Chapter 1: The First Kill

The first time I killed, the world got sharper—like I'd put on someone else's glasses and suddenly saw everything they knew.

I have a superpower that no one else knows about: every time I kill someone, I inherit all the knowledge in their mind.

Sometimes I catch myself wondering if I'm cursed, or maybe just special. My secret sits in my chest like a swallowed stone—heavy, impossible to spit out.

I first discovered this ability the summer I turned ten. My mom was too busy working double shifts to keep an eye on me, so she shipped me off to Grandma Carol's in rural Ohio.

Grandma Carol's house sat at the edge of a soybean field, with a porch swing that creaked in the wind and a fridge plastered with faded magnets from every state she'd never visited. The ancient screen door banged every time it shut, and the yard was a patchwork of dandelions and overgrown grass. The town was poor and tired, nothing but a sagging corner store, a peeling VFW hall, and a pond out back where the bullfrogs never shut up. As a kid, I dreaded being dropped off there. Nights were endless, the TV was always tuned to static, and the only entertainment was arguing with Grandma Carol as she got ready for bed just after eight.

We clashed constantly. Sometimes she'd grip the arms of her recliner, her knuckles white, while I stomped around and whined. Her wrinkled face would turn so purple with anger, I thought she might faint right there.

Mom always warned me not to upset her—"Her heart's not strong," she'd say, reminding me about the little bottle of pills Grandma carried everywhere. Every morning, I'd watch Grandma tuck that bottle into the pocket of her faded, floral cardigan—the one that always smelled like Vicks VapoRub and mothballs.

So when another argument broke out one ordinary night, something inside me snapped. I spat the words with all the venom I had:

"Why don’t you just die already? Nobody wants you around!"

My voice ricocheted off the wood-paneled walls, way harsher than I'd intended. Grandma stared at me, stunned—like I'd grown horns.

"You, you..."

Her whole body trembled with fury, and then her eyes got huge. She clutched her chest, face twisting in pain, and crumpled to the floor. I just stood there, frozen. The only thing I could hear was the clock ticking and the faint smell of fried onions lingering in the air.

"My pills... my pills..."

She clawed for her cardigan pocket. I moved first, yanking the pill bottle out before she could reach it. My hand clamped tight around it as I backed away, staring blankly. The kitchen felt suddenly icy. My heart thundered, but my limbs moved like they belonged to someone else.

I’ll never forget the look on her face. Lips turning purple, eyes stretched wide in disbelief and terror. She knew what I’d done. She tried to get up, but each gasp made her weaker, more desperate.

After what felt like forever, her body went still. She lay there, arm outstretched, like an ice sculpture. The room held its breath. Somewhere in the background, the TV played a late-night rerun, but all I could see was her hand, fingers curled, reaching for help that would never come.

My legs were wooden as I shuffled to the old landline and dialed 911. While I waited for the ambulance, I went to the pill cabinet, opened my clammy palm, and set the bottle inside. Then, with a quick, hard swing, I knocked every bottle to the floor. The clatter echoed through the tiny kitchen, like the world cracking open.

When the sirens screamed outside, I collapsed onto the floor, wailing in fake panic. My voice cracked, my face pressed to the ugly linoleum, putting on the best terrified-kid act I could muster. Even as I sobbed, I marveled at how easy the lies came.