into banks or knock down doors. I just wanna have fun with it, not get arrested.
I hate my father. I really, truly do. I wish he were dead. He doesn't deserve my mother. I don't think too highly of myself, but he's not good enough for me, either. Not with all the stuff he's done to my mother, to me.
He's just not good enough for Tabitha Smith.
I remember when he first figured out that I had powers. When I first figured it out.
I was eleven at the time. I lay on my bed, in my room, trying to sleep in the dark. Just like any other night. I heard him come into my room and ask if I was awake, but I just pretended to be asleep. Just like any other night. I heard him unzip his pants, felt him slip of my pyjamas, tried not to think about what was going to come next.
Just like any other night.
The creaks of the matress springs matched the rythm of my father's grunts, of my pathetic little sobs. Of my prayer for it all to be over soon. I clenched my hands into little fists, ignoring my father hissing at me to keep quiet. It wouldn't have mattered, anyway. My mom was either drunk or dropping acid or heroin or something. Which is why, when my little fists made little bombs that knocked my father onto the floor, he didn't get angry. He just grinned and said,
"I think I found a solution to our money problem."
So, sure, my father using me to get into banks and stuff blows big time, but it's better than him using me in some other way.
