Sons & Daughters of the Gift

Chapter 1 (Alexis)

Sirens. Running. Fear.

*Briiiiiiinnnng*

The phone in the therapist office wakes me up from my flashback. I have to come here every Wednesday at six o'clock. They think I'm depressed. In some way, maybe I am. It also might be post-traumatic stress if I am being completely honest. In every session, I sit here and stare at the painting in the corner of the room of a woman on a bed with only fruits covering her genitals. Why do I stare at her? Well I'm just curious as to why this thirty-five, maybe forty-year old dude has this picture in his office. Maybe he jerks off to it when his patients leave.

Patient.

They think I'm sick. I wish I was sick. I wish this was just one big sickness that would go away soon. But I know it won't. It didn't with Myles, but he has more control than me. Lucky bastard.

I thought I was dying I sit here for what has to be half my session, completely blocking out Donald's attempts to get me to talk, and stare at an almost naked lady. Fun.

"Please excuse me Ms. Heathers," Donald says as he exits the room to take the call. His pace was hurried as though he couldn't stand to be in this room either. I wouldn't blame him. He kind of just looks spineless, like he got beat up in high school. Maybe even college.

Whenever I do look at him, it's with cold, dead eyes. Like hers. I stole her eyes. Not literally of course, but I did steal her life. Not that anyone really knows that. I'm here because they think witnessing the spontaneous death of my best friend scarred me. That's not what scarred me. Killing her scarred me. They tried to put me on trial, but there was no proof. They know nothing about us. Our kind. From what I know it's only me and Myles, but I'm not stupid enough to believe that's actually the case. Call us gifted. Call us enhanced. Call us witches. Call us freaks. Just don't call us superheroes. We are not superheroes. Superheroes don't drain the life out of their best friends. I meant that literally. I drained the water from her body. I ran after that. I ran crying. Come to think about it, I haven't really cried since that day. And what the hell was I thinking? A black girl running from a dead body isn't going to look suspicious? Of course it did, which is why I was brought in for five hours of questioning. As I said before there wasn't anything they could pin on me. There was no evidence of murder, but I know what I am. I've accepted it.

I think I've accepted it.

The door opens and Donald poked his head in. "I apologize about that Alexis. So, are you going to decide to speak today?" He gently sits back down at his desk.

I decided to finally humor him. "It's Lexi." I tilt my head to the right a little and smirk in amusement as he looks at me surprised. "So, Donald, are you going to decide to tell me why you have a random ass painting of a naked woman in your office? I mean, I already have my own ideas," I say suggestively and wink at the end to add emphasis.

"Ms. Heathers! The way your acting is very inappropriate!" His face is red and blown up to the point where I think that the enlarged pimple on his forehead might just pop. It's quite disgusting if I may say so myself. Seeing the apathetic expression on my face, he takes a deep breath and settles down. He's probably just surprised that this is my personality, but his reaction wasn't all that professional for a therapist. I'm probably reading too much into things. Looks like I won't be able to see the pimple explode.

"That painting is very inappropriate." I pause and drop my face. "It makes me feel uncomfortable," I say in fake innocence.

He lets out a breath of frustration and runs his hand through his hair. For an older dude, he has nice hair. Jet black and curly. I wonder if he dyes it.