Chapter 1

I like to think I'm perfectly normal; completely average. Evidently, I can lie to myself with a straight face. I haven't been normal for the past week ... if I'd ever even been normal to begin with.

It was 11:47pm on a warm, late-May Friday night and I was cruising in a speed zone that was just shy of the sound barrier. Sonic booms, you understand; I didn't want to cause them because they eventually got investigated. Like the ones I'd caused in Grant Park on Monday that had the local police closing off the park for some scientists that were using strange gadgets to measure temperature, light, electricity and god knows what else.

Okay, so I could forgive myself for the ones I'd caused on Monday; and yes, I did state that as plural. I was in a pretty high speed zone back then not that I knew it. I'd thought time had stopped while I was fighting with three boys. I hadn't intended on fighting with three boys. I had intended on fighting with a single boy to teach him a lesson that he shouldn't make up stories about girls in general and my older sister in particular. I had intended on being most emphatic about that lesson but I hadn't done my homework as well as I thought and boy number 1, David Kessler, had quickly been joined by boys number 2 and 3, Bart Cauldwell and Mark Nemmins (in no particular order). It was the fear of the impending beating – Mark with a log upside my head in the park for the win – that caused me to reach ... something ... in my brain that had sped me up.

Sped me up ... speed zones. It really isn't rocket science.

Of course, speed zones isn't all that accurate a term – but this shit was happening to me so I got to pick the words. When weird shit happens to others, let them pick their own words. This was mine and I was going to own it.

The reason 'speed zones' wasn't wholly accurate is because the term 'speed zones' kind of implies a series of plateaus. It didn't really work like that but I was at a loss as to what other term to use. Basically, I was able to 'loosen' or 'tighten' this place in my head – and those words, 'tighten' and 'loosen' aren't really accurate either but see my rant a paragraph up if you feel like getting picky on me – and increase or decrease my speed accordingly. No plateaus, no dials, just a slow speed up as I loosened and a slow speed down as I tightened. Still, within that changing speed landscape there were 'levels' that I started getting to know better; levels I could jump to without the painstaking process of slowly loosening or tightening. Thus, 'speed zones'. I warned you it wasn't rocket science.

I have to admit that a lot of things filled my head over the past few days. I mean, I literally could have anything I wanted. I might not be able to outright steal it – there was a limit to the size of object I could carry, after all – but I could certainly steal enough money to buy it.

Think about it; I travelled so fast no one could see me ... not even a surveillance camera. I could be in and out of a bank, making off with fistfuls of cash, before they even know the cash was missing. A few runs like that and I'd be set for life.

Of course, my damned morality wouldn't let me do that. Trust me, I'd argued with it quite a bit. The argument went something like this:

Me: I could just walk into the vault in that bank and grab 10 or 20 packs of hundred dollar bills and no one would even notice it.

Morality: They'd notice it when they did an audit and then they'd start looking at the surveillance cameras.

Me: The surveillance cameras wouldn't see me either!

Morality: Maybe not, but then they'd start digging into the lives of the bank manager and the assistant managers and the bank tellers.

Me: But they wouldn't find anything because they didn't do it.

Morality: No, but they might find something else or they might just use one of them as a scapegoat and they'd lose their jobs.

Me: Yeah, but the police or FBI or whatever would be crawling all over this place which means more work and jobs for them.

Morality: Explain that to little tiny Tim who won't get that operation to save his life because his mother or father got fired for something you did, you Scrooge.

Me:...

It went downhill from there and I'll spare you the details. Score: Morality – 1, Me – 0. I wasn't perfect but I was basically a good kid. Stealing was wrong; I just couldn't bring myself to do it.

My morality, however, appeared to be eminently flexible; it wasn't so strong in other areas. Like ducking into the girl's locker room while moving at invisible speeds. I knew it was wrong. I knew I shouldn't do it. I was a young, hot-blooded (I think) American male; I couldn't help myself.

I didn't touch them at all – my morality wasn't that flexible – but I did look. I didn't take pictures either – not that I could. I didn't know that then however. I hadn't even thought of pictures then. That first time, looking at Maria Guttierez and Stephanie Meyers while they showered, I hadn't thought of pictures at all. Most of my blood was somewhere south of the border; there wasn't enough left for much coherent thought. Trust me, if you are ever lucky enough to see either of those two naked, there won't be much blood in your brain for thinking – whether you're male or female, for that matter – and I got to see them both at once.

Yes, I said 'that first time'. I'm 14 years old, a raging bundle of hormones just over the heady peak of puberty. I can honestly say that I tried to resist but ... truthfully, what kid could resist something like that? I rationalized it as being completely harmless; no one would ever know I was looking and there would be no evidence or anything – but I knew it wasn't right. I did it anyway. I'm a bad, horny teen. Sue me.

Even talking to Father John hadn't stopped me. I knew he disapproved after I confessed to him what I had done that first time. I knew that I wasn't going to be forgiven for what I'm doing; in order to be forgiven, you had to be sorry about what you'd done. I wasn't sorry. I was going to hell.

Ah yes, Father John. He was one of the reasons that I was out running this late at night. I had gone to him under the auspices of confession, knowing he couldn't share anything he learned in that sacrament. As far as I know, he hadn't, either. Instead, he'd convinced me – somehow, despite some deep reservations that I had – to share this with my parents.

I'm still not positive how he'd managed to do it, either. I mean, I was dead set against telling my parents when I went into that church. I didn't want to take the chance that they'd hate me or whatever. Somehow, he'd managed to change my mind – and for the life of me I couldn't figure out anything he'd really said or done to do it. It was like he spoke the words and they just made sense.

Fucking priests. I'm pretty sure God is cheating by sending them some powerful mojo to do their jobs.

So, here I was moving in a different speed zone because I was so nervous I couldn't sleep. I'd had some hare-brained idea to maybe run myself until I was tired but, of course, using my speeding abilities didn't work like that. I'm not sure quite how to explain it but I don't get tired when I'm moving in a different speed zone. For some reason, my stamina or endurance or whatever increases from my normal lazy-but-reasonable to off the charts. I do sweat, just a little, when I'm moving in a different speed zone. I'm never drenched or anything but it does prove I'm actually doing work – and helps to underscore the whole amazing endurance thing.

The same thing happens with my healing, too. Mark Nemmins had whacked me a pretty good one during that fight on Monday but it had been healed before I got home. I couldn't explain it and I was tired of trying; I wasn't any hungrier, I didn't seem to need any more calories ... I could just move really, really fast. I was breaking concrete, physical laws and I couldn't tell why. I'll admit, it was more than a little frightening.

I did know that there was an ... okay, I hate using this word because it sounds completely cabalistic and new-age-y but I have yet to find a word that encompasses this better and believe me, I've looked ... an aura that surrounded me when I moved to a different speed zone. The aura evidently protected me but also protected my clothing and anything within about a half inch from me. I'd learned the hard way about that half inch, too. The soles of my new shoes were more than a half inch from my skin – and they'd melted when I went running.

It was a very expensive lesson. My Mom thought I'd ruined the shoes on purpose and made me buy new ones earlier that day. Luckily she hadn't made me buy the exact same model so I came away with some Nikes that were less than a half inch from my skin at every point. They'd cost me $150 of my hard earned lawn mowing money and I really didn't need them ... but nothing else would satisfy Mom.

Mom's an assistant district attorney. You don't argue with her. You cannot win.

As a matter of fact, it was as I was handing over my cash that the first thought of using my 'gift' to swipe some money hit me. I mean, it would have been so easy to speed up, grab all the cash from the till and come out of the whole thing with more money than I went into it. Nobody would see me; nobody would know.

Except me. I'd know. I was fairly certain I wouldn't have been able to live with myself afterward either.

Damned morality.

I was passing a 7-11 and, on an evil little impulse, turned and went into the shop. The cashier was just handing change to a customer who had bought a bag of chips. The till was still open and everything. I couldn't help myself. I reached into the till...

... and took out a quarter. Then, put it on the counter right next to the cash register. I'm such a fucking rebel.

This whole thing was a mistake. It wasn't making me feel any better; on the contrary, I was feeling worse and even more nervous. Besides, the clock in the 7-11 read 11:48pm; 8 miles in well under a minute – not bad ... and no sonic booms, which was just as important. I was out well past my 11pm curfew; I could only hope that Mom and Dad wouldn't check on me.

Still, no reason to push it. If they caught me, my punishment wouldn't be all that bad as long as it was before midnight. If I were caught out much later than that I was pretty sure I'd be grounded until next year some time.

I turned around and headed back, dialing down the speed until I was moving at about 155-160 meters/second (yes, I use the metric system; it's more precise and I hope one day to be a physicist). Well below the speed of sound but fast enough that people couldn't see me. It was slower than when I'd come out but I had time.

I was passing by two storefronts when I happened to see something in my peripheral vision. I almost shrugged it off but something nagged at me. Something didn't seem quite right. It was probably nothing but I told myself it wouldn't hurt to look – I still had plenty of time. I sighed at myself bitterly and then reversed direction again – I wonder if it counts as mileage if you're constantly back-tracking – and headed back to the small space between the two shops.

I'm not some 'green activitist' or anything but I do know that we, as a species, are not very careful about the environment. We've gotten too good at sweeping dirt under the rug; hiding our garbage instead of disposing of it properly. This space between the two stores was a prime example. It was only about 8 feet wide or so but there was an old tire, some ruined electronics, a few plastic bags – in a word, garbage. There was garbage littered everywhere.

Even the human kind.

I gritted my teeth when I saw him ... and wondered, briefly what teeth grinding at half the speed of sound sounded like. I mean I'd heard Nevaeh grinding her teeth on the couch one night when she'd fallen asleep and it sounded pretty sick. I tried to imagine if I recorded it and played it a higher speed...

Stop. Focus. I have a bad habit of going off on a tangent when upset; I think it's a coping mechanism. My mind doesn't want to deal with the charged situation right in front of it so it moseys on down a different path. Like the time when I had that test...

Damn it. Stop. Focus on what's at hand.

There was a guy dressed all in black – black shirt, black jeans pulled down off his ass, even black shoes but with white gym socks (who does that?) and white tighty whities - with a black ski mask over his face. Now, it's late May in northern Texas; even at night, it's at the very least in the mid-60's. Balmy. Not ski mask weather.

Of course, the guy wasn't wearing the ski mask for the weather. He was wearing it so the woman he was raping wouldn't be able to identify him.

She was young, maybe early to mid-20's. Upright and dressed, she probably looked rather pretty. Lying down on the garbage infested ground, her clothes in tatters around her, blood from cuts and scratches bleeding like tears down her face and body ... not so much. The only hint I had that she was still alive was the glinting, mirrored surface of the knife held at her throat. That was what had caught my attention, actually.

It made me angry. Yes, I'd been a peeping tom and yes, I knew it was wrong and did it anyway ... but this was just sick. Shit like this made me ashamed to be a male. This poor woman could have been my mother or my sisters; if I left it like this, tomorrow it still might be my mother or one of my sisters. Or my friends ... or my sisters' friends or ... hell, even a complete stranger would be wrong. Having it be this stranger was wrong. My grasp on right and wrong may be a little slippery at times but I knew this: no matter who she was or what she'd done, she didn't deserve this. No one deserved this.

Chapter 2 »