The locker's interior was a familiar prison, its cold metal walls closing in on me as I was unceremoniously shoved inside. The sound of my bullies' laughter was muffled by the clang of the door slamming shut, sealing me in darkness. I pressed my palms against the cool surface, trying to steady my breathing, to quell the rising tide of panic. But the stench of old paint and the faint, lingering scent of decay was overpowering, suffocating.
I could feel the onset of tears, hot and angry, but I fought them back. Crying wouldn't help; it never did. Instead, I focused on the small, scratched etchings on the inside of the door—my silent companions in this tiny, oppressive world. They were proof of my resilience, a testament to the countless times I'd been here before and survived.
But this time was different. A sharp, unexpected pain lanced through me, so intense that my vision blurred and my head spun. I tried to call out, to bang on the door for help, but my strength was fading fast. The pain crescendoed, a symphony of agony that drowned out all other sensations, and then, mercifully, darkness took me.
When consciousness returned, it was to the sterile white of a hospital room. The pain had receded to a dull ache, replaced by a pervasive numbness that seemed to have seeped into my very bones. I tried to sit up, but a gentle hand on my shoulder eased me back down. The doctor's face swam into view, his words distant and tinny as he explained what had happened.
"Triggered... parahuman..." The terms were foreign, yet they carried a weight that settled heavily on my chest. I turned my head, catching sight of my reflection in the small mirror by the bed. Pink. Not just a flush of embarrassment or a sunburn's kiss, but a vivid, unnatural shade that covered every inch of visible skin. My breath hitched, and a wave of revulsion rolled through me.
This wasn't me. This couldn't be me.
The doctor was still talking, something about powers and responsibilities, but it was all white noise. My mind was reeling, caught in a whirlwind of self-doubt and confusion. How could I face the world like this? How could I even begin to understand what I had become?
I was Taylor Hebert, the girl who had always faded into the background, who had always doubted her worth. And now, I was a parahuman, a being with abilities beyond the scope of normal human understanding. But at what cost? The thought of returning to school, to the sneers and whispers, was unbearable. I was a freak, an outcast in a world that had never been kind.
As the reality of my situation settled in, a deep, seething anger began to simmer within me. It was directed at Emma, Sophia, Madison—those who had tormented me, who had pushed me to this breaking point. They had wanted to break me, to make me less than human. And in a twisted way, they had succeeded.
But amid the anger and the fear, there was a spark of something else. I loathed what I had become. Suddenly I saw the doctor panicking and yelling something. I looked around panicked to see the lights going dimmer until they burst. The air also seemed to be getting denser. However, I couldn't deny the surge of strength that coursed through me at the thought.
I was Taylor Hebert, and I was full of self-doubt and nervousness. But I was also something more, something new. I was a parahuman, and I had to find out what that meant—for better or for worse. And maybe, just maybe, I could use this power to change things. To change my life.
For now, though, I lay back against the pillows, closed my eyes, and let the world fade away. I was a freak. A monster cape, if what I remember. People called parahumans like me that.
I was a monster now. Nothing more, nothing less.