A/N: Mention of abuse

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Small hands easily lifted up the coffee table in front of him. No more than two years old and he’s able to lift twice his weight but without touching the objects. He still had a hard time putting objects down without breaking them hence the sudden crash and glass shattered everywhere. He began to cry as the noise scared him, causing his parents to rush in. His mother picked him up and held him protectively. His father inspected the damaging and shook his head in frustration.

    “This is the fifth table this month!”

    “He’s just a baby, he doesn’t know any better.” His mother defended him as best as she could.

    “A baby doesn’t lift tables, hell, a normal child doesn’t lift tables with his mind!”

The child’s eyes started to tear up at his father’s voice rising.

    “He’s different from others, we’ve known this ever since he was born.”

    “When I imagined different, I thought he was going to have a disability, NOT A ING SUPERPOWER!”

The room filled with the boy’s tears and shrieking, only two and she felt like he could understand what is said about him. Now seven and commanding a pencil into his hand without taking his eyes off of his textbook. Not a day goes by where his parents don't remind him of his ability, his father discouraging it, his mother encouraging him. He’s thankful for his mother supporting him with the burden he received. He’s been told it was a gift and they’re unsure how he exactly got it, just that he was born it. He recalls trying to swat a fly away and having the waterhose soak his father when he was four, he was put in the corner for half of the day. His mother walked into his room while he was studying and kissed his head.

    “How are you today, sweetheart?”

He shrugged, never knowing what is answer is or should be.

     “I don’t know.”

His mother ran her hands through his brown hair and smiled. She’s glad she has him as his son, as she would never give him up just because of his ability. She didn’t care if he wasn’t normal, it was better to be unique than boring. Now fifteen and crying in front of his mother’s grave. He was crying from the loss of the only person who let him be himself and the bruise on his cheek that his father gave to him for not saving his mother with “his godforsaken ability.” There was an accident, he was unable to do anything as it happened suddenly. How was he suppose to know they were going to be hit from the side? His mother died protecting him, sending him into a depression. He stared at the flowers in front of the grave, vibrant and radiant before they’ll wrinkle up and die.

     “Umma, I’m sorry! I’m sorry I wasn’t the normal son you wanted. I’m sorry you and appa had to deal with me being like this! I’m not human!” He cried hysterically.

A warm breeze blew through his, recently dyed, blonde hair and it felt like his mother was running his hand through his hair again. He could’ve swore he saw his mother before him, smiling and telling him to do his best. He wiped his eyes and decided to do better.

     “Alright… I’ll make you proud umma, with or without my ability. I’ll endure everything and move forward for you and me.” He wiped his new emerging tears before he went home to endure more abuse at his father’s hand.