September 3rd 1990
I found this notebook in a trash can. It's missing pages, smells like rotten eggs, and has something sticky on the back, but it's mine now. The pencil was just lying there on the sidewalk. People step over things every day without noticing. I notice. That's the difference between them and me.
I don't know why I'm writing this. Maybe because I don't have anyone else to talk to. Maybe because if I don't, my thoughts will eat me alive.
I should be dead. I was dead. But I woke up in this body, in this life, in this nightmare.
I don't know who I was before. I mean, I remember, but it feels... distant. Like a story someone else told me. I know I had a family once. I know I had a home, a bed, warmth, food. I had friends. Did I have friends? I must've. But none of it matters now. Because none of it is mine anymore.
Now, I have nothing. No one.
Except for the things I can do.
September 7th 1990
It started with small things.
I was starving. It had been two days since I found anything to eat, and my stomach felt like it was tying itself in knots. I saw a loaf of bread on a market stand, and I just… reached. I didn't touch it. I was too far away. But somehow, it moved. It rolled, just a little.
At first, I thought I imagined it. Maybe I was dizzy, or the wind had nudged it. But then it happened again. This time, it tipped over the edge of the stand. I grabbed it and ran before anyone could stop me.
That night, I told myself it was luck. A trick of the mind. But I knew better.
September 9th 1990
I can make things happen. Impossible things.
When I get angry, really angry, things break. A bottle near me exploded into pieces the other day when some drunk asshole tried to shove me off a bench. I didn't touch it. I just wanted it to happen.
When I get scared, I disappear. Not completely—I don't think—but people stop noticing me. Their eyes slide past like I'm not even there.
When I'm desperate, fire comes to my fingertips. It's small, flickering, and it burns, but it's mine.
I don't know what this is. I don't know why it's happening. But I do know one thing—
It's real.
September 15th 1990
I lost control today.
It wasn't my fault. He grabbed me first. I was digging through a bin behind some shop when some older kid—maybe fourteen, maybe fifteen—yanked me back by my collar and told me to piss off. I told him I was just looking. He shoved me into the wall.
I don't know what happened next. I remember the heat, the spark, the snap in my chest like something deep inside me had been waiting for a reason.
And then he was on the ground.
Not moving.
There was this… scorch mark on his shirt, right over his ribs. People started yelling. Someone ran toward him. I ran in the other direction.
I should feel guilty. I should feel horrible.
But all I can think about is—
I did that.
And no one can stop me.