MindFreak

Walking is a tricky thing; especially in a public high school on Friday afternoon. Four hundred other thoughts gathered in my mind. But they weren’t my own. They said I would get used to it, and they were sadly mistaken. Six years later and it still drives me insane. I’m supposed to be able to control it by now, but it’s to no avail. I can’t control who I listen to, or even block it out altogether. Everything I’m forced to listen to is rubbish. Petty thoughts, in my opinion. Nothing I hear ever is even worth my time. Why do they worry about such material things like dating and cars? Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but I like to focus on more important, intellectual things. Some people say I’m arrogant, and I probably am. But, truthfully, I don’t care. I’m my own person, and that’s something to be proud of. I’m original is all it is. Who else do you know that can read minds?
I arrived home at four o’clock. When I walked through the door I heard my mother thinking about what to make for dinner. “Just order pizza,” I told her. My mom was the only person who knew about my… ability. I lived with this burden for three years before I finally broke down and decided to tell someone. I was looking for someone I trusted, and my mother was the only one who fit that category. I dad wasn’t around and everyone at school was too petty and immature. This was based on their thoughts, which weren’t always pleasant. I remember that at first she didn’t believe me. I tried the cliché “what you had for breakfast” trick. I decided on a personal question she’s never truthfully answer. “Where’s Dad?” I asked. She started to look pale. Her expression was uncomfortable. “He’s dead,” she said. Of course, what she was thinking was completely dissimilar. “He’s in prison for murder, but I could never tell him that.” This threw me over the edge. She did tell me and it angered me. I don’t know whether or not I was more furious at my mother or father: my mom, lying about my dad’s death, or my father, the murderer. I yelled at her, she cried, she yelled back, I yelled again. I was livid with such a passion I’d never felt before. And to this day, I’ve never truly forgiven her. There has been a heavy strain on our relationship ever since that day. I treated her horribly, I know, but I felt she deserved it. I’d hear her thoughts begging for understanding and forgiveness.
“Time for dinner,” my mother shouted from below. I went downstairs to see a spread of mashed potatoes, vegetables and a steak filet on the table. “I thought it would be nice to have a family dinner tonight,” she told me. There she goes, trying to extend an olive branch.
The olive branch was extended, but not taken from the other side; a dropped baton. The baton would just lay there on the field, while the crowd waited for it to be picked up. She knew I may never forgive her, but she still tried instead of brushing it off and saying “Oh, well.” I knew to give her credit for that. Although it wasn’t enough to justify what she did. Of course, after her slip of the mind, I knew what I would do: find my dad.
It wouldn’t be easy. When she found out about me, she refrained from thinking about my dad whenever I walked in a room. I had little information to go by and little time to look. Mom was a hawk. She could see through right through me.