‘Power is earned.’

Fletcher’s brow furrowed at the scent of charred wood. A sudden flash of light blinded. The air crackled with heat, the smell of smoke wrapped him. It curled in echoes. It brought not just sharpness but the tang of conflict, a reminder of him losing control. The Doctrine flashed. His crib incinerated. Another flash. His high chair burning. 'It’s for his own protection.' Another flash. A ‘venatores’ grip, ironclad over Fletcher’s thin wrist. A medallion at the collar. Inhibitors smashing around his wrist. He was falling towards water. A flash. Incineration at the bridge. Flash again. Julian’s face blurred through the ice that encased Fletcher. Fireballs. Confusion. Fear.

“He must learn that power is earned.”

Fletcher lowered his head as he saw it all. Julian wasn’t the cause; he was just the excuse.

“He will be monitored from this day forward.”

A tear boiled on his lower lid. Fletcher could feel the heat rising like a furnace igniting. His head swirled, just one in a stream of memories that lit his past ablaze.

He smelled the rust that day, as the sun warmed the metal. Known as 'The Gorge,' an old trestle bridge from times past. The boys liked to explore here. Closed to rail service years ago, it towered hundreds of feet from the murky water, currents on its surface shifting and fracturing the light.

Starting like most, sticks in hand, rocks thrown from above, the surface geysering on impact, their ripples taken by the current, like they never existed. It’s how Fletcher felt at times. He knew the others talked about him. It’s what boys do. He always tried to fit in, tried to do what they wanted. Tried to let the taunts go. His natural inclination to be a leader came out at times, perhaps because he was so much taller and bigger, he felt the need to be in charge. They listened most of the time, following wherever he led, but today was different. Wade wanted nothing to do with him. Wade was in a mood and wanted the other boys to do what he wanted. And that was anything not including Fletcher.

“We're going to do what I want, Reed. I’m sick of you thinking you’re our boss,” Wade said, the stream of words rippling. “Just because you’re bigger, taller, oh so better,” the cascade continued as his face filled with menace.

Fletcher glared back. He didn't care what they did. He heard what Wade had been telling others. "Hide the hurt," blazing like wildfire. Each word from Wade added to it. Being called a "loser" felt like someone branding his identity every time it was repeated. It stuck to him. But he was already simmering, a minor blaze compared to the rest of the storm.

“Why’d you say those things?” Fletcher asked, with a burning shame.

Wade puffed his chest and tipped back. “What things, Fletcher? What are you saying?”

A stare off began. Wade looked away first. A spark ignited in Fletcher’s eyes.

“You called me a loser. Told them,” his arm circling the boys, now standing behind Wade. “That I would never be anything. That my parents didn’t even like me.”

Fletcher’s voice was calm, soft. As he said the words, he heard voices echoing.

“What are we going to do with him?”

“I don’t know Freda, I don’t know. But something has to happen.”

“Well, we can’t send him away—”

“We can’t control him— he can’t control it himself.”

The burnt crib returned like a photograph curling in a fire.

“What if he explodes— what then, Freda?”

Fletcher lowered his head. His shoulders fell. He didn’t choose to be difficult. He didn’t know about being ‘Hexic.’ It was a part of him, and looking back, it’s why he identified with it.

“He’s mean Freda— he’s just mean.”

He closed his eyes, once again seeing Julian jump in fright, the plane arcing in the air.

”Well, it’s true,” Wade shouted. The others grinned.

Fletcher opened his eyes and glared from under his brows.

“Call someone– we need help– he won’t stop—”

The spark flared, then burned.

Wade saw it.

And charged Fletcher.

Fists smashed into Fletcher’s ribs, hitting the old, rusting rail. It vibrated. A snap as rivets popped, then flew. The oxidized metal sighed as it puffed traces of time skyward. Wade hesitated. The rail trembled beneath their weight. There was a groan, then everything around them seemed to hold its breath. Fletcher's eyes widened, realizing what was happening. With a shudder and a snap, the railing gave way, dragging Fletcher with it. Arms spinning, the velocity making his hair dance like fire. As he fell, the water below stretched into a dizzying distance that warped his mind. Wade spun, capturing a post, as the others rushed to the gaping hole. Horror scratched their faces. Their eyes reflected the descending body.

Topped with red hair.

* * *

​

The phone's vibration and musical notes broke her concentration. Seattle sat engrossed in her book; the sound of wind through a bridge echoed. A phantom memory. A smell of rusting metal. She pulled out the earbuds, blaring tunes from long ago, and picked up the phone.

“Hey, Bug. How y—”

“I don’t know what to do. I—”

“What?”

“...t won’t leave me—”

“Bug?”

Silence.

“BUG?”

Silence.

“BUUUGGG?”

Silence.

“Listen, Bug, breathe. Breathe, Babe— what is it?”

Silence.

She heard him suck in air, struggling as if ice were heavy in his throat, his jaw locking against words he couldn’t force past it.

“I'm freezing,” the words trembling out softly, finally releasing his clinch.

“Agghhhh."

“BUG—!”

“TOO LOUD—”

“BUG!”

“too quiet, too cold, too much—”

She heard repeated smacking. ‘He’s hitting himself.’

“STOP IT.”

Everything’s flashing–” he smacked his lips, making a sound like a cork from a bottle.

“Pop,pop,pop—”

“BUUUGGG!!”

“Makeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstop— too much snow, too much snow—”

She heard crunching as he moved around.

“WHERE ARE YOU?”

“Circling— circling— (hmmph)

She heard a gasp, slipping sounds like a shoe screaming on ice. His breath reverberated in her ear on impact as he slammed into the floor, even louder on speaker, as she frantically clutched her mouth, eyes wide. She stood. The chair toppled, mimicking the sound through the phone.

Silence.

“Bug?”

“BUG?”

“BUUUGG?”

She heard breathing. Shallow. Warbling. He stayed still, clinching his jaw tight.

“Where are you?”

Silence.

Elias melted. Seattle’s voice broke through, the frost thawing from his brain. He was trapped in a world that he just couldn’t compete with. His pain was real, not imagined. Longing for home. Confusion. A new place of sights and sounds, creating a sensory blizzard that was just too much. At the library, the sound of a book slamming echoed like a gunshot, pressure blooming behind his eyes and along his jaw. A light flickered, casting shadows that followed. Overwhelming pressure. All unfamiliar. All too much. A recognition. A familiarity came from the other boy, and he just walked away, dazed, confused, and embarrassed. He liked control. He needed control. It made him thrive. After the library, he felt that it had abandoned him, leaving him to drift like glacial ice. On his own. In silence. And afraid.

But he had Seattle.

“Bug, are you okay?”

She heard a gulp. He was conscious. It started low, soft, deep in her ear. A horn through the fog. The crack of ice. His agony deep. The sobs ratcheted slowly, then rolled through him, becoming body-wrenching deep, an approaching snow front ready to release all at once.

‘Oh my Bug,’ dampened her eyes too. She felt his pain. She let him cry. He had to cry. He needed to cry. She sighed, clearing her emotions after carrying his pain through the tears. “Where are you?” she asked, softly. A warm hug in the bleakness across space.

Elias shuddered, wracked from the conclusion of his fugue. “In my room,” he said, looking at the ceiling. The snow was still falling, but getting lighter.

“I’m on the way,” she said. That's all she said. That's all she needed to say. That's all he needed to hear. Her urgency to do one thing, and one thing only. To ensure that Elias was safe, protected, and sound.

Elias pulled the phone from his ear and watched the screen blink out. He stayed on the floor, his phone on his chest, knowing soon it would be okay. He reflected on what had led him here, as an author does, while going through the draft of his novel. You focus on an idea and expand that idea through the edits. Each edit expands a sense, a thought, a smell, until the sentence grows into a longer stream of the thought, pushing the sentence further and further, until it reaches a paragraph, an endless block of letters still expanding, filling a page, then another, then another, until the binding expands, cracks, until, once what started as a single sentence, fills volumes, filling shelves, filling cases, in rooms, that continue to expand. At that moment, he realized he needed to stop expanding and let go. Elias had drafted and edited his manuscript his entire life, until everything lay in front of him, word for word, not being able to see the end of the sentence, until he finally couldn’t expand it anymore.

His binding cracked. He couldn’t expand further. He hit delete. Would she find him beneath the drifts of his mind?

He blinked.

He breathed.

He watched it snow.

“I hope she has a shovel.”

As Fletcher once thought of his flames, Elias now reflected his quiet power of snow. Revealing the untouched world underneath.

* * *

‘M’ kept staring at the picture. She gingerly held it between her fingers, staring at his face. She remembered his pain. She remembered how, before his mirror’s silver drained away, he wasn’t the same. His thin, angular face became more angles, more planes, bigger eyes. Cheekbones always high, his face felt more compressed, skin taut as his steel jaw turned to iron. Lips, a cupid bow; later, narrow and thin, painful to look at. Light in his eyes once sparked, later, dimmed like a lantern out of fuel. This all meant something, she just didn’t know what.

‘Suppression is temporary.’

She picked up her phone.

Julian

She stared at the screen. No response.

Julian

Nothing. Not even the iconic rolling dots. ‘Where is he?’ She had to find him. He would know what to do. While she waited, the photo stared. Her fingertips brushed the spot where a possible symbol rested. She held it up, changing its angle. Shadows danced, kissing the paper like a moth on glass, trying to break into the world beyond. Her eyes widened, a moment of clarity. Recognition.

‘Suppression is temporary.’

The paper was torn. From the front, its layered edges thin, the back more dense. She could see something as the light passed through it, an indentation in the fibers. It wasn’t a bruise or age. It was an eye, or at least, a part of one. The rip shattered the inner portion, its tear duct missing. Celestial beams radiated behind as it hovered over a jagged line of peaks, clouds rolling in the background.

'M' felt a pull she couldn't ignore. Her fingers traced the outline of the eye as a wave of unease washed over her. It was as if the eye looked back, but held secrets locked away, waiting to be uncovered. Her heart raced, sensing danger and intrigue in the tattered edge of the paper. Instead of clarity, more questions arose, urging her on.

Her phone buzzed, dancing in vibration across the table top. She flinched. The photo danced in her hand.

Hi ‘M’

She grabbed it, frantically punching letters in response.

Where are you? Can I see you?

I think I might need your help.

Found something.

Not sure what to do.

She waited. The dots rolled. She held the screen closer, waiting, strumming fingers to the rhythm they made.

What did you find?

Her fingers danced, punching the light letters.

Better to see. Where are you?

Fitness center.

Clearing head.

Stop! Come see me.

Can’t it wait? Helps me

manage this anger.

​

You and that gym. Aren’t you fit enough?

Not sure you need to look anymore

like an action figure. I bet you are

all shining and glistening from sweat.

​

(Sigh) Lol

​

Okay, I’ll come to you. It can’t

wait.

Whoa! Whoa!

I really need this ‘M.’

It was an angry day.

What’s this

about???

​

She couldn’t tell him on the phone. First, it would take too long; second, well, it had to be done in person. It was time for some truths.

My past.

What? You have a past?

Never mind, but this can’t

wait. I’m on the way.

How about 15 mins at the

Canteen?

I’ll buy.

I’m starving.

You starving?

This is important. Could

‘nt eat if I try.

That sounds wrong.

Everybody should eat.

I think I want a

burger. Why couldn’t

you eat? What is it ‘M.’

Too much for texting.

What did you find?

Her teeth cut into her lip. He was determined to know something before she got there, but in a text, it wouldn’t make any sense. She texted anyway.

I found a picture.

What? A picture?

Of who?

Never mind that. I can’t text

and drive. Let me get there.

It’s an old boyfriend.

Did you find a picture

of Fletcher? You

never told me you

dated. I thought we

were friends.

We are and stop that. No,

not Fletcher. I said past.

Wait!

Are you still dating?

‘M’ rolled her eyes, a grin crossed her lips. She couldn’t believe they were having this conversation. She didn’t date Fletcher. She went on ‘a’ date with him. He was too controlling, too charming, and not in a good way. And too mean. The restaurant took so long with the food that he lost it. She thought he was going to burn the place down.

NO, WE ARE NOT STILL

DATING!!! STOP IT!!!

Hahahahahahaha

Arghhhh… I'm on the way.

K!

Julian smiled, returning to the heavy bar in front of him and draped his forearms over it. It felt nice to think that ‘M’ needed him. He never felt good about certain parts of his life. His father was tough, impatient with him, and at times, very critical. He learned early on his anger flared quickly, and in navigating struggles, it seemed to be all he could draw on. It was easier for him to let the cold grip him, freeze his emotions, and shatter the obstacle in his path. He never hurt anyone, always keeping the frost in check, but it could have been released at any time. He didn’t like where this rested, and with ‘M’s help, it seemed to be getting easier.

He lowered himself to the bench, hefted the bar, and pressed any residual anger away. He heard the buzz of a phone nearby and smiled. ‘M’ thought she needed his help, and Julian thought he needed hers.

They were mirrors.

‘Suppression is temporary.’

​

* * *

​

Dangling by one arm, Wade watched in horror as Fletcher grew smaller and smaller towards the water. He struggled to hang on, shock filling his eyes. The terror was real. Wade fumbled at the rail, his boots digging for perch. His hand slipped, dropping him closer to the bridge deck, as the others reached for him. They heard the distant splash, a plink in the vast hollowness of the gorge like a match snuffed out. Silence, as shock struck. Wade hadn’t meant for it to happen. Each of the boys gazed below, heads bowed, hair dangling in the breeze. Wade’s fingers gripped the rail, leaving fingerprints in the rust. Scars of shock, denial, and shame.

The blast from the water screamed like the thrust of a jet fighter, travelling the distance in seconds. It blew the boys off their feet, sending them through the air before crashing to the tracks, old wood digging into their skin. The resounding boom echoed. It rumbled past like the trains had returned, burning through the trestle like kindling. The handrails, what was left of them, smoldered as the boys returned, looking down. The water had become a cauldron. Boiling. Bubbling. Sighing with heat. Then the tension suddenly stretched the water taut, making the surface smooth as glass. The river became a lake, just before it roared to life.

The water launched from the canyon, taking the shoreline with it. Rocks once below, visible above. Dry as a bone. Fletcher was boiling the water into nuclear heat, transforming into a glowing missile encased in steam, with his trajectory set towards the bridge. Screams echoed through the valley, followed by footfalls of frantic running across dry wood.

Apogee acquired, Fletcher landed on the deck, its rumble vibrating like piano keys sounding a Glissando. Sharp, then a deep out-of-tune growl. He couldn’t explain what happened later when asked, or why he was still here, but before impact, he released his rage. It boiled into the water, fracturing the surface, creating a fissure like the eye of a hurricane. Friction between the water and himself slowed his velocity before he smashed into the muddy bottom. He ignited again, water boiling as he became a rocket. As he stared at his friends, the ones fleeing from him, the ones in panic, the ones who let this happen, he became one with his fire and released his determination to remake who he was becoming. Power was burning within him, intertwining with choice: justice or vengeance. He chose neither. And both. Finding a middle ground in the storm, he released his wrath not just from vengeance, but to prove that power indeed must be earned.

He didn’t look back.

It’s what led him here.

And he wouldn’t change any of it.

‘Suppression is temporary.’

​

* * *